Lefty Lancaster Gets in Touch with His Inner Aristocrat

Now I don’t show this to everyone, but that one’s my last gal, up there high on my shoulder. Maybe I should’ve waited before adding her name to the epidermis, but she was quite the package. I thought we’d keep it together for the long haul, but we know how those things can come apart.

            You don’t mind me saying that, do you? Calling her “quite the package”? You know what I’m saying, right? You don’t strike me as somebody who has to be the best looking girl in the room. You are. Don’t get me wrong. Anybody who says otherwise, has an appointment with these boots, but you’re–what would the head shrinks say?–you’re secure in your self image.

She might have said that. I think she studied psychology at the community college, but that wasn’t what split us apart. I liked her smarts. The fact is, I liked a lot about her. The feel of those arms around my waist.The smell of her perfume when she’d draw up close to my ear to talk over the engine. She’d ride every day if she could. Honestly, I think she might have dug riding more than I do. Strange, but that’s where the problem got started.

You look at me, my beard, my bike, everything about me. You know I’m not some weekend warrior, some wannabe who goes to the office on Monday and feels real dangerous come Saturday. You took one look at me and saw me as a genuine one-percenter. Am I right? People see me on the road. Some of them won’t look at me, for fear I’ll look back. Some of them want to be me, but they’re not willing to make the sacrifice. Some of them wave. It’s almost like a salute, a mark of respect. When they wave at me, I’ll wave back. No, not to the metrics or any of the shiny crotch rockets that only come out on perfect days. Not to the latte-sippers on scooters. Certainly not to the people in Hummers or convertibles or whatever other four-wheeled creature they think makes them feel free. But, to somebody on a respectable bike, I will return the gesture, just a couple of fingers aimed at the center line. But always to someone who waves at me first.

She’d wave, though. She’d wave at anybody. Hand up above her shoulder, she looked like one of those Chinese toy cats that waves and waves.  Nobody had to wave at me first, because she’d start it up when they first came into sight. People in minivans, on bicycles, jogging. It didn’t matter.

I have a reputation to maintain, and somehow the image of the Prom Queen on a parade float didn’t help. After she waved at some zit-face kid in a Prius, I had to take a stand. There’s a rest area on I-70, out by Concordia. That’s where I left her.

Now what’s that look for? Are you worried about her?

And besides, if she still rode with me, you wouldn’t be. There’s plenty of room up there on the shoulder for your name. Now pull my shirt on down. There’s time for that later. Are we riding or not?