The Motorcycle

I rolled up on my little motorbike behind a dozen Hell’s Angels waiting for a traffic light. This was a moment that could define a lifetime. Or end it.

So I honked my horn. Because that’s what motorcycle guys do when they see one another. And because I was only 17 at the time and had a different understanding of risk and consequence.

I should note that I was on a teeny, weeny motorcycle. It was robin egg blue. The horn sounded like a clown wooga-wooga squeeze horn, but falsetto.

Also, I was dressed like a flower. I was on my way to a Hawaiian party sporting a flowered shirt, flowered shorts, and sandals. I had a bowling ball motorcycle helmet. It was orange with sparkles.

The Hell’s Angels turned in their seats and stared at me. They were enormous. Their Harleys were enormous. Their girlfriend’s, perched on the back of the Harleys, were enormous. They looked like a herd of leather-jacketed bison with Nazi helmets. Time stood still.

Then I waved to them and smiled, because that’s what motorcycle guys do when they see one another. As one they burst out laughing. They motioned for me to ride up among them.

I gunned my little bike and rolled up to take my place among the thundering hogs. Their bikes sounded like the deep rumble of marine engines. Mine sounded like a tiny swarm of bees with asthma.

The light turned green. The Harleys roared away. I tried to follow but could not keep pace. As they disappeared, a few of them pumped their fists in the air. I like to think this was an act of solidarity. I suspect it was an act of good-natured mockery. Regardless: ride on, brothers.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]