by Gearhead
Somewhere in the Desert
I was flying down the backside of the mountain. The high desert, beautiful in the fall, laid out before me as the mountain twistiness turned to bleak open sand.
I rode past a female hitch hiker, and she looked to have been there awhile. Dried perspiration stains on her Black Sabbath t-shirt and her Daisy Duke shorts, included perspiring all the way down to her logger boots. She rocked out with her earbuds. Later she told me Black Sabbath kept her distracted.
I pulled-up my old Shovelhead suspicious of the slippery sand. Would she accept a ride from an old biker? I slid my bike to a stop. I was listening to War Pigs by Black Sabbath in my earbuds just under my Bikernet bandanna. She came running up and introductions took place. I told her my friends called me Gearhead. She told me her name was Scarlett.
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