Story: Another ride, another story

"Nice bikes! I've gotta' Yamaha 750 for sale, you want to see it?", is how he opened the conversation. We were stuck listening as we gassed our motorcycles. We were headed toward Missoula Montana to salivate with other Harley riders and pretend that we all weren't really teachers, plumbers and store clerks. My mother-in-law is five foot two and rides a Hog. Not sure how much she is pretending. She also can wield a pneumatic hammer in a pinch to nail off a floor, so it's not too much of a stretch. Her daughter likes to go ninety through Montana. Vikings weren't made for the suburbs and so they have to find something to do off the clock.

Given it was about one hundred degrees we weren't much for working through the normal gawking conversation with the biking enthusiast. He had a faded green Homer Simpson t-shirt on the front that sported "Lady Killer" across his chest. Unfortunately for us he had Homer's gut, so we also knew that his navel hair matched his mustache.

Motorcycling is a family affair, and for us it is more about running like a pack of wolves than running like a lone wolf. My father-in-law got us all started. He tells the story of having to ride his motorcycle to school during his senior year in high school. My son is riveted to hear how one December morning on the way to school Grandpa knew he couldn't stop on the ice and so he laid the bike down sideways, skidding to a stop. The old trucker behind him drawled, "You take your time, boy. By the way. Nice little trick there." Grandpa picked up the motorcycle and made it to school.

Fast forward forty years, four kids and a lifetime of swinging a hammer to keep food on the table. Grandpa goes all out. He buys a Harley. How did Grandma get Harley? How did she get a bike? Oh, I forgot to finish Grandpa's younger years. When Grandpa tried to take her on the back of a bke when my angel bought her first bike, he dropped the motorcycle and slit his Achilles. Couldn't take a step until they stitched it together. You think we'd learn.

So when Grandpa gets the Harley Grandma won't be out done. She takes a class. She gets a Harley. She's the toughest Grandma you'll ever meet. Her and all her daughters could be heard over an airplane taking off when they wanted to be known. Now we're all in the pack. Well how sexy can you feel on a motorcycle if you are about two or three in the pack behind your mother-in-law? I guess that's life.

So when the Yamaha salesman at the gas pump tried to strike up a conversation on a hot July day, we just stared at him blank. We'd heard it all. My wife the angel, tried to keep up the conversation while we nibbled on a Snickers and gave our rear ends a rest. Finally he saw that we weren't quite interested in buying his bike as we sweat under leather jackets. He turned around and let us know the reason we do road trips....

Apparently it was 'underwear optional Tuesday' in that town because as he stumbled across the street, my wife and son noticed that the back pocket was missing out his jeans and the moon was shining bright in the middle of the day.

That's why we ride.

I'd like to tell you the story about the lady that drove the lime green 72 Buick to the Starbuck's in Missoula who wore a neon pink wig and a black cocktail dress. She sipped coffee with her Adam's apple bobbing up and down and strong hands gently turning the pages of the newspaper. I'd like to tell you about the four car parts wholesalers that had greased hair, dreams of regional sales records, and doughnut grown pot bellies. They sat diagonal from the lady reading her paper and didn't notice her gaze...

but that's another road and another story.