The `bird'

Slow learner. Or, avid contestant for the Darwin Award.

Motorcyclists (those that survive) love the roads around here. More road shrines testifying to terrestrial ineptitude than overnight shootouts in my old Chicago `hood.'

Since I've been riding these roads this past year I've had two distinctly different experiences with this same species, i.e., motorcycle-istas.

1) As they'd pass me from behind they'd display a raised hand with the two end fingers raised. As they'd approach me they'd extend their left hand and point to me. ??

2) When I'd stop amongst them for one reason or another they'd ALWAYS be cheerful, respectful and complimentary.

Today I rode about 75 miles (and 5,100 feet of climbing). It can be really desolate and gorgeous with the wide open vistas and glass smooth roads.

I came to the turnaround point, overlooking Yarnell Grade on the RAAM route. Using a wide parking area near a truly gritty AZ ghost town slop joint I encountered no fewer than 30 `bikers' in all their muscle metal and leather. My head was so full of `impressions' (freak show, dung beetle convention, pre-nursing home send off, road shrine organizing committee, bail fund party).

As I slowly wound my way through them to the exit back onto the road one of the guys says: "Hey, Dude! Where are your racing leathers?!"

I come from stock that if they can't start a fight will wait around as long as it takes for time and circumstance to create one. So, I stop.

There I am. In my day glo lycra. Sitting on my Ti Aero. Compression socks qua knickers. Camelback hose looking more like an IV drip.

I frog-leg it over to the trog who made the comment. Not having immediate recall of my compendia of James Lee Burke metaphors and simile and coughed: "I got somethin' you don't got!" Like a scene from West Side Story `trog' looks at me like I'm a gnat, nods in both directions to his droogs, steps toward me, smiling from behind facial burr, and says: "Like what!"

Me: "Medicare."

Big smile :)

The friendliest, warmest bunch of folks I've met in a very, very long time.

After some friendly chatting and signifying ("Why you ridin' a paper clip?" "What's that tube coming from your pants? You lose your `connection'?") I went my way, down a screaming 6 mile descent to Kirkland Junction.

As I'm tucked and aero on one particular descent, rolling a hefty 45 mph into shockingly sissified crosswinds, I look into my Zephy Spy Eyes and see row after row of motorcycle headlights tailing steadily about 50 feet behind me. Like I'm some kind of parade leader.

We get to the flats, I stear to the right a bit and they all pass me, two by two. As they pass they all raise their right hand, extending the far fingers.

I'm wonderin', "Should I restrain myself from flippin' them the bird, like I always do?" Or, "should I do the same and ignore my west side Chicago roots that tell me that the `far finger salute' means `bull****.'"

Later, climbing back up the mountain into Prescott several of them are parked on outcrops in the road looking at the breathtaking vista of the Prescott National Forest. We're all old friends now, waving and hooting at eachother as I pass them.

Good day on the bike.