I knew a biker, although he claimed he was a biker enthusiast. Never was sure why he insisted on that qualifier. He was well built and so was his Harley. One day as I saw him walk off into the distance, for the first time I noticed his legs. Twigs is what came to mind. His legs were twigs compared to his torso. I realized that he simply didn't exercise his lower body. Humpf. How about that.
Bob. The Biker from Boston. He moved out to California in 1980, and that's when I met him. That gottam Duran Duran song was constantly playing on the radio. Something about a hungry wolf. Banal, like most pop music in the 80's. I always wondered what happened to Bob Miller. Not like you'd have any luck in googling a name like that. He had a very young son, Joshua. Bob would say, "Josh, pick up ya caas [cars]," in that thick Boston accent. He shaved once--for a court date. He cleaned up nicely. Handsome Bostoner with twig legs.
That winter my Gremlin died. Imagine a manufacturer deciding that would be a good name for a car. I couldn't afford another car so I got a second hand 250cc Kawasaki. I asked Bob to show me how to operate it. He would not. So one afternoon I took it to a park and taught myself. That was my first motorcycle, and one of many lessons, not the first, in independence. (jump 10 years later, I had a boss who told me I was "fiercely independent" and I always that was a redundant phrase.) The following spring I drove to Palo Alto to see Zebra at night. That's when I learned there's more than one reason to wear a helmet. Back in those day, insects were plentiful and the only thing I could think of was that it was a huge moth. At 50mph, it felt like like a pebble. Helmet hair be damned. I would wear a helmet for the rest of my days while on a bike. Two more Kawasaki's would come.
I thought of all of this at 2:30 in the morning and fell asleep thinking of twig legs, stale beer, and a wolf song.