![]() ![]() Curtains of well-groomed fringe draped from the elbows and shoulders of her black leather jacket. Her long braid was tied back in a black leather sheath bound by leather cords. She wore a black leather vest over a form-fitting white t-shirt. Her tall, high-heeled leather boots came up over her fashionable, strategically ripped jeans to her thighs. She wore blue eyeshadow and dark, menacing eyeliner. ![]() She must have been sixty or so and probably six feet tall. Even the bandana around the wrinkled skin of her neck was purposefully positioned for show and a modicum of protection from the elements. Everything about her spoke of hard-earned experience: her stately carriage, her deliberate gestures, the lines at her eyes, her well-muscled body, the extra pounds around her middle. Next to her ferocious iron horse, my 650 looked like a gentle, dirty pony. Given the weight and height of my bike and the length of my legs – my legs are long, but my GS is very tall for off-road clearance over rocks and branches – these kinds of maneuvers have always been tough for me.Īs I wrestled with my bike and tried to back it uphill, my tiptoes slipping on the loose gravel, a tall blonde woman expertly commanded her loud, gigantic, shiny metallic cobalt blue Harley into the parking spot next to mine. It would have toppled onto me here if I tried to lower the stand down onto the uneven, low ground. ![]() The spaces here sloped down and away, loose gravel canting down at odd angles to a railroad tie perimeter making it difficult for me to let my bike down onto its side stand. I struggled to park in the dirt lot at Hell’s Backbone Grill, Boulder, Utah. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |