An old lady was sitting on her porch, rocking in the morning shade and watching the highway. It was a 30 mile per hour curve and he was taking at, hell, I don't know. I couldn't see the dash with his head in the way. Probably five to ten miles faster the way he had the bike leaning into the turn. For some gawd awful reason, De Barge was howling on the XM-radio, rear speakers conveniently located near my butt so it was muffled. We've never been De Barge people. AC/DC for him, Metallica for me, dorky 80s glam rock facing off against 80s metal, 90s electronica, grunge, and *shudder* Cowboy Troy. The old lady lifted her hand up and waved. I waved back.

XM radio comes with a gazillion channels and he can only find two of them. He glared when I suggested The Prodigy at the next choke'n puke and put in a compliation called Highway Rockin or something. Good 70s and 80s southern style rock. Lynnrd Skynnrd. Golden Earring. BTO. Let it roll, neer neer neer neer, down the highway. It was appropriate. I settled back, watched the clouds and let him do all the work. Hey, he said he'd never ride pillion. His loss. Not to mention, I can neither reach the foward controls nor the ground when I'm in the seat of his Ultra Classic. My little 883 can't carry his heavy ass and mine at the same time.

He got bored with Radar Love before we pulled into the Mickey D's facility on the Will Rogers turnpike east of Miami (in Oklahoma, it's My-am-uh, not My-am-ee). I had a scoop of Lemon ice cream by Blue Bell. Delish. And it matched the engineering on his bike perfectly. He had something with walnuts in it. Gross. He sucked down a liter of gatorade and I sipped water while we discussed the various merits of a Beemer sport-touring bike on a trailer. Okay, he discussed and I wished I was taller so I could sit on the stupid thing and reach the ground. He called dad, had him meet us on the road so we could get helmets for a quick side trip to the Harley dealer in Missouri. The Ultra is a pretty bike, for a lemon.

I climbed on the bike and told him I was too fat. He said it was okay, the bike had the 110. The ritzy chick standing next to a Lexus glared at him for it. Color my evil subtle. He got even though. The bike started up and we headed off. I play chicken with the train, play chicken with the train, train, uh huh huh, uh huh huh.