This past weekend, 40,000 bikers descended on my little corner of the world. Not the Lance Armstrong kind, but the Pee-Wee-on-a-bar-dancing-for-his-life-in-the-busboy’s-shoes-to-“Tequila” kind.
At least that’s what they want you to think. I got the impression that this was more like bait shop owners than Hell’s Angels.
I like the vests though. There were some really cool patches for the various bike clubs represented. And in spite of the fact that they’re not really my peeps, I find it vaguely romantic and old-fashioned (in that lock-up-the-wife-and-kids kind of way) for a “gang” of motorcyclists to come roaring into town and take over the place. Several times, I thought seriously about getting out my white platform shoes and heading out to look for trouble.
The highlight of the weekend for me, though, was when I saw this one biker dude pulling a small cart behind his motorcycle. On the cart was his scooter. You know the kind that people with weight or leg problems use to get around the grocery store?
I immediately had a visual of him, in full biker gear, hopping off his hog and hopping on his scooter to do a little shopping. Kind of hard to cop the biker attitude when you’re essentially on a grown up tricycle. I wondered if he drove through the aisles making a “potato, potato, potato” sound and terrorizing people in the cereal aisle.
Coincidentally, my brother, the conservative CEO also took his Harley out for the weekend, meeting up with an equally posh friend in Santa Fe for some “hogging.” Hmmn. Is that a Merlot in your fanny pack, Thurston?