A Bobbie’s Homecoming
A Bobbie’s Homecoming
As Bobbie once so eloquently put it, he was “tired of coming home hot, wore out, and wet.”
Now, the wet part was not the result of any particularly exciting adventure. It was sweat, brought on by the sort of heat that makes a grown man question every decision that led him to get on a motorcycle in the first place.
Well, today was what I’m calling a “Bobby Homecoming.” And it had just about everything Bobby has grown tired of.
Here are the facts, for those of you who require facts before you’ll believe a perfectly good story.
Eight Sandies rode 125 miles. That’s 125 miles of sunshine, heat, wind, bugs, and questionable judgment, all in pursuit of lunch. And not just any lunch, mind you. We rode all the way to Andy D’s in Milton, where they serve portions large enough to make you wonder if the kitchen staff has ever actually seen a normal-sized human being.
The service was good, the food was tasty, and nobody left hungry. Well, nobody except maybe me, because I was beginning to question whether I had been properly trained for this kind of eating.
Take Bobby’s BLT, for example. Somewhere, there is a pig that gave its life for that sandwich. I’m sure that pig would have been proud to know its final contribution to society was being stacked between two pieces of bread with what appeared to be approximately one pound of bacon.
That wasn’t a BLT. That was a bacon-based building project. I fully expected Bobby to need a forklift to get it back to the table.
Meanwhile, Misty, JoeJoe, and Bobby had already eaten breakfast before setting out, then rode 125 miles to eat lunch. I have reached an age where I no longer question such things. I simply observe them from a safe distance and quietly say, “I’m not worthy.”
There are people who ride motorcycles. Then there are people who ride motorcycles and apparently eat like they’re preparing for a three-day siege. The Sandies are rife with people who can do that and never bat an eye.
I am not one of those people.
Tim, just returned from Sicily. Where Tim says it’s hot enough to make you feel like a gyro rotisserie. Tim has temporarily stopped long enough to do laundry and repack. Then it’s off to the South Pacific. Bora Bora. Tahiti. Those exotic ports of call that most of us dreamed about as kids while sitting somewhere considerably less tropical, imagining what it would be like to grow up and see the world. Some folks retire. Some folks travel. Tim does both retire and travel just a bit more exotic this time.
Then there was a phenomenon today. Ken noticed it. The radio was quiet. Not just quiet. Peaceful.
Ken brought up the obvious question: “Sandy isn’t with us. Could that be why it’s so peaceful?”
Now, I’m not saying there’s a connection. I’m simply reporting the facts as they were presented. Still, when eight grown adults can ride 125 miles together and somebody notices the silence, well... that leaves a little room for speculation.
I’m sure it’s nothing.
Probably.
But I will say this: It was an unusually peaceful ride. Scientists should probably study it.
Somebody ought to put a weather balloon up there. Oh JoeJoe is trained to do just that
There are certain things in life you don’t understand, you just marvel at it
And if Sandy reads this, I’m sure she’ll have something to say about that. Oh will Sandy have something to say. Which, come to think of it, may prove Ken’s theory after all.
All in all, it was another fine day of motorcycle riding.
Hot. Wore out and sweaty and a shower when you get home. It was another Bobby’s Homecoming only with a lot more bacon.
We loved every minute of it. It had everything food, roads and friends always a great combination.
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