Observations of life
Last night I sat at the Lube, watched the crowd, and discovered a few things, I saw that the men who were married really seemed to adore their spouses, walking hand in hand and sitting close to each other at their tables.
I took an interest in an older couple, I watched them as they walked around the patio area, and I was amazed at the way they interacted with each other. The old man sported a long red beard, time had given him a haggard face; but each time he looked at his mate, his face would glow, and his tired old eyes would sparkle. Every time they began to talk they would stop and face each other, and that’s when I noticed the twinkle in her eyes as she looked at him. I don’t think I have ever seen a couple who adored each other as they did if there was a definition for the word love, these two would make up the words to that definition.
I looked for the 20 something females; there were more than 20 waitresses all 20 something and all prettier than all the other 20 something women in the crowd of a 1000 people. The waitresses worked their tails off serving all the people who had met there this warm Thursday night. In addition, the other 20 something women they too worked their tails off trying to impress one who might become their mate.
I saw the 20 something bachelor males, they strutted about displaying their tattoos as if they were peacocks, some tried to look fierce, and others tried to act cool, but they all had one simple thing in common they all rode motorcycles, and they all searched for a little happiness. On the other hand, they attempted to search for someone, someone who might be worth their time and effort to charm.
I saw a couple who had the semblance of wealth judging from the way they were dressed, they both wore what looked like designer clothing and jewelry. As F. Scott and Zelda would have said in the roaring 20’s, “they were dressed to the nines.”
The 30 to 40 something crowd made up the bulk of the crowd sporting their Harley shirts and displaying tattoos some walked alone, or with their friends, some with their spouses. They came to chat with others their age or with similar likes, dislikes, and have a grand ole time. These riders; they rode for fun and adventure. I did not see one patched bikers, among these men and women.
Atypical of the 30-40 year olds some brought along their Femme fatales or female companions. These femme fatales were at their prime or maybe a little past their prime, they wore eccentric costumes, designed to show off what they had, or use to have.
One femme fatale in particular wore light blue denim mini short-shorts black knee high, high heel boots. Upon closer inspection, I noticed the varicose and spider veins covering the bare legs she was exhibiting. She wore a tight white spandex top, covering the once toned, tight, and supple skin of her abdomen that was no longer to be found; however, it highlighted and flaunted the outline of her abundant and gravity defying bust; surely, some surgeon in her past had augmented them. She moved aimlessly around the patio, trying to act scores of years younger than she appeared to be. She seemed to be searching for something, a something only she knew what is was.
Her companion displayed the persona of a stereotypical biker; old tattered denim clothes, pierced ears, tattoos on his head and arms, and sparse wiry long hairs sprouting from his chin, and around his head a classic red bandana. He sat at his table quietly drinking his beer and paying attention to everything around him.
Next to the patio bar were tables occupied with women. I really don’t understand, the attire they wore, it beckoned to all to come and look, many men and women over the course of the evening passed by, some stopped, and tried to chat, but mostly they continued on their way. However, they seldom gave anyone a second look, nor did they turn to talk to anyone that passed by. They sat, they drank their beers, they ate their salads, and I suppose; they too talked of their misfortunes, or their lives, or talked of the 20 year old something’s their now ex-husbands were married to or running around with.
Then there were the women of all ages, toughened by life or they grew up already hardened. They were of all ages, they did, however; have a couple of things in common they all wore scowls on their faces, they mostly walked around in pairs and they all searched for something that would bring them some degree of cheerfulness. These souls are the ones my heart ached for and surprisingly enough I know how they feel, I too have elements in common with them, and I search for something besides my FLHR to bring me just an inkling of happiness in my life.
The last category of riders, are the older 50 plus year old riders like me, we ride the Baggers, and the Trikes, and the Road Kings. I would venture to say life had been neither kind nor unkind to us and I don’t think any of them had seen a surgeon’s blade to enhance their appearance. These men and women along with their spouses or companions, ride to regain a sense of youth, or perhaps something near and dear to them, or maybe they try to redeem that special something they lost along the path they chose to trod, to reach their ripe old age.
I am old; I have lost more than I care to remember in my long-suffering struggle to reach this ripe old age. I have been lucky to live as long as I have. The relationships and friends I have had along the way, sadly are gone forever. These things, I’ve lost, I can’t have a do-over, or take a mulligan to recover them as if I was playing a game. I found out too late, that my life was not a game, though; I played it as if it was, and the final score for my life, has yet to be tallied.
I paraphrased what Grantland Rice wrote when he was writing about Bobby Jones when he retired from the game of golf. “For when the One Great Scorer comes. To mark against your name, He writes – not that you won or lost – But how you played the Game.” (Grantland Rice 1880-1954)
I ride to recapture some of the happiness I’ve lost in life. I only hope when my ride ends, the ride was in my favor.