“The Biker Nod”
The wind shrieked in terror.
“Jesus, man – you want to total your brains on this torrid concrete, keep on,” it might have said.
I’d just been sent out of a cannon, never mind the road shakes, this two-wheeled mule would trail on. I looked like a space cadet with a plastic shell over my dome, but it would protect my noggin from splattering all over the curb.
The spasms started to kick in; muscles tightened and the blood rose into my capsulized head, sending me spinning 15 degrees to the left or right, depending on which leg twitched, of course. And the tightness, like a wrench had grabbed hold and was making sure that damn pipe wouldn’t burst again.
The heat made my tires sink deeper into the scorched surface, bleeding rubber but still sustaining my force. It wanted none of this, in fact, it was due in for new hoofs a while back, but the road bellowed and the beast would laugh if I hadn’t made a stand today. So I would trail on, keep my whits about me, don’t look back because the sun will burn your eyes, right.
Maybe. But then again.
I was leaving a trace, the rubber scent picked up by a gang of riders, two by two, out of the backcountry, “How did they find me?”
I had left no trace to pick up, but this rickedy romp showed me no mercy, I would have to turn myself in. The wind forgot it’s many warnings; I felt abandoned.
You could feel them tear into your side, a flurry of thrust, a storm in the summer. They grouped like positive and negative charges, each had it’s purpose in the line, no weak link, all in perfect order and with equal force. These Hell’s Angels all matched in fluorescent-colored jerseys and locked into their vessels like they were a part of a machine. Instead of skulls and “M” patches on their shoulders, they wore logos, and you respected that.
The rush knocked me off rhythm, bullying me into a more sedated ride. They would disappear into the infiniteness ahead.
The duel could only have one victor, I wouldn’t make it out of this one today.
But then, something came from the opposing direction. The infiniteness in the distance somewhat warped my view, my eyes shuttered, maybe it was the heat again, it could make you see things out here.
In a whirlwind, the phantom steed closed in, forming cyclonic waves of dust behind him.
I had to face this, “Jesus, man, get on your yearling and ride this last one out.”
The wind pushed me up a bit, nagging me to carry on. I whipped and roared and honed in on my target, who was gaining even more speed now. 30 yards…20…15..10…and then…
His head lowered at my sight – 3 seconds he spend pondering pedals – and then rose his egg-shaped dome. What was this? A bow, an acknowledgment? The biker nod?
It seemed that even just for being out here, you are given a certain amount of respect. A little twitch of the head while passing, a slight raise of two fingers, a little wave. These little flashes keep you going,affirming that this populace of riders are still in it together. Maybe it’s our old-fashioned, do it yourself mentalities – a thing of the past one might say. Still, the draconian cars whiz by, leaving carbon exhaust for you to suck on, and you know they don’t get it. Their ruthless ways will soon be outlawed. A revolution is at hand.
And although the trails wane and our legs cramp, there’s a true grace in our little battles. We push each other to limits, and we don’t even know each other. The bikers have something wired up there, under that plastic skull, that connects us to the same circuit board. A way of life, maybe. A certain stubbornness to conform to societies norms – might be the case.
But these biker nods affirm a sense of belonging and keep me rolling along.
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