In 1984 I road my Honda CBX out west, visited relatives, went to the Olympics.
On the 3rd day of the trip I stopped in some town in
While leaning on my bike in the parking lot eating some yogurt 2 bikes pulled in beside me.
Now these were real bikers, not the kind of people you see today all dressed up and playing make believe. These fellows were the real deal, true old time bikers. One was on a black pan head and the other had a red Indian. How many guys are left that still ride original Indians for transportation?
We talked about what we were doing, me about my trip on my bright shiny silver six cylinders in a row liter bike and them about their ride into New Mexico for a biker wedding and annual rousting by state troopers.
Some of the nicest fellows I met on the whole trip.
While we were talking a Pinto pulled in behind these guys. The lady got out, reached back in and locked the door that was near the bikers and pulled her 2 kids out of the driver’s door. She had a worried look on her face. She was afraid of us.
In that moment I became aware of 2 realities. The reality of some strangers running into each other and being friendly because they recognized the bond of a common interest, and the reality of someone who saw motorcycles as a sign of danger.
Those boys went their way and I went mine, west, down a road that was 90 miles long with no intersections, and a million yellow butterflies.
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