Belly full of beer outside The Knuckle Saloon and a dare in the air. The stranger’s eyes lock onto mine, and he’s talking crazy.

He challenges me to switch rides for the day, my Harley Fat Boy for his vintage Triumph Bonneville T120R. All for the thrill of it.

“Yeah? You serious?” I say, not believing it.

“As a heart attack,” he says, hand outstretched.

Should I do it?

My pal Larry from Cleveland says you can’t drink all day unless you start at breakfast, and it’s almost 10 a.m., so . . .

What the fuck!

Deal’s done with a handshake, and I hop on that Triumph, nowhere near as hefty as my Harley, but she’s got spirit, and we’re off like a prom dress.

Start riding, wind in my face, new beast under me. Triumph’s nimble, dances around curves, growls at stoplights. Ain’t my Harley, but she’s something special.

The Triumph attracts her own crowd. Folks I wouldn’t usually cross paths with.

I head out on U.S. 14A and stop at some bar I’ve never heard of halfway to Deadwood. Dixie admires me and the Triumph, invites me inside to watch a mini bike slow race and buys me a Jack and Coke.

Dixie says she rode in from Coos Bay, Oregon, with 47 cancer survivors. She shares stories of the road and of the breasts she lost. Hugs me solid when we part.

Outside, I bump into Pembroke, an old-timer — you have to be with that name. I think he’s fucking with the Triumph, but he’s running papyrus hands across her curves with eyes closed as if reliving his youth through Braille.

“I’ve been fixing bikes since God knows when,” he says. “They’re like robots, fine and wild machines — they need a human brain to be complete.”

Wisdom wrapped in grease-stained stories.

Nightfall. I meet the stranger again at The Knuckle and swap back, but we’re no longer strangers. Share a drink, trade stories. He’s had a hell of a time on my Harley. We laugh, promise to keep in touch.

By the way, I know many of you are going to harsh on me for letting this guy ride my hog. But I knew what I was doing, so fuck you.

Copyright © 2023 L.T. Hanlon