What the hell was he thinking? Obviously he wasn’t. Becausehere he was, idling down a long, narrow, graveled road at ten o’clock atnight in the middle of nowhere. Shit, they didn’t even have streetlightsout here. He should have just stopped at the motel out on the highway,called her, thanked her for her kind offer and forgotten the whole deal.Instead he was looking for the driveway of “the widowed wife of a friendof a friend.” Sarah McGill-Morrison. He knew she had two grown kidsand he had built up a mental image of a motherly, graying, plump woman in herlate 40s. He was about to turn the bike around when his headlighthit the white address sign. This was it, no turning back now. She wouldhave heard the rumble of his V-twin by now.
He could see the house 100 feet off the road. The garage doorwas open and light streamed out into the moonless night. As he idled up tothe house, his gaze was drawn into the well-lit garage. Half of it was taken upby an immaculate, forest green ’54 Chevy pickup. The other side wasobviously the scooter side. He could see the glossy black Hydra-Glide, anewer Sportster XLH1200, a pile of parts in the corner that might somedaymake a whole bike, as well as bits and pieces hanging on the walls and piledon shelves. To his surprise, someone unfolded from a crouch along side theHydra-Glide. A tall redhead in jeans and a black tank-top smiled at himand waved him inside. He pulled in and cut the engine.
She wiped her greasy hand on her jeans and extended it in greeting,her bright blue eyes almost level with his. “Hi. If you’re not Poodle Imay have to call my rottweiler. I’m Gil.”
He returned the grin and took the proffered hand in a firm shake. “Don’tcall out the dog, you invited me.”
Her eyes roamed over his 6-foot-4, broad-shouldered frame andsettled on his hazel eyes. “With a name like Poodle, I was expectingsomeone small, obnoxious and trembling nervously. You don’t quite fit the bill.Park your scooter,” she said, closing the garage door and returning to her bike. “I justgot another bolt or two to tighten on the valve cover. Just a sec.”
He watched as she knelt along side the old bike, the ratchet in herhand moving rhythmically over the top of the old Panhead. She finished,pulled a bandanna from her hip pocket and wiped a few infinitesimal motesof dust from the chrome. She eyed the glossy black tank and wiped a smudge.
“There, I’ll finish later. You hungry?”
He had been so engrossed in the muscular lines of her shoulders andback that the question barely registered. “Huh? Oh yeah. I guess I am. Ihaven’t eaten since lunch, I was trying to make time.”
“You must be tired, Frisco’s a long haul. C’mon inside, wash thebugs out of your beard and I’ll dish you up some dinner.”
He followed her up the steps, watching her shapely hips swayinginspirationally. The black, greasy handprint on her right hip pocketbeckoned. He shook it off. She wasn’t his type. He preferred ’em small,brunette and bitchy, at least that’s what he always ended up with. Shit,this one was at least 5-foot-10 in her stocking feet and looked strong enough tokick his ass if she wanted to. The long red braids and dusting of freckles onher tanned cheeks made her look about 16, but he knew that with two grownkids she must be more like 40-plus.
They stepped into the warm, clean kitchen and he immediately thoughtof his grandma as his nose was assaulted by the mouthwatering fragrance of hotfood and warm bread. He was almost drooling.
He looked around. “So where’s the rottweiler?”
She smiled. “Little white lie. My old dog died last winter and shewas a geriatric, amiable black lab. Anyway, bathroom’s last door on the left,”she pointed him down the hall.
He washed the road grime and bugs from his hands and face, hisstomach grumbling at him after the tantalizing whiff of real food. He was atypical bachelor; living off of fast food, pizza, cold cereal and beer. Maybestaying here for the rally weekend wasn’t such an idiot idea after all.
He rejoined her in the bright, comfortable kitchen. “Have a seat,”she offered.
He sat at the oak table. She set a large bowl of thick, chickennoodle soup, heavy on the chicken, and a basket of homemade rolls in front of him.
