Never done this before. After all, a road trip is supposed to be a break from the ordinary routine. There are advantages to having the ‘ol laptop along, though, and I don’t mean the chance for continued exposure to political rants. For instance, I am listening to some very mellow jazz from Denmark’s DR Jazz as I write this.
The computer has survived the bouncing about it received in the process of trying to reach the mystery motel, which was completely surrounded by road construction, broken pavement, and assorted detour signs pointing in different directions.
It was a great ride, and there was a wonderful ‘gas station moment’ in Holbrook. We’d gassed the bikes, soaked our cool vests and were about to leave when the last of a dying breed rolled in: Five Harley riders on a cross country run to the West Coast.
These were not RUBs, rich urban bikers. Their bikes looked to have been assembled from pieces found elsewhere, their luggage was an odd assortment duffels and stuff wrapped up in towels and lashed in a clutter to their bikes. The extended forks, ape hangers, and lack of suspensions would have broken the backs of lesser men. These were basic bikes,a frame, an engine, and two wheels.
The riders were in good spirit, even the big guy who was riding shirtless, with nothing to protect him but his tattoos in hundred degree heat. A woman who was waiting for a new tire rushed out to take a picture of this mob. That was okay with the big guy but he asked that she wait until his buddy stopped rubbing him all over with sun block.
“I don’t want to look queer,” he said.