We went fishing on Saturday. Drove a couple of hours NE to a lake that is nearly 7,000 acres and full of rocks. I love rocks in a lake. They provide good structure for fishing and are an impediment to fast boat rides. The lake was calm and the water was warm. Loons were calling out, geese were flying overhead; on the way in we saw a yearling deer in the middle of the road. It was lovely.
On the way home from fishing, we stopped at a clam shack. We always get supper from a dairy barn or a clam shack on our way back from fishing, it’s part of the fun. While we were eating, 7 or 8 Harleys drove in. Most of them were brand spanking new, produced within a couple of years. The riders were wearing freshly laundered and pressed Harley clothing and accessories. They dismounted and removed their helmets to reveal neat, grey, businessman haircuts. Our windows were rolled down, making me guilty of innocent and inadvertent eavesdropping. They ordered soft-serve ice cream cones. My husband and I looked at each other. He knew what I was thinking.
I’m not young anymore. I’ve always looked like a schoolteacher. People are generally shocked, and somewhat relieved, if they hear me drop a thermo-nuclear F bomb. I understand that stereotypes are unfair, that a person’s exterior doesn’t always match the interior. However, it disturbs the natural order of the universe when businessmen ride their Harleys in packs to order soft-serve ice cream cones.
James McMurtry captured my feelings in Hurricane Party: “some insurance man-biker is yellin’ out for one more beer, but a part time pirate just can’t get much respect around here.” © 2008 James McMurtry