One Brick Short

Blasting through downtown on a health break from the office petrie dish, I ran across Dirk Duke on his black-and-orange KTM. The sun being warm and the ground being dry and God being in his Heaven with Steppenwolf on the iPod on and His feet on the highway pegs, we figured we’d take the long way back to work.

We weren’t alone.

Vespas scooted by, tooting and waving. Lots of cruisers—Harleys, and V-Stars and Suzukis, oh, my—oozing ‘tude and shooting The Wave. It seemed like everyone with any excuse to ride—hey, boss: I need to go to the hardware to get a Wormtongue circlip for the frinkle valve—had left cage and cubicle for the open road.

With more ponies and lean angle, Duke spent a lot of time waiting up for Thumper and me, but he didn’t seem to mind any more than I minded pulling up the rear. It’s always best to ride within your limits and, while I ride a lot, Duke does more. I have no problem with that, I thought, leaning the Blast and looking waaaaaay through the curve.

I’m too old to be macho, young enough to have fun and mature enough to know there’s a difference.

What a great time of life. 

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