“I wasn’t sure what time you’d arrive, but I knew if I made soup andbread it would hold up until you got here. You want something to drink?Milk, beer, water? I don’t have any soda, that stuff’ll kill you.”
“A beer would be great, thanks.” He was a little overwhelmed. Hehadn’t been treated like this since he was a kid spending a weekend at his grandma’s.
“Don’t wait for me, I ate an or so hour ago. Shit, I’mused to feeding two teenage boys as well as their horde of ever-hungryfriends, so we don’t stand on formalities here.” She opened the fridge. “I’vegot Haystack Black or Mirror Pond Golden. So amber or stout?”
“Amber sounds good.”
“Yeah, definitely goes better with white meat,” she joked. “Thestout’s a little heavy for a dinner beer.”
She settled herself across the table from him, sipped her beer andkept him company while he wolfed down the rich, garlicky soup and ate half adozen rolls dripping butter. When he finished the first bowl she served himseconds. Finally, stuffed and feeling as if all was well with the world, hepushed the empty bowl away.
“Man, I don’t think I’ve had anything that good since my grandmadied. Thanks.”
She dimpled appealingly. “No problem. I almost made an apple pie butI was afraid you might get a little weirded out by my over-domesticity. But my youngest son just went off to OSU two weeks ago and I’ve been a littleat a loss.”
“Apple?” he asked with a wistful sigh.
She dimpled again, “Yeah, maybe I should have followed my instincts.Oh well. Want a little after dinner Scotch instead? I know that byreputation you’re a Jack Daniel’s man, but I’m afraid all I have isBushmill’s single malt.”
Gee, what a tragedy. “Sounds good, sure. I still feel pretty wiredfrom the ride.”
She took his dishes, piled them in the sink and pulled two tumblersfrom the cupboard. “Rocks? Or not?”
“Rocks.”
She added a handful of ice to each glass and poured a couple offingersof amber fluid into each. She handed him one, both took a sip of thesmooth, smoky liquid and sighed. She swirled the ice cubes around in her glass, watching them spin. “The Scots call this uisgebaithe, you know. It means ‘Water ofLife’. They certainly have their priorities in order. Say, I’ve got tofinish up with my scooter. I don’t want to have to deal with anything inthe morning. I don’t function real well before noon. Feel free to watch TV orwhatever, or if you want a shower.”
“Actually, I was just thinking that my bike should be cool enoughthat I can tighten everything down before I hit the sack.”
“Cool. I’ll even let you use my tools if you say please.”
They took their Scotch and a fresh beer out to the garage and spentthe next hour in companionable near-silence as each focused on their respectiverides; she on her ’53 Hydra-Glide, he on his ’98 Bad Boy. They spokeoccasionally, passing tools, locktite and WD 40. A radio on the workbenchplayed the oldies, she sang softly along with her favorites, he got theidea that she was singing to the machine she was working on. Time passed in ahappy haze.
They straightened from their tasks almost simultaneously and turnedto grin at each other. He caught a tantalizing whiff of her fragrance underthe comforting smells of oil, gas and exhaust.
“Done?” she asked.
“Yep. Ready to head out in the morning.”
“Good. I’ve decided to take you into Bend, the back way, more scenicand no traffic. You just have to watch out for deer and suicidal chipmunks.”
They returned to the warmth of the house and stood shoulder toshoulder at the kitchen sink washing the grease from their hands with Orange Goop.She showed him the hide-a-bed already made with clean white sheets and asoftly worn quilt then headed upstairs to her room. “If you need anything,my room’s the last one on the right,” she said from the bottom of the stairs.
He listened to her steps as she climbed the stairs. He could thinkof something he needed, but knew better than to try. Besides, she wasn’t histype. Sleep was slow in coming.
