I had known him only a few weeks, and we met at a cafe; but he seemed trustworthy. Boe: a middle-aged biker with a mustache that would make Hulk Hogan feel less of a man. Since day one, he had promised to take me for a ride on one of his Harleys, and finally the afternoon arrived when he pulled up to the cafe on his carriage. I suspected we would go for ride around the block, so I did not hesitate to hop on board as he handed me a very unflattering helmet suited for Mr. Bean himself.
Before I knew it, we were bolting off at top speed: 70 mph down Pacific Coast Highway, then 80 mph onto a major freeway. From there, we maintained our own record of breaking every speed law with which we were presented. It finally dawned on me that I was in for an actual day trip, not just a stroll around the neighborhood; so tightened my helmet, held on with both arms, and involuntarily kept my eyes closed to combat the violent watering.
While hitting top speeds and darting past traffic, the wind met my face with the speed of a bullet but the density of a cotton ball. Steadily, the distance between the far-off mountains and us decreased, and the images of the city began to disappear as the scenery became more green.
Suddenly, I realized we had reached our destination: a small biker bar seated atop the mountain where only those who truly belong would venture.
Pulling the helmet away from my head made it apparent that the winds had done a fine job of tangling an impossible knot into my hair of what had been exposed beyond the helmet. The bar was relatively empty in this early afternoon, but nonetheless I managed to catch everyone’s eyes as I stumbled through the door into the dark room.
Much to my sweet surprise, the menu included veggie patties, so Boe and I exchanged stories over burgers and fries at which time, he declared,
“I got a head start on being a hippie”
simply meaning he was growing his hair out before he was aware of the implications for his generation. When the meal was complete and all sensation had returned to my face, it was time to journey back from whence we came. However, this time I had learned my lesson before mounting the motorcycle, and decided to tuck my hair into the unflattering helmet therefore completing the illusion of my resemblance to Mr. Bean for the journey home.
There remains no ability to appear composed when high speed winds blitz your face.