Some memories are near the surface, others rise when stirred. Pull up a chair here in this quiet corner; have a drink, and a listen.

A few days ago, I went into a Post Office branch that I do not use too often. I remembered the last time I was there and my thoughts and feelings at that time. The last time I was there, was last December, during the holiday rush. It was crowded, there was a long line of people waiting to get to the counter. Lots of people to watch, time to think. It was like being alone in a crowd. It was cold out, and people were in heavy coats.

There was a guy at the counter, his back was to me. I noticed him because he was wearing his motorcycle helmet. Why don't these kids slow down, take off the helmet, you're not in that much of a hurry - these were my thoughts at first sight of the rider. I did not see a motorcycle outside - I would have noticed. Odd.

An older woman in front of me was watching people too. She easily revealed her judgements, clucking at a girl with too much makeup and jewelry; smiling at a quiet child; frowning at the parent of a busy child. What did my face reveal of my thoughts? The rider turned to leave. The older woman expressed, not quietly, her surprise and a good deal of dismay. I too was surprised.

The "kid" with the helmet was not a kid but rather, an older man. That is, this _older_ woman commented "did you see that older man with a motorcycle helmet?"

He was old enough to be a great-grandfather, eighty years of life, perhaps. He moved to the doors, slowly, his feet shuffling, a labored walk. His hands: they were curled, seemingly stiff fingers and joints. He had to exert effort to put his change in his pocket, and tugged to extract his keys. It was an obviously good choice to leave the helmet on: those hands must have struggled to get it fastened. His shoulders were a little hunched; all his motion seemed an effort.

He met the door, and negotiated his way out. I almost left my place in line to see where he went, to see what he rode. The sight of him in helmet and leather coat wanted for explanation. "But on a bike?" the woman and I wondered aloud. Maybe he's on a moped, I offered. I hope so, she said. "How can someone that old be so foolish", she exclaimed.

I fell silent. I was a bit excited; I was thinking of how the old man might be on a motorcycle, and what hope it gave me for the future. The line moved forward. The woman, and I, were now near a window that overlooked the street. "There!" she exclaimed.

Across the street, between two parked cars, was a small motorcycle, a 400cc perhaps, rear tire to curb. And the old man. He stiffly got a leg over, worked the controls, a puff of exhaust, the bike was running. I had just seen the man leave; I was waiting for a jerky start, wobble back and forth, some take off suggesting imminent disaster. Or so I imagined for the briefest moment before he pulled away.

The helmeted head glanced left, then right, and the road being all clear, he throttled away, a smooth arc to his left traced by the wheels, the bike leaning smartly into the curve as chosen by this capable rider. He continued out, following the changing curve of the road back to a right side lean, accelerating all the way. It was the grace and beauty of ballet. There was no great effort, no exertion; this bike was like giving wings to this old man.

And may it be true for all of us who love to ride.

Good night folks.
-- Barrett
'97 Ultra. the grasshopper