He was roused from a light drowse by the familiarclicking of a computer keyboard. A dim light filtered in from the familyroom. He heard a sigh and a rustle then the sound of the computer beingshut down. He slid from his warm bed, slipped on his jeans and stepped intothe family room just as she rose from her seat at the desk.
“Oh, sorry. Did I wake you?”
She was wearing a green, satin robe and clearly little else. He couldsee the shadowy suggestion of her nipples through the thin fabric. Hisjeans were suddenly a little tighter. “Not really, I always have troublesleeping after a long ride.”
He saw the flash of an easy grin. “I know what you mean. I justhave trouble sleeping, period. As usual, I couldn’t sleep so I came down towork on my latest novel. It’s building to the exciting climax. I had to sneakdown and put in a little time.”
He had moved a little closer, now he could smell the sweet fragrancerising from her warm body. He took another step. “I know what you mean.Half the time I write my articles at three in the morning. There’s no risk ofinterruption, the world is so quiet. And I’m a chronic insomniac.”
She took a step closer, her robe opening another inch to give him atantalizing view of soft, white cleavage. Even in the dim room he couldsee the light in her eyes. “I’ve always thought there was only one cure forinsomnia.”
“Warm milk?” he asked.
She stepped up to within an inch of him, smiled into his eyes andwhispered, “Not exactly.”
Her hand settled lightly on his hip. The smile left her lips butremained in her eyes. He tugged gently at the belt of her robe. It slippedloose, the robe fell open and she stepped easily into his arms. Her mouthwas sweet and insistent. His hands roamed over her satiny smooth skinfeeling the muscles sheathed in feminine softness. Without losing contactwith her soft lips, he pulled her into the other room and gently pressed herdown onto his bed. She pulled him after her. He began exploring his wayalong her throat, across her broad shoulders and slowly between herbreasts.
His mouth found a delicate rose-pink nipple, kissing it gently as his handsoftly cupped her white breast. She moaned softly. He continued hisexploration, his tongue finding the line of fine, downy hair that led fromher navel down to her red curls and buried his face into the soft, sweetflesh. She gasped softly as his tongue worked its way into every crevice;exploring, teasing, arousing. He felt her tense, heard her moan andreveled in the intense spasm that wracked her body and made her cry out softly.
Her fingers were twined into his hair an he planted a soft parting kissbefore allowing her to pull him away. She brought his mouth to hers and,kissing him hard, whispered breathlessly against his lips, “My turn.”
She rolled him onto his back and slowly, torturously worked her waydown. Her breasts rubbed softly against him, her lips left a tinglingtrail.
Reaching her objective, she took him gently in hand, kissing the singledrop of fluid from the tip. A shiver ran through him as her warm mouth slowly,carefully, brought him near the exploding point. He almost cried out asher mouth pulled away, her soft body rubbing against him as she slid up alonghis body.
Straddling his hips she leaned down, covering his mouth with hers,her silky hair blanketing them both as he slid inside her. Moaning against hislips she rode with long, slow strokes. He fought the urge to rush her,despite the pleasurable agony that was building beyond human tolerances.He came with such explosive force that he bit his own lip as his teethclenched against the rush. She arched her back, her hair wild about her face, eyesclosed, lips parted as her breath hissed between her teeth. Finally spent,they collapsed against each other, sweaty and trembling.
Still joined at the pelvis, he rolled her onto her side, sharing thepillow. He brushed damp hair from her forehead and she smiled drowsily at himwith kiss-swollen lips. They fell asleep without speaking.
He woke as she quietly slid from the bed. He tried to grab hold ofher but he was still groggy with sleep. It was daylight.
“I’m gonna start coffee then take a shower. C’mon up if you want tojoin me. I’ll wash your back,” she smiled over her shoulder as she headedinto the kitchen. “Don’t forget, you got a rally to report on.”
