Dead in San Remo

The rain started early but quickly moved north. By 11am it was a beautiful fall day. The wife and I have plans to meet friends for a birthday party out in San Remo. I think I'll ride out. It's a little cool but it's just too damned nice.

By 1:30 we head east, my wife and her friend Nicole in the car and I on my silver broomstick. I take the long way and wind all the way out along 25A. It's simply gorgeous!

I hit King's Park by about quarter to three and stop to grab some cookies from the bakery for the party. How am I supposed to carry a plate of cookies on my motorcycle? I cell my wife and luckily she's also just arrived and grabbing a Carvel cake across the street (mmm...). She meets me and takes the cookies and we head off.

I pull up to our friend Mike's house and my wife and Nicole are milling about on the front yard. I park the bike, kill the engine, and ask, "What's going on?"

"Oh, boy. Vinny and Steve are at it." I can now hear shouting from the front room. First distraction.

"Eh, they need to blow off some steam. I'll go up and see what's happening."

I take my time stowing my glasses in the saddle bag and strapping my helmet to the bike. I start to head up the stairs and Mike (our host) comes down carrying some food. "You do NOT want to go up there." I can definitely hear the heated exchange now. Mike says, "Let's go around back and just leave them alone for awhile."

Sounds good to me. We head back and there are a few guests there for the party. We start to mingle and within a few minutes Vinny comes into the back yard. He's the birthday boy and he's not looking happy. He and Steve have been friends for years but have had a bit of a falling out over an incident and it's been a cold war for the last few months. It was bound to hit a boiling point and I guess today was the day. Within a few minutes, Steve has left and Vinny is quiet. He's brooding which is very unlike Vinny. He's the gregarious talker of the group with a fondness for apes. Always the life of the party, he is markedly more quiet today. I can tell this latest altercation has upset him but he's trying not to show it. Second distraction.

Vin and friend

Music is blaring on the stereo. A strange mix of metal and country. We're sharing the birthday party with Mike's nephew, also named Mike, who is also celebrating a birthday, and he's a country music fan.

The party continues as you'd imagine, and Vinny seems like he's loosening up. More people start to show up, good food is served, drinks start flowing...a typical backyard bash. Just before the sun sets, a few of the guys wheel in a large box and we have to divert Vinny so that he doesn't see the set up. As the box is removed, we can all see what's being unwrapped...a graven, ice-sculptured, ass-monkey.

Vinny is introduced and we all have a good laugh as liquor is poured into the head, travels through the ice sculpture's body, and is hilariously delivered out its ass. A few shots later and I have some great blackmail material of friends basically kissing a monkey's ass. USA! USA!

A few minutes later Caroline, one of the guests, walks up to me and says, "Did you know your headlight is on?" Uh oh.

I go down to the front of the house and check. Sure enough the headlight is on and it's hot. I turn the ignition key off then turn it back on and start it up. It coughs once but fires up. Eh, it seems fine. Ignition is set to off. I go back to the party.

Party in full swing

My wife and I have a chat with Vinny. We've known both he and Steve for a long time. We hate to see them split this way and we take time to talk to Vin about it. He's starting to feel a little guilty but the rift has gone too deep. Yet, it's not a lost cause. We can feel the dam breaking, but it won't be tonight. Whatever happens, they're both still our friends. You take your friends as they are. The good with the bad. My wife and I don't have kids so our friends and family are all we have. In life, you take what you can get. Close friends are a small miracle.

The party continues on and the young crowd (literally half our age) start to line up to kiss the monkey's ass. It's like a scene from the Bible. The Israelites, left to their own devices when Moses climbed Mt. Sinai, revel in their liberty and worship the golden calf (Aurochs). I wonder if they kissed a bull's ass? I shake my head. It's getting late. Time to go.

We say our goodbyes. I pull out a sweatshirt to wear under my leather and a balaclava for the ride. The temperature has dropped a bit. Our friend Lou, from up the block wants to check out the bike. A fellow rider. We head to the front and I show it off a bit. I pop the lights on to show him a bit of the "light show" that's rigged up under the tank and wheel wells.

Just before we're ready to leave, Lou says, "Well let's hear it. Fire it up!" I hop on the bike, turn the ignition switch, and fire the starter...click...uh oh...

I try again and again with no result. The starter just clicks. The battery is dead. That light must've been on for some time. Too many distractions today. Damn!

