Waxing poetic over coffee
Well, it’s Sunday, and I’m back at the coffee shop. The interesting assortment of people here today include the monk again and a table full of bikers. These guys are the real deal: ZZ Top beards, shaved head or long hair in ponytails, leather coats - the whole bit. Outside you can see their bikes - retro Harleys and a Titan. Cool big bikes. Big guys to haul around.
I listen to their conversation - not because I’m intentionally eavesdropping, but because they just take up the whole room. They’re talking about the new “features” on the newer bikes. Complaining, mostly:
“GPS, why, can’t these stupid yuppies read a map?” For some reason, he looks at me. Not cool, hombré. Not cool.
“What am I gonna do with a CD player on the road? Where are you supposed to keep CD’s?”
“Seriously, cupholders? Do the clowns who design these new bikes even ride them?”
The best quote though, seemed like it came right out of a sales brochure: “I don’t even want a radio - all the music I need is the wind blowing through my hair.” Keep in mind this guy must have weighed three hundred pounds, clad in a leather coat (even though the current outside temperature is 63°F), and big boots. Everyone at the tables chimed in agreement. Who knew the average biker was so poetic?