He lay staring at the ceiling, listening to her run water and movearound the kitchen, then soft steps as she trotted up the stairs. Thesound of running water made him acutely aware of how much he needed a shower. Heslipped on his jeans and went up to find her. It wasn’t hard, he followedthe sound of water. Last door on the right. Her bedroom was devoid ofanything to show that a man had ever been in here, but he knew she had beenmarried for a long time before her husband died. Likewise, there were noblatantly feminine things in sight, except the leopard print bra and pantieson the bed. He could hear her singing softly in the shower. He went in tojoin her.
Neither spoke as he stepped into the shower. She was wet and glistening,her hair slicked back against a shapely skull. She let him into the hot spray andbegan gently soaping his back. He turned to face her and she continued withthe soap, washing his chest, his stomach, gently lathering as her handsslipped over his body, waking him thoroughly. She handed him the soap, he smiledand began washing her shoulders, breasts and stomach, warming to his task andreturning the favor. He pulled her slick, soapy body against his and herhands slid across his shoulders as he tipped his head to kiss her. She wrapped along leg around his hips and with one hand guided him inside her. The hotwater beat down on them as they swayed in rhythm until he gasped againsther wet neck and came so suddenly his knees almost buckled. They stood, lockedtogether for a silent moment, his face burrowed into her neck, her lipsbreathing softly against his ear. She unhooked her leg and he slid almostpainfully out of her.
She smiled devilishly and carefully soaped his now-flaccid penis. Hegritted his teeth against the excruciatingly sweet touch on theoversensitive flesh. She giggled. They finished washing each other, kissing andcaressing until the water began to cool. They finally stepped out and she handed him asoft, white towel. He dried off and wandered into the bedroom, towelwrapped around his narrow hips. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched as shecarefully rubbed lotion over her shoulders and breasts, across the hips,down the long legs and clear to her toes. She emerged, her hair turbaned in thetowel. He continued to watch as she dressed; leopard bra and panties,Levi’s, white T-shirt and Doc Martin boots. She draped the towel overthe doorknob and began brushing out her long hair, which almost reached her waist.
“Coffee should be ready,” she offered. He grabbed his jeans andfollowed her downstairs.
As he dressed in the living room, he could hear her clatteringaround, the refrigerator opening and closing several times, the ring of metalagainst ceramic, the hiss of something hitting a hot skillet, then a tantalizingaroma. He joined her as soon as he was dressed.
“Have a seat. How do you take your coffee?”
“Black.” It was the first word out of his mouth since last night. He wasbeginning to think he was deep inside an acid-induced hallucination. Thenthe thought occurred to him that it was still last night, he had hit a deerand was lying in a ditch with a head injury slowly succumbing to shock andhypothermia. But shit, what a way to go.
She set a large mug of steaming coffee in front of him. He took acareful sip and sighed, “That’s really good.”
“One thing about Oregonians, we’re coffee and beer snobs. And I’mone of the worst. I only drink micro-brewed beer and fresh-roasted, fresh-ground coffee, no canned shit for me.”
She was moving easily around the kitchen rustling up breakfast. “Ihope you’re not watching your cholesterol, I’m doing biscuits and gravy. I’vehad a craving for it lately but it’s not something I’m gonna make for myself.”
“Sounds good.” He watched as she cooked and drained the sausage,mixed buttermilk biscuits from scratch without a recipe and stirred the creamgravy.
“Eggs?”
“Sure.”
“Scrambled or fried?”
“Either.”
“Scrambled.”
In less than fifteen minutes he was looking down at a plateful ofgolden biscuits, creamy gravy and fluffy eggs flecked with fresh ground pepper.
He took a bite, his eyes rolled and he almost moaned. He had finally succumbedto his injuries, died and gone to heaven.
She topped off his coffee before she sat across from him with herplate. “There’s plenty, so eat all you want. I’m used to cooking for a couple ofbottomless pits. Is everything OK?”
“Perfect,” he mumbled around a hot mouthful of flakybiscuit and rich gravy. After a second helping and his third cup of coffee he wasready to nominate her for sainthood. He eyed her over the rim of hiscoffee cup. She sipped her coffee, caught his eye and smiled.