Mike's house sits on a nice hill above the river. We roll it to the edge and I try rolling down in gear to bumpstart it. I hit the bottom after several tries with no success. My wife pulls up with Lou in the car. They've secured some jumper cables. "Hooray!" I think.

I pop the seat off and place it on the ground. Lou's cell phone acts as a night light as we connect the jumpers. Fire 1! Fire 2! ...nothing. I'm starting to think to myself, "How are we gonna get this bike back up that hill?"

Lou goes for help. A few minutes later, a few of the younger crowd comes wandering over to help. I think they're more interested in the situation than actually doing some work but, nevertheless, they're here. I wheel the bike back in neutral and stay on the bike. Someone's gotta steer!

We make slow progress up the hill. The bike is about 700 pounds. This is no easy task and it's a steep hill. We pull over to take a break. Everyone is panting. Hard work.

We finally get the bike in place by the house. I've resigned myself to the fact that I'm leaving it here for the night. A few of the guys play mechanic and try to figure out the root cause. "I can't get a spark. I don't think it's the battery." I've cranked it up after a long winter enough to know, it's just the battery and it's completely dead.

Quit? I don't know the meaning of the word!

Lou has an idea. He takes off with my wife in the car and a few moments later wheels out an industrial size charger. We hook up a long extension and try again. Fire 1! Nothin'. We let itset for a few minutes and try again. Lou cranks it up to 200amps and shouts, "Hit it!" It sputters a little but no dice. "Hit it again! Just keep hitting it!" After about the third try that familiar roar fills the air. We all shout a few drunken cheers.

"Lou, you're a life saver!"

200 amps!

We say our goodbyes again and I follow Denise up to Lou's to return his charger. I thank Lou again and take off down the road. The whole fiasco set us back about an hour. Not bad.

I think about the party, Vince, Steve, Lou, Mike, the ass-monkey, Denise, friendship and anything else that pops into my head as I float along the road in the halo of my headlights. It's a little cold but I'm not shivering and it actually feels kinda nice. The air whipping past my helmet squeals in my ears and I can feel the rumble of the pipes beneath me. I think, there are worse things than being dead in San Remo.

The Aurochs

15K

So last week marked a milestone between me and my Fatboy. I rolled the odometer past 15,000 miles. While this doesn't seem like a huge accomplishment, it can be a small rite of passage for the casual biker. Of course, every additional 5K seems like a rite of passage...

At 15K, it's also time to take the bike in for the equivalent of a visit to the doctor. Time to change out your fluids, check your brake pads, change your filters, etc. So, I set up an appointment with the local Harley service shop and ride over on Saturday.

Of course, the earlier you come in, the quicker you get out. Harley opens at 9am on Saturday so I make sure I'm here at 9am. It's kinda quiet but it's still early.

I ride up behind the shop and park in the line of Harleys on display. Some for sale. Some for pickup. I glance at a shiny black trike off to the left. Nah...

I hand over my registration and fill out the standard billing form to the guy behind the counter. He asks me a simple question, "Synthetic or standard?" 

"What?"

"Synthetic or standard oil."

Quiet in the lot

"I have no idea." It's never good to look foolish in front of the service guy. Too late. This is why I bring my bike into the experts. I just ride.

It looks like I take standard. "Sounds good to me," I mumble sheepishly and walk out with the sales guy to look at the bike. He goes over it quickly, checking lights, ignition, makes a few notes and tells me to take a seat. I'll be here for a few hours.

Ten minutes later, the actual service person comes up, goes through a similar routine and sits on the bike ready to take it into the basement where it will be strapped to a stone slab, hooked up to electrodes, and brought back to life through volts of electricity traveling down a kite line. One can dream.

He plays around with the lights and it looks like he's fumbling around with the two additional front lights, as if he can't find the switch. I call over from my seat at the picnic table, "There's a switch on the back plate." 

"Thanks, I haven't really been doing this too long. Just started today." Sarcasm. Strike two. 

I chuckle an apology, he asks if I want the throttle tightened up. It's a little loose. "Sure" is my inane reply and he pulls away with my bike to the laboratory. Pipes sound good. I'm glad it's nice outside.

A young girl with dyed red hair, covered in tattoos, and wearing a Lamb of God sweatshirt comes out to set up a table and a grill. On Saturdays they make breakfast. Score! At least I can have some pancakes while I wait.

