by Paul Wylie

Created on: November 19, 2008

Ride The Wind, One Per Center
Front fork extended and raked beyond the standard, the chopper cruises loudly past as all heads turn to marvel at the audacity of America's modern day cowboy. Old ladies frown, mothers gather their children, and fathers nervously keep watch out of the corners of their eyes.
Gliding towards the corner store, wind whipped hair backwards flowing, the machine comes to a full throated stop. The put-putting of the idle lets you know from afar that you're not dealing with any ordinary weekend warrior. This is the real deal. One who has chosen 'the life', the road his only home, and late, lonely nights sleeping under the only true friends he'll ever know.

Stepping into the store, all the air seems to get sucked out of the room, and worried shoppers try not to look at the leather clad form shaking the dust off of his colors. Gathering their purchases, they scurry quickly outside, the only ones left in the establishment are the owner, the biker, and a young mother and her child. Shades seemingly glued to his eyes, he saunters over to the beer cooler and after reaching in, pops the top and drinks deep, long draughts. The owner glances disapprovingly, but says nothing as the man finishes his beer, and gathers up the rest of the six pack, heading back towards the counter.

The young mother is clearly distraught at the price of her meager purchases, counting out coins on the counter as the owner sighs and tells her she does not have enough, she can count it all day, damn it all! Chaps squeak that leathery sound and boots clop loudly on the sawdust strewn wooden floor as the man reaches the counter.

The owner tells the woman to put some things back, she can't afford the food and the candy, why don't you get your sorry ass down to the welfare office or give that kid to a good Christian family somewhere? Beer cans hit the counter with a silencing thud, and three faces turn to look into the weathered eyes and full bearded features of a man with no patience for the antics of fools.

He slaps down a hundred dollar bill, picking up his beer and grabbing some jerky, give the woman whatever she needs, and then give her the change. Mother's mouth drops open as the kid asks can I have some M&M's Mom, and the rider disappears out the door before a thank you can be issued. He doesn't want any thanks, he just wants to see that child smile.

Sitting astride his shiny chrome horse, the beer goes into the saddle bag along with the meat. Throttle releases as thunder

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