“We need to hit the road pretty soon. Going the back way it’ll takeover an hour to get into town.” She stood and gathered the dishes.
He followed her to the sink, wrapping his arms around her waist frombehind. She turned in his embrace and her arms moved naturally and easilyaround his shoulders. They stood nearly eye to eye, her lips tantalizinglywithin reach. He kissed her, tasting coffee, smelling her clean hair,feeling her strong body in his arms. She really wasn’t his type. But hewasn’t sure he wanted to leave the house, especially to join a crowd. Nottoday anyway. He had her pinned against the counter, their Levis button-to- button.
“You’re not thinking about bagging the rally, now are you?” sheteased.
“What would your boss say?”
“Depends on what I tell him,” he said, staring into her bright blue eyes.
“Don’t you want to ride?” The ultimate carrot on a stick. “It’s asunny day, a beautiful route, no cops and smooth asphalt.”
She knew the right buttons to push, he sighed in defeat. “All right,you twisted my arm.”
She kissed him warmly. “Good, I haven’t been out on my bike for threewhole days.”
“That long?”
“Yeah, I decided last minute to take the old boy instead of mySporty, and he needed some help, so I’ve been hard at it in the garage. The onlyadvantage of celibacy is ample nervous energy.”
He thought about that for a second, “I take it you’re not dating?”
“I haven’t even come close to a date since,” she paused, her eyessuddenly bright, “since my husband died almost three years ago. I haven’thad the inclination, nor the time really.”
“Why’d you invite me to stay? I mean, you had no idea what you weregetting into.”
“Friend of a friend. Tom thought it would be a good idea. Plus, you ridea nice bike and I’ve read enough of your stuff to know that you’re not atotal psychopath. Granted, I had no idea you’d be a broodingly handsomeguy that smells good enough to eat raw. But then, maybe I was due for somegood luck,” she grinned.
“Brooding? I’m always told I look pissed off.”
“I don’t think so, more introspective and pensive. Now, enoughchit-chat. We gotta hit the road, Bubba.”
He watched her as she braided her hair into two long plaits. He wasbeginning to suspect that they were two innocent participants in aconspiracy; his boss Harold and her friend Tom, both busybodies. Not thathe minded, now. They added a few more layers to offset the morning chillstillclinging to the thin mountain air, grabbed their jackets and headed intothegarage. They pushed their scooters out into the brilliant morningsunlight. He started his Bad Boy easily enough, with its electronic ignition. It took her a half-dozen kicks before the old Panhead grumbled to life. Shegently revved the engine, a smile of sheer delight lighting her face. Theysat and let the engines warm until she crammed her brain bucket on, flashedhim a grin, blew him a kiss with two fingers and kicked it into gear.They rode side by side out the long winding road. When they reachedthemain road, she turned left, away from the highway that had brought him, anddeeper into the pine forest. He followed. Once on the main road shecrankedthe throttle, her braids flowing behind her like living creatures. Theyblasted along through the cool morning air, easily hitting 70 on thetree-lined road. She was right, the road was smooth and scenic. Thetrees thinned and suddenly the surrounding buttes and lava domes came intoview, the rocky crags of the Cascades shimmered blue in the distance.Ten miles down the road they came to the Cascade Lakes Highwayjunction. At the stop sign, she hollered to him, “We’re going to head towardsSunriver. Once we get close there’ll be a few cops that are not real bike-tolerant.So when I slow, you’d better too.”
He flashed her an OK sign. She took off to the right. Mileafter mile of virgin forest and no traffic to speak of, it was bliss afterbattling the vicious, bitter car-people of the Bay Area. The air was so clean hecould smell the occasional creek or wildflower beneath the ever-presentspice of pine. There were plenty of suicidal chipmunks, waiting at the side ofthe road only to dash in front of their tires at the last second, being missedby mere inches.