Bikers arrive and exit for the next hour, picking up a serviced bike or dropping one off. A few souls hang around the picnic tables like myself, waiting for their bike to come rolling up out of the garage. The day is gorgeous and we want to ride!

The monotony is broken as a "newb" assistant drops a full dresser on its side while attempting to back it out of the parking lot. Ouch! A few of the bigger fellas walk over to help as the kid stands there with his hands on either side of his head, probably thinking, "I'm so fucking fired right now!" At least he had the sense to let it go and not play hero. Probably saved himself a broken leg or worse.

That's gotta suck!

 

A gang of Asian bikers roll up on a bunch of street bikes, not all Harleys. They're an amiable group and I start up a conversation with them. Turns out three of them are brothers and they ride a lot together. They like my Oakley Madman glasses and I pass them around so the guys can take pictures wearing them. 

After about a half hour they take off and the waiting goes on. Two black guys roll up from Brooklyn, Byron and Terrence. Bryon's got a big ass Dyna and Terrence is picking up a brand new Breakout that he's having new pipes strapped on. We spend awhile trading stories and Byron has us in stitches pretty soon. He's a funny guy. We trade stories of routes we've traveled and he tells us about a guy who had a train horn custom installed on his bike. He goes on to tell us how he blew it behind a car that cut him off as Byron watched a pedestrian basically jump out of her shoes. Pretty soon we're all laughing, but you had to hear Byron tell it. Funny guy.

Lunchtime is rolling around and I'm getting antsy. Red comes out and throws hamburgers and hot dogs on the grill. Say what you will about Harley, but these guys run a class shop. I'm happy to wait if you're going to feed me. After my second hot dog, the sales guy comes out to tell me the bike is done, they're just cleaning it up. I can pay inside.

Looks like new

$500 bucks. Well, at least I met a few new friends and had something to eat...

A few minutes later Al, the detail guy, rides up on my bike. Damn! It looks good. He speaks in a slight Middle-eastern accent and continues to buff the bike down with a handful of polishing cloths. He compliments me on how clean I keep the bike. It looks like new for a 2001. Damn straight! She's my baby (...ok my other one.)

I throw Al a tip, say my goodbyes to Byron and Terrence (he's still waiting on those pipes) and rumble out of the parking lot. Maybe we'll ride together some day.

It's about 2:30. Killed most of the day. It was a pretty eventful day considering I was just waiting. Aside from making a few new friends, I saw some great bikes, ran into a Mason friend of mine (Luiz. I'll probably blog about that later), ate a few grilled meals, and got an invite to a Hells Angels rally.

When you hit your next motorcycle milestone, my recommendation is don't just drop off your bike. Go hang out at your local service shop. You'll be surprised at how quickly the time goes and you'll make some new friends.

Grin and Bear It

The weather was forecast to be a little sketchy. I awoke this morning to a cloudy sky with the weather apps calling for a 25% chance of rain. Still, the odds are in my favor.

I grab a quick shower and text my friend Steve, "You still game?"

Our wives were originally supposed to come along for the ride but plans didn't work out. Steve has a brand new bike so he wants to put some miles on it and I'm always up for a ride. We arrange to meet at a gas station near Bear Mountain at about 10:30...wifeless. I quickly brush my teeth and sneak quietly out of the house so as not to disturb the savage...er...my wife.

The meeting place is about an hour from each of our respective houses. I set the GPS and lean out of the driveway and head for the Throgs Neck Bridge. The sun is peeking from behind a few clouds so I'm hoping that we have a no-rainer.

It turns out to be a beautiful ride. Traffic is moving well and, aside from a few scattered drops, it appears the rain will hold off for today. I hit the Taconic with about 15 miles to go and I see some swirling leaves up ahead of me on the roadway. When I reach them, the bike is clipped from both sides by, what feels like, a gale force wind. I wobble the bike back into the center of the lane and curse those solid rims.

I had always heard about getting rocked by strong wind blasts on a Harley Fat Boy but never really believed it. My first experience was crossing a short bridge into Roslyn on a particularly windy day. I struggled to keep the bike in the lane as the wind threatened to push me to the roadside. Today's gusts were stronger and more consistent, but after about 5 miles, the sun came out and all was right with the world again.

I make good time and pull into the gas station where we had agreed to meet. I top off the tank and pull into a parking spot to wait for Steve. Several bikers seem to use this as a meeting stop and I eavesdrop on a few gathering rice-burners who are collecting for a ride into the hills.

