Like the man with the seismically impressive stereo system I can hear coming from blocks and blocks away, the man on the Harley is almost home after a long hard day at work.
Here he comes! You hear him? BLAT BLAT-BLAT-BLAT BLAT BLAT-BLAT-BLAT!
I have nothing against motorcycles. I was on the back of one for years – sometimes of my own free will! – and I can freely and without benefit of recompense tell you that bikes are a joyous mode of transportation.
No one has threatened to make public any bit of information they may have about those years in exchange for this endorsement.
The Harley – now just three blocks away and taking a left, if I’m any judge of acoustics – is a low-slung testimony to willfulness, a middle-fingered salute to health, safety, convention, and noise ordinances.
No worries about someone sneaking up on you on a Harley, are there! I hear him long before I see him, a muscular and weather-beaten man with heavy boots and an arrogant mustache, a man who gives me “the nod”.
Me? I nod back.
But we are not conspirators, you and I, Motorcycle Mustache Man.
Unless, of course, I can get a ride.
What can I say? It’s been a while.
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