He saw the sign, Sunriver two miles, and they both slowed to a sedate55. She smiled at him, her cheeks flushed with pleasure. Beforethey saw any signs of the fabled Sunriver, she signaled a left turn and theyheaded up a narrow but smooth National Forest road. Back into the virginold-growth ponderosas. She cranked the throttle and cruised back up to70. They wound through the beautiful hills, his head pivoting from side to sidetaking in the scenery. He saw signs of old wildfire damage, burned snagsrising up through verdant meadows and charred, giant survivors standing aslone sentinels.
Too soon they reached signs of civilization; massive, overpricedhomes dotting the hillsides, an exclusive golf course and luxury condos. Toobad. But the road widened and was smooth and clean as they headed down the hilland into the west side of Bend. She took the lead, slowing as they entereda commercial district, and pulled into a Chevron. He pulled in behind her to fill his tank.
The attendant, a young man of about 17, eyed the bikescovetously. He smiled a greeting, “Fill ’em up?”
“Yeah, premium.” She unscrewed the chrome cap and neatly wrested thenozzle from the dumbfounded youngster’s grasp. She flashed the boy anapologetic smile, “I’m just a little paranoid.”
“Yeah, sure lady.”
With the gas bought and paid for, they played follow the leader across town.
She knew the road less traveled, the path of least resistance. He followedtrustingly, knowing that if he tried to find his way back, he’d never makeit. He was entirely in her hands. As they progressed through traffic, henoticed more bikes. Brother riders waved, smiled and fell inbehind. Before long they were a couple dozen strong, all heading for the Bears andRoses H-D dealer. He could see bikes ahead and nothing but headlights inhis rearview. He stayed just to Gil’s left flank.
He knew they had arrived several minutes before he actually saw thedealership. The small side street was lined with bikes parked tail to thecurb. They slowed with the congestion and she pointed to an opening in thewall of Milwaukee iron. She rolled her bike easily into place and he followed suit,parking along side of her. They cut the engines simultaneously.
Even with their own engines silent it did little to diminish thebaritone din of the multitude of scoots passing. Theoccasional tenor of a Japanese bike cut through the sonorous rumble, butthey were few and far between. The two sat silently for a few minutes watchingthe parade of humanity, leather and chrome. He finally dismounted,strapping his helmet to his seat. He stood over her as her eyes scanned the crowd. Shefinally swung her long leg up over the tank, sat side saddle for a moment,then rose to stand next to him.
“I should have told you, I’m not much for crowds,” she apologized.
He looked at the gathering of perhaps 300 and said in herear, “Then you really don’t want go to Sturgis. Don’t worry, I’ll protect you,”he added facetiously, putting a protective arm around her waist.
“Thanks. I feel so much better now,” she retorted, her eyessparkling.
“Poodle? Shit man, it is you,” a burly blond with a full, red bearddescended upon them. “What the hell you doing here?”
“I could ask the same of you. Isn’t this a little off the beatentrack?”
“Naw, we moved here last year. Good schools and low crime,” heshrugged his broad shoulders, his eyes ran over her tall frame. “Who’s your friend?”
“Angus, this is Gil. Gil, Angus.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” he extended a beefy hand.
Taking it in her usual, firm grip she smiled into his brown eyes.
“Thanks, nice to meet you too. You’re a local?”
“Yeah, sort of. Poodle drag you up here from the Bay Area?”
“No, actually, I’m a local gal. I’ve lived in the south end of thecounty for over 15 years. Poodle’s a friend of an old friend. I offered himthree hots and a cot if he’d come and do an article on the Run for theCascades, as a favor to some friends of mine here at the dealer’s.”
Angus flashed a quick look at Poodle, then back to Gil. Their calmdemeanor gave nothing away. He elbowed Poodle. Knowing his taste in women,he asked sarcastically, “So, can she cook?”