About 10:40 Steve rumbles into the parking lot on a beautiful black Harley Fat Boy with 16" ape-hangers and chrome rims. I've known Steve for years but we've settled in two different states. It's been awhile since we've seen each other but it's always as if we've never been apart. Good friends are like that. The years and distance may separate you but when you finally meet, it's as if those obstacles are erased. It was just me and Steve again.

He knows the area better than I so we head to a place he knows in the neighboring town. We drive through West Point when he realizes he made a wrong turn. I'm ravenous by now. I'll go anywhere, let's just eat! We snake up a winding path and pull over to admire the view. It was simply stunning. Some of the locals have decorated the cliffside rocks with spray paint which adds an odd color scheme to the already gorgeous vista. I need to take a few shots.

The ride is simply beautiful. The streets are surrounded by rolling hills and vegetation. Quiet, simple homes nestled into the landscape. We reach our destination and grab a seat at the bar. I order up my standard Corned Beef Hash and Eggs, and Steve opts for the Shrimp Eggs Benedict.

We talk about our wives, his kids, life in general. Bro-bonding. The food is delicious and the conversation is engaging. But we came to ride.

We decide to head over to the Seven Lakes area and he leads us through some beautiful country nestled in the mountains. There are some campsites and hiking trails off either side of the roadway but I can't stop to gaze as I am mesmerized by the road. Sloping, twisting and turning asphalt winds its way through the woods.  A few hairpins come on me unexpected and I throttle down and shift behind him as we speed through the wilderness. I must be grinning from ear to ear.

We ride all the way through to the end and stop at the junction to Route 17. We stop to get our bearings but the trip is almost at an end. We need to head our respective ways so we say our goodbyes and agree to split at the turnaround a few miles back. He says he'll point the way but I just figure I'll follow the GPS.

We wind back through those amazing turns again until we hit the turnaround. My GPS is pointing me to the second right and I start to make the turn. I beep and look over at Steve who turns around and gives me a funny look. Oops...I guess this wasn't the turn. I'm already committed to it so I shrug, wave and continue on. A few minutes later, I see a text pop up on the GPS, "Dude, that wasn't it."  I laugh. Yeah, nothing has really changed.

I make it back and think about what I'm going to write. I send Steve a text that I made it home alive and to send my helloes to his wife. We share a few "LOLs". He's a good friend. I may see him once every few years but he doesn't change. And I realize that's what makes friends special. Throughout your lifetime you will have friends that come and go, but there are those few that you know will be with you forever. Because they aren't anyone but themselves. No pretense. No drama. Just someone you can talk to, someone you can share your life stories with and they respond in kind. When you are with them, there are no surprises. They are just who they've always been and you love them for it.

Civil War

It's a quiet Saturday with nothing much to do. The wife is occupied with her mother for the day. Hmm...I know! I'll ride.

The Killer Angels

It's unbearably hot out today. You can almost see the haze rising from the street. The wind brings no relief as the road simply repels the heat back up through the asphalt. I can feel it through my shoes, on the back of my legs. I pick up speed.

I'm in a pensive mood today. I've been re-reading "The Killer Angels" by Michael Shaara—a novel of the Civil War. It focuses on the battle at Gettysburg. This was the second read in as many weeks after finishing "Widow of the South", another Civil War novel dealing with a battle that took place at Franklin, Tennessee.

The Widow of the South

I'm not a war monger or anything like that, but I've found myself recently attracted to books dealing with war and battle tactics. It seems that almost every day I turn on the news, there is coverage of another terrorist attack or some nut with a gun. Innocent people cut down with no warning. Wars are being waged all around us but I don't feel threatened. It's a strange world we live in.

I pull onto Plandome Road and head towards one of my favorite spots out in Port Washington. The heat is oppressive but the trees on either side of the road provide some shade. A few minutes later I'm pulling into the parking lot down by the boardwalk.

The boardwalk is quiet today, a few strollers seeking relief from the heat. The gulls are carefully eyeing the water for the telltale splash of a finned meal.


I park close to the boardwalk and grab a seat on a bench. Nothing better than a full pipe to stimulate the brain. I think about the battles I've been reading about, the massive loss of life, the courage of men willing to run across an open field into oncoming rifle and artillery fire for a cause they are willing to die for. Do terrorists feel this way? Are they so enflamed that they are willing to risk their life for their cause? I think, "No". They are not running into a hail of bullets. They are attacking innocent people who don't know what's coming. They are in no danger from a commuter going to work, a fan enjoying a concert, an unarmed, unaware victim. This is a different war.

