Call 911

On our return trip from the West, Andy and I stop at a Goodyear Tire Center for yet another set of tires for the trailer. With that chore behind us, we make our way to the gas station to fill the tank.

At the next pump station is a tall wiry man filling the tank of his Harley. From wrists to shoulders, neck line to ears, every exposed inch of flesh seems to be emblazoned with tattoos. Dingy denims, cut off shirt and bandanna wrapped head complete the bad dude rider look. As he bends to lovingly rub with paper towel the front forks of the Harley, I see that his thin graying hair is pulled back in a ratty pony tail that hangs to the middle of his back.

He straightens up, tosses the paper towel, spits to the left and without missing a beat, looks directly at us and says "Wooses" in as dead pan and emotionless tone as could be uttered. After a pause, with us just looking over in stunned silence, he says "you ever see my bike on a trailer, you best be calling 911." With that, he throws a leg over the Harley and roars it to life. From the sound of it, I'd bet money he has modified his bike so that no one in a ten mile radius will miss his coming or going. Despite his words however, and judging from the fork rubbing, I suspect that Jade and her companion have seen more miles on the road in one week, than skinny-bad-dude wannabe and pampered Harley will ever see in an entire season.