“Oh man, you should taste her biscuits and gravy. She can evenrebuild an engine,” he flashed her a grin.
“Yeah well, with an old-fashioned upbringing and three brothers, Ikind of had to do it all. Besides, with an old scooter I knew I’d either haveto handle a wrench, have a mechanic on retainer, or trade engine work forsexual favors,” she winked.
Angus grinned. His eyes reluctantly left Gil’s piercing blue eyes andwere pulled to the black and chrome beauty leaning jauntily on its stand, “Hmm,nice ride.” He eyed the foot gear change. “Fifty-two?”
“Fifty-three, actually. I’ve had him now for about three years andhave him about back to showroom new.”
The big man was impressed, but kept his face neutral. “Not bad.Pretty nice, actually. I had a ’65 Duo-Glide. Loved that bike, but now that I’man old man I wanted something that had a little less vibration, a littleeasier on my old bones. Got me a ’99 Heritage Softail.”
“Those are beauties. But a little rich for my blood,” she smiled.
The three left the parked bikes and drifted into the crowd. Poodleglanced at Gil as she chatted easily with Angus about her Panhead and hebragged about his Big Twin and suppressed a smile. The rough blonde wasblatantly smitten with the tall redhead.
As she stepped over to inspect some leather vests, Angus said out ofthe corner of his mouth, “What gives, buddy? She’s not your type. I don’tthink I’ve ever seen you with anything that weighs over a hundred.”
“Uh huh,” he grunted noncommittally, “anything bigger doesn’t ride pillion as easy.”
“I always thought you were a closet pedophile,” he said, elbowing his friendgood naturedly. “But Gil looks like a grown up. What gives?”
Poodle shrugged casually. “She’s a nice lady.”
“And she’s got her own bike, so no need for two up?”
“Uh huh.”
“You heading back to the Bay tomorrow?”
“Probably.”
“So then what about Gil? You gonna keep seeing her?”
Poodle shrugged. But knew what he wanted.
“So then, she’s kind of available?”
“You’re married Angus.”
“Oh yeah.”
Gil rejoined the two, unaware that she’d been discussed. They continuedto mingle, losing Angus along the way. They ran into several people Gilknew, as well as several more that knew Poodle. Each time one introducedthe other there were speculative looks, appraising glances and raised eyebrows.
Poodle found his mind was not on his job. He was more than a littledistracted, and not in the usual ways. He hadn’t been drinking, had sleptsome and had eaten well. He tried to make mental notes on the gathering,but couldn’t corral his thoughts well enough, his mind refused to focus on thetask at hand. He looked around, seeing nothing but a bunch of happy bikersand beautiful bikes. The lack of uniforms added to the mellow mood. Mustbe the altitude and clean air. You’d never get this peaceful a gathering atsea level. He decided to kick back and just savor the day. Having Gil quietlyat his side added to the enjoyment. At one point, without realizing it, hetook her hand and they strolled along, fingers laced together, relaxed andcontent.
The Run for the Cascades was equally mellow, as mellow as 500 or so big motorcycles can be. There were few idiots and fewer maniacs.Everyone held tight formation as they wound their way up the Cascade LakesHighway toward Mount Bachelor, speed increasing gradually as they movedaway from town until the front half of the pack approached race speed.The air thinned and cooled as they rode, despite the bright, late summer sun.The ponderosas gave way to fir as they rose. The smell of exhaust couldn’tcover the pungent scent of pine. The road was smooth and everyone washappy.
Poodle was disappointed to realize they had hit the summit and werecoming down the back side. He saw Gil signal him. He grinned and nodded,acknowledging her plan. They turned right, off of the scenic highway andon to the familiar road they had traveled this morning.
Away from the chorus and back to a duet, the world suddenly seemed soquiet. There was only the rhythmic throb of their two bikes to startle the ravens from their roadkill. The empty road stretched ahead of them, at least fortoday.
The End
