Page 15 of Frosty the Biker

“Okay, okay,” I laughed as I held up my hands. I gave my son kisses and hugs, then passed him back off to Mom.

Then I went back downstairs and took off into the early evening streets.

The moment the Southern Louisiana wind whipped past me, it was like I was finally, truly home.

“WarofChange”—ThousandFootKrutch

On the back of my bike, I was at peace. The wind blew all my troubles away as my tires ate up the asphalt. I rode aimlessly, with no particular destination in mind. My hoodie would never have been enough in Montana this time of year—if I could even ride at all. Yet here in New Orleans, it was perfect.

I flew past another rider on a Harley, but they caught up to me as we got closer to town and the traffic picked up. At a red light, they pulled up next to me.

I glanced over and gave them the universal biker hello, which they returned. Dressed in a unisex style leather jacket, thick-soled leather boots, and straight leg jeans, it was difficult to tell if they were a thin guy, or a chick.

But that bike… seemed familiar. Too familiar.

When the light turned green, we ended up riding together for about an hour, with me glancing over every so often to see if I was right. My heart dipped into my ass when they signaled they were pulling off into a gas station.

Though I didn’t need gas, I figured I might as well fill up—and maybe see if I was correct. After the day I’d had, this would be just the type of coincidence to fall in line with the rest.

Slowly, the other rider pulled up to a pump and I stopped at the one across from them. It was stupid, but I couldn’t help but stare as I waited in hopes they would take off their helmet. Then I realized I probably seemed like a creep, so I got off and removed my gloves.

They did the same, then unbuckled the chin strap. My heart raced in anticipation. If it was a dude, I was gonna feel like a dumbass. At least they wouldn’t know.

It seemed like a commercial or a movie where the moment is in slow-motion as I watched. Under the helmet, was a skull-cap, but I caught their side profile and I knew. I’d seen the perfect slope of that cute button nose more times than I could count. She didn’t need to take off the cap for me to know there would be shiny dark brunette locks beneath it.

She turned my way as she opened her fuel cap and ran her card. Her gaze found me every so often as she fueled up, and she was trying not to smile. She was beautiful. Then again, I’d always thought that.

“You getting gas or are you just stalking me?” she finally called out.

That was when I realized I was still standing there. I gave an exaggerated shrug, but didn’t say anything. I wasn’t ready for this playful interaction to end. With my helmet on and visor down, I filled up. She finished before I did, but sat sideways on her bike, facing me and eyeing my bike. She always was fearless.

Once I was done, I replaced the fuel cap on my Matte Carbon Ducati.

“Nice Panigale V4. It’s a beautiful bike—for a crotch rocket,” she teased.

I splayed my hands over my heart as if she had mortally wounded me.

Her laughter was music to my ears.

“I always did like the strong silent type,” she replied with a grin.

Part of me got my feathers ruffled with that comment. But I was enjoying this too much to let that bother me. We’d been apart for over four years. I’d be an idiot to think she never dated.

Instead, I pretended to flex my muscles and did some ridiculous body builder type poses. Again, she laughed, and my heart ached.

“You sport bike guys always walk around in your helmets. Is that because you need to reel in those BookTok girlies and it’s easier if you hide your faces?”

I tapped the chin of my helmet thoughtfully with