My drive to work involves a long and winding back road. Most days, there is little traffic, and it's fairly uneventful. Some days though, it's better than an old-time funeral procession. You know, the old ones where every one took back roads the whole way and drove around ten miles an hour, complete with lights and a police escort? Yeah, sometimes it's that kind of exciting ...
Enter Mr. Harley Davidson-- I know, my originality in choosing names just sneaks up on you, doesn't it?
Back to H.D. Apparently he had missed the memo that Sunday drives are for ... well, Sundays. (Cruising is too enthusiastic a word, but we'll use it anyway.) Cruising along, Mr. H.D. sat comfortably on his bike, his head swiveling casually from side to side. I'm fairly certain that he saw each and every flower, field, and fruit tree along the way. He was obviously content to bask in the beauty all around him. Each time we approached a side road, he'd slow down and stare thoughtfully in either direction as if to determine if they were appealing enough to cause him to forsake this road's current pleasures.
As we made up our own stately procession, I found myself giggling. Who rides a Harley, wears leather, and drives quietly and sedately? (H.D. apparently ... ) Come to think of it, who knew Harleys could be that quiet? Thought lead to thought, and I realized that I had never seen a motorcycle drive so slowly for so long. Who knew they could do that without falling over?!?
As the hilarity of the moment was wearing off, our leisurely drive rounded the bend ...
just in time to nearly be run off the road by a wildly-careening women's cycling team, who had just shot out from a side road in front of us. Watching as my Harley riding friend narrowly avoiding being tangled in a mass of women in matching bike wear (and of course their bicycles), I found myself laughing again. I really think that with their speed, and his rapture with his surroundings, those women could have taken him.
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