I read about educated, eloquent men who fought against friends because of their conviction to what they believed to be right. I read about how they mourned when an honorable enemy fell in battle. These were men with a job to do. No different from the men on the other side, just conflicting ideologies.

I watch the presidential campaign as it heats up and listen to the ridiculous barbs thrown by either side, at other Americans, at us. Is this the best we can do with respect for those that fought and died for us? Then something catches my eye...

Thrown carelessly by the low surf wall, a small, artificial poppy lies crumpled, discarded. I truly believe that the universe leaves clues for us in times of question. Small markers left in our path as gifts to guide us, if only we are aware of their presence. Call it God, call it Kismet, call it coincidence. They are there for you to see if you can make those connections. In my case, I am pondering war and there it was in front of me; dirty, trampled, cast away. A symbol of honor and respect, carelessly tossed aside, but gleaming against a gray background.

I pick it up and read the tag, "Veterans of Foreign Wars of the United States". I suddenly feel sad. A symbol meant to evoke feelings of patriotism, respect, honor thrown away as a if it were a piece of refuse. Have we become so cynical and disrespectful? I realize I'm from an older generation where we were taught respect: respect for parents, elders, teachers. My ideology is also dying off. It's a strange world we live in.

I brush some of the dust from the poppy and walk over to a string of bushes behind the benches lining the boardwalk and tie the poppy to one of the jutting stems. Call me sentimental, but flowers should bloom. They should be admired for their beauty. I snap a quick picture and think about what I'm going to write. What can I say?

Tomorrow is September 11. I was in NYC when the towers came down. Brave men in uniform ran into burning skyscrapers to save innocent, everyday people. Soldiers were shipped out to foreign countries to fight against an unknown enemy. I am constantly questioning our motives as a country, as a people. It is my right as an American. But I have never questioned the integrity of a man or woman in the line of fire. That's courage. That's conviction. That deserves respect.

Pappy

We all know Popeye...right? The spinach guzzling, scrappy sailor who has a serious fetish for painfully thin women? Well, did you also know that Popeye has a dad? Ok, that was kind of an obvious question. What I mean is, have you ever seen Popeye's dad?

Poopdeck Pappy was introduced to the Popeye comic strip in the mid 30's and appeared on occasion in the animated cartoons. Like his son, he was an ornery, scrappy version of his beloved son with an obvious addition...a scraggly white beard.

So what does this have to do with me? Well, as I've piled on the years in my never-ending pursuit of old age, I've experimented over the years with varying lengths of beard. While it was kinda cool in my younger days, age has added a distinctively lighter tinge to it. Some might even say it is white in color.

I'm not a vain person so I'm not into dying or coloring or any of the crazy things people do to mask their age. Au naturale baby!

So many of my friends look a lot younger than me (ok...ALL of them!) I also hang around with a lot of comedians. Funny guys. Witty folks with a penchant for the droll. And in their effort to amuse, they came up with a term of endearment for yours truly...you guessed it...Pappy.

Again, not being a vain man, it never really bothered me. But they took so quickly to the name that I started to think, "Am I older than I think?"

Street Child

I'm a musician and I've played in several bands over the years, most notably a New York quartet named "Street Child" back in the late 80s. In those days I had very long hair and dressed pretty much as you might imagine--lots of black t-shirts and jeans.

As age set in, I mentally stayed pretty much the same (my wife keeps me young). Hence my style of dress hasn't really changed in the 20+ years since I played in the band. Still lots of t-shirts, sneakers, and jeans. But I definitely don't look the rocker I once was. My wife is roughly the same age as me but she is often confused for my daughter.

A particularly embarrassing incident occurred in a shoe store. My wife was buying a new pair of boots. And these things were U-G-L-Y ugly! Kind of a cross between Paul Stanley platforms and Aerosoles. Anyway, I gave the typical "you've got to be kidding" look to my wife when a young girl sitting next to my wife, also trying on shoes, leaned over and said, "Those boots are really awesome." My wife flashed me the all-knowing "told ya so" smile and replied to the girl, "I think so too, but he doesn't like them very much." The young girl's response was simply, "What's he, your father?" Rather than answer, my wife simply giggled for about 10 minutes...

But I digress. Had I become Pappy? Essentially, a carbon copy of my younger self, still relatively thin, still dressing pretty much the same, still acting pretty much the same, but sporting a scraggly white beard.

