HEY KID

The title will unravel itself in the telling of this tale.

It may be that I am in danger of repeating myself, though I hold that a good story deserves as many tellings as it can stand without collapsing. And this one, I am pleased to report, is built sturdy. It was a day so fine for riding that a man might suspect the weather had been arranged in advance for our particular benefit. The sky was of such a blue persuasion that any respectable diamond would decline comparison out of modesty.

Six of us—known in certain respectable circles as the Sandies—set out and accounted for 138 miles, though I confess the distance seemed to pass of its own accord, as if the road had taken a liking to us.

Along the way, we encountered a most improbable establishment called Bigfoot Buffet, situated some miles before Brewton, AL on a country road that gave no hint of ambition. The place offered a curious union of Brazilian cookery and Southern country fare, which sounds like a disagreement on paper but proved a harmony on the plate. There was coffee of the sort one associates with Starbucks, and pastries that suggested a level of devotion rarely found so far from civilization. It was, in short, a surprise—and a most agreeable one.

Not long after, we came upon a property formerly devoted to the keeping of men who had misjudged their circumstances. A place from Florida past, a road gang camp.  It was now for sale, complete with fourteen-foot fences and an enthusiasm for razor wire that had not diminished with time. It possessed dormitories, a mess hall, and a motor pool—everything required for a man who prefers his vacations with a hint of confinement. One might convert it into an Airbnb, though I suspect the previous tenants would object to the noise. The place carried an air of memory about it—none of it light—and I reckon it would take a committee of preachers, shamans, and other spiritual specialists working in shifts to persuade the shadows to vacate.

Among our party was Bobby B, mounted upon a 2026 Indian Pursuit, equipped with a seat that offers both heat and coolness, thereby relieving a man of the burden of deciding what season he is in. I have ridden for many years and have grown accustomed to negotiating with the weather directly, so this arrangement strikes me as both admirable and faintly suspicious.

What surprised me most was not the machinery, nor the scenery, but the conversation. We are, as a rule, a quiet assembly unless Sandy S is present to improve matters. Yet on this occasion, despite her absence, the intercom remained lively. Joejoe demonstrated a gift for timing that would not shame a stage performer, and even Tim W—who does not always squander his words—was in rare and generous supply of them. I want to thank Tim for his spot on advice on how to remedy a problem with my ride today.

We did, however, come near to a tragedy of the smallest and most nimble variety. On a narrow country road, I perceived a blur at the edge of vision and took to the brakes at once. There appeared before me a young goat—a kid—who executed a maneuver so graceful it might have earned applause at the Bolshoi Ballet. With a spin upon its hind legs, it retreated to its mother as though nothing at all had transpired. I have, over the years, collided with creatures of various sizes—including nearly making the acquaintance of a buffalo in Land between the Lakes—yet I confess it would have troubled me greatly to harm that particular little fellow. I was, therefore, grateful for his quick thinking and better footing.

All told, it was the sort of day that encourages a man to offer thanks—to the road, the machine, the company, and whatever powers see fit to arrange such agreeable circumstances. It is not every day that earns that distinction, but this one did, and without any strain at all.