Wearing black leather and riding huge Harleys, a motorcycle gang thunders through the quiet 5 mile resort town as if en route to a rumble but the only rumble for this gang of (HOGs)Harley Owners Group --is most likely the one in their stomachs. It's another ride for the group to meet and mingle with fellow (and lady) HOGs. Harley Davidson's tag line is "Live to ride, Ride to Live," and on this particular weekend in Wildwood over 250,000 riders are rolling in for the 14th Annual Roar to the Shore with that motto in mind.
Stuck at the red light I sit in my hippy peace like tiny VW bug convertible and cast a glancing look over at the group of HOGs trying to act cool and casual. In essence I am mesmerized. Chrome, steel, leather and rubber gleaming in the late afternoon sun like a highly prized and polished diamond al beit a diamond in the rough, maybe? Freedom, the wind blowing in your hair. Secretly I want to get on the back of a bike and ride. Somewhere inside me there's a new direction. Is the open road calling me?
Sitting on top of the Harley Davidson motorcycle is a muscle bound man in his early 50s with cascading shocking white hair tied up in a pony tail with elastic rubber bands strategically placed holding the wispy ends together. It's beautiful hair I think to myself, thick and luxurious like mink. His sleeveless shirt shows off his dense and toned arms with an assortment of tattoos displayed up one side, over his shoulders and down the other side of his arm. Beautiful swirling designs of muted colors, flowers and roses. There it is, the word "Mother" embedded. Laughing to myself and thinking this is an odd image for a tough guy, he glances over and smiles. Embarrassed, I divert my eyes as if I wasn't looking, yet clearly busted, my face turns red. The light changes and he glances over again and catches my eye this time to embarrass me further he throws a kiss. Funny guy I think to myself and then hear him saying to this group of middle age men; "come on boys, let's ride!"
I ride along into Anglesea, North Wildwood, up to Wildwood, and watch the group beside me. That's one trick pony to see the world coming at you through the bugs on a big windshield and I say to myself; "come on boys let's ride."
Stuck at the red light I sit in my hippy peace like tiny VW bug convertible and cast a glancing look over at the group of HOGs trying to act cool and casual. In essence I am mesmerized. Chrome, steel, leather and rubber gleaming in the late afternoon sun like a highly prized and polished diamond al beit a diamond in the rough, maybe? Freedom, the wind blowing in your hair. Secretly I want to get on the back of a bike and ride. Somewhere inside me there's a new direction. Is the open road calling me?
Sitting on top of the Harley Davidson motorcycle is a muscle bound man in his early 50s with cascading shocking white hair tied up in a pony tail with elastic rubber bands strategically placed holding the wispy ends together. It's beautiful hair I think to myself, thick and luxurious like mink. His sleeveless shirt shows off his dense and toned arms with an assortment of tattoos displayed up one side, over his shoulders and down the other side of his arm. Beautiful swirling designs of muted colors, flowers and roses. There it is, the word "Mother" embedded. Laughing to myself and thinking this is an odd image for a tough guy, he glances over and smiles. Embarrassed, I divert my eyes as if I wasn't looking, yet clearly busted, my face turns red. The light changes and he glances over again and catches my eye this time to embarrass me further he throws a kiss. Funny guy I think to myself and then hear him saying to this group of middle age men; "come on boys, let's ride!"
I ride along into Anglesea, North Wildwood, up to Wildwood, and watch the group beside me. That's one trick pony to see the world coming at you through the bugs on a big windshield and I say to myself; "come on boys let's ride."
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment