Riding Pillion

   There is rarely a destination, barely a plan. He simply will ask; "...anywhere you wanna go?" "...to water," I'll ponder, "or maybe the mountains." Sometimes, he'll give a nod when he wants me to mount the vintage bike; then he puts the '84 Shovelhead in gear with some negotiation of man verses machine.

  The direction he takes is my only clue; the bike's loud pipes, hardened by decades of riding, drown out any spoken words. I can tap his shoulder for left or right, but that's the only control I'll have on our "flight."  Like an escape pod launched from my dusty door yard, where we'll drift depends on the road we roll onto and the miles of fuel in the tank. The sun to our back and the wind in our faces, the trademark Harley rumble,  will be the only constants in our day. 

  For the length of the ride, I'll be out on furlough, enjoying my liberty in this space and time. There is a saying among motorcycle enthusiasts: "a young rider picks a destination - an old rider picks a direction".  Pick your potion. . . peace ~ resa