‘Farq for short. That’s what I should have said’, I think, as I step off the boardwalk and press the remote button on the key fob. The indicators blink twice as the car unlocks itself. I’m still grinning as I slide in behind the wheel. The joke belongs to an age that should be far behind me, but the juvenile is still alive and well in my life; except now I’m selective about when I choose to let it loose. This occasion has not been one of those times. I mean, I plan to see more of Hilde, at least once, later at the gallery and who knows when I might bump into her again someplace else? This town is a size where it‘s inevitable that if a person sticks around for a while, to meet someone only once is against all the odds.

I put the key in the ignition and start the engine. With my foot on the brake, I move the automatic shift from ‘park’ to ‘reverse’ and check over my right shoulder. I lift my foot and the car eases back silently into the road. Straightening up, I turn and check the mirror before I engage ‘drive’ and switch my foot to the accelerator.

Today my plan is to drive into Big Bend National Park. Due to its location, tucked away down here in southwest Texas, far from major interstate routes, it’s one of the least visited parks in the United States. This bears out: once I’m out of town I drive down there on an empty road.

It stays this way until I’ve done about twenty miles. Then, appearing in my rear-view mirror, I catch sight of blazing headlights; ten or twelve in number but still a way back.
Motorcycles. And coming on at speed. For today is Saturday and this is the time when men and women answer the call of the pioneering spirit of yesteryear and get on the road to feel the wind blow through their hair. Hair that has grown white with life’s experience; allowed to grow long, swept back in a ponytail; or not shaved and worn as a full beard. With fringed black leather jackets, bright bandanas, cowboy chaps, they ride the trail like the James Gang in search of a train or the Clanton Boys heading into Tombstone for a showdown with the Earps. They’ve traded their horses for Harleys: old outlaws out on a spree; out for a spin.

They’re right behind me now: Caution, things seen in your mirror are closer than they appear. I indicate right, slow and pull over close to the verge. The leader sweeps past, raising a hand in thanks as he accelerates away. His gang follow; two, three, four-five-six, seven, eight-nine and then ten; chrome flashing, engines growling.

I watch them go as I pull back into my lane. Like a mirage, their shape breaks up and the road turns into a river, rippling in the heat as the day warms. Then they’re gone and I envy their easy maverick ways, their old-fashioned manners and the men’s deep voices that rumble from somewhere deep inside. For these are not the wild ones, not the devil’s angels riding out from hell to ravage and plunder. They come from the suburbs, every weekend, to chase the American dream before it’s swallowed up forever, buried under concrete, corporate conformity, apathy and federal meddling.

Long may they live. Long may they ride.