I like to think that I'm starting to get that ZZ Top, Billy Gibbons kinda look. Put a pair of dark sunglasses on me and I definitely start to get that crazy Texan look. Add a hat and, voila! Billy.

Then again, I do smoke a pipe. Hmm...

The Reluctant Wife

I've been married for almost 17 years but, for the majority of that time, I did not own a motorcycle. I had ridden for years before meeting my wife. Then, I had a '91 "Hugger" Sportster. I believe this was the last year that the Sporties actually had a chain. Regardless, my wife knew that I had ridden but she had never ridden with me before. I always knew I would get another bike, but life sometimes can get in the way.

So when the opportunity presented itself, I was more than ready to hit the road again on two glorious wheels. I approached my wife on the subject figuring she would be delighted. We are both somewhat free spirits and I figured it was time to introduce my motorcycle prowess to the marriage. I was wrong. Not only was she dead set against my purchasing a bike, she threatened that if I did buy it, she would never set her butt on the passenger seat. Roughly two weeks later, I was sitting in the saddle of my silver bullet.

Having only driven a Sporty, I was much more used to a sleek, light bike. But I felt I was ready for the increase in weight. Again, I was wrong. The Fatboy was probably a good 200 lbs. heavier than the Hugger and it took a little getting used to...OK, it took A LOT of getting used to. But I was determined that I would be racing this baby down the straight-away in no time and tame the beast to my will.

I hit the road every chance I could get and put over 1,500 miles on the bike before the summer was out. My wife took this all in her usual calm and stoic manner. Even amid my overly frequent requests.

"Heading out east for a ride today. Wanna come?"

"I said I wouldn't ride. I wasn't kidding."

"OK. I'll be home by dinner."

We played this cat and mouse for most of the summer. But I could tell she was starting to break. Her protestations of "it's not safe" were becoming weaker and she knew it. She used to ride with an old boyfriend so I knew this was just cover. She was trying to make a point. I was busy enjoying the ride.

Riding Gear for the Not-So-Timid

So one fine weekend, it came to pass that we both had nothing to do. No scheduled plans with friends. No visits to the in-laws. Nothing. It was a glorious summer's afternoon and I knew she was weak.

"I think we should go for a ride."

"I told you it's not safe."

"I know but, c'mon. I've logged more than 1,500 miles on that beast and I haven't spilled yet."

"It's not you I'm worried about..."

"C'mon, it'll be a quick ride. We can just cruise around the neighborhood and turn back whenever you're ready."

"I don't know. I'll have to get changed. I have to dig out my boots..."

"You're fine in just what you're wearing."

OK, it was a lie. She had on paper thin capri's and strap sandals. If I dropped the bike, she could shred that beautiful skin or, God forbid, break a bone or lose a limb. I have enough biker friends who can attest to that kind of damage. But I wasn't going to dampen her mood. We were going to ride and I'd throw myself on the street to protect her if need be. Nothing was going to hurt her today. So off we went. Sandals and all.

I drove out of the driveway leaning the whole way and she leaned with me. It felt as if there was nothing there. She was a natural passenger. We moved in unison.

Beauty

I was 10 miles out of the neighborhood streaking east on 25A before I felt her tapping on my back. Damn! She wants to turn around already! And we were having such a good ride. I pulled over into a clear shoulder of the road.

I dismounted and faced her. "You OK?"

"I think the straps are going to give me a funny tan on my feet. Do you think it would be ok if I took off my sandals?"

In marriage, there are those fleeting moments when you look at your spouse as if for the first time. I couldn't have loved her more in those few seconds. I stashed the offending sandals and we rode all the way out to King's Park on the north shore of the Island. We drove down by the Sound, across the grounds of the now abandoned Mental Hospital, past the church where we were married. It was a wonderful day.

She never made any complaints during or after that ride. If I invite her on a ride now, it's usually a single nod, followed by "OK."

The Beast

So for all you bikers out there who have a reluctant rider, my advice can be summed up in one word: patience. If it's going to happen, it'll happen. After 17 years of marriage, I've learned two things:

1) She'll do what she wants when she's damned good and ready.
2) An ape like me is very lucky to have an angel like her.

Cold Spring Fishing

The Labor Day weekend has come to an end. Hermine ran out of steam and failed to throw her wrath and rain against our shores, much to the chagrin of every New York City weatherman. I had some time to kill so why not take the Fatboy out for a spin?

I left from Queens and hit the typical traffic on Northern Boulevard but it opened up just past Little Neck. The sun peeked out from behind a gray sky and stayed with me for the remainder of the ride. The breeze was relaxing and helped clear my head. Back to work tomorrow. One more quick ride.

Ain't She Purdy?

No particular destination in mind, so I'll just ride until I feel like stopping. A few good turns and I can feel the stress melting away. I lean into the wind, hit the throttle and pass a few drifters staring into their cell phones with one hand on the wheel. They drift right, I pass left. A squirrel darts to the roadside after reconsidering a dash across the busy street. He'll live to dart another day.

I pass the Christ Episcopal Church Cemetery and for a fleeting moment think of turning down Plandome Road for a quick drive down into Port Washington. The moment passes and I continue on. I think of my Dad who always blessed himself as he drove past a cemetery. One hand on the throttle and I squeeze the clutch into a higher gear. No more hands for blessing.

Crossing the bridge over into Roslyn, I'm buffeted by a few strong wind blasts. A subtle reminder that Hermine's fingers are reaching north but not enough to knock me off my bike. Not today anyway.

I pass a few cyclists heading west in the opposite direction and I'm not one to break code or the loyal bond between bikers. I extend a friendly peace sign with my left hand below the bars and low. Harley riders flash it low. It's cooler that way. He responds with a friendly wave. Bikers are always friendly to other bikers (or should be). We share a common doom, a common risk. We're exposed to the elements, the road, and the idiocy of those on four wheels. When you see another biker you acknowledge him. It's only right. They may be the last human being you see that day who understands what it means to hit the road with two wheels. You wave, flash the peace sign, nod if you're too busy shifting. You acknowledge you see them. You let them know, "I'm with ya man. Keep your bike vertical today. And if you go down, you'll know that I saw you. Wished you well. We're brothers." An unspoken tradition but one that just happens naturally. No prejudices. No cliques. You just do it. If you don't, you're just a dick.

More trees encroach on the roadway as it narrows further east. I take a hard left and Long Island Sound appears on my left. I slow down to appreciate the view through the trees and decide to pull over. Cold Spring Harbor. I spot a small fishing wharf just up ahead and pull into the tiny parking area. There's a small area not designated as a parking slot but the bike will fit. I pass around the parked cars and illegally lean the bike in this area. It's a holiday.

I sit down on a bench to take some photos and smoke a small pipeful of some good tobacco. A dark blue car rolls in and a family of three exits with fishing poles in hand. One older boy stops to admire my bike and snaps a few shots on his cell. I don't acknowledge that it's mine or that I care. He speaks to his brother in what sounds to be Russian and moves over to the dock. 

I breathe in the salty air and watch the small boats dance on the rippling waves in the bay. Snapping a few photos with my phone and smoking my short pipe, I must look either eccentric or bohemian...or both. A large woman sitting alone on a bench looks at me sideways. She smiles and looks out to the water.

An older gentleman walks up in a blue polo and khaki shorts. Carrying his fishing pole he slowly walks around my bike and smiles.  He looks up and asks, "This your bike?"

"Yes, sir." Mom didn't raise no farm kids.

"She's a Fatboy, isn't she?"

"She is."

"She's real pretty. I was here about a half hour ago and my bike has almost the exact same colors. She's a Road King. I was thinking about getting the Fatboy but I had to have the Road King. You know how it goes." I do.

"Thank you very much."

"You enjoy her." He turns and walks to the dock.

"I will."

I snap a few more pictures, including my Black Sabbath edition Converse hi-tops. I like the red shoelaces. 

Enjoying my smoke, I watch the fishermen troll their bait across the surface of the water. The sun is setting and the sky is turning a beautiful golden color, casting light across the ripples and lengthening shadows across the wharf. Time to head back.

Sabbath Bloody Sabbath

I take my time settling into the saddle, fire up the shotgun pipes and rumble out onto the abutting street. The first lean on the curve feels good as the cool air clears some of the smoke out of my lungs. A rider on a black Street Glide sits upright slowing behind a pickup truck, frustratingly following the 35 mph speed limit.  I slouch forward on the Carlini bars and poke up behind him. Unable to crawl behind the pickup, he passes it as we turn onto 25A. I'm stuck in a single lane behind, but I'm enjoying the flashes of light as they play across the road in front of me.

I take a deep breath. I can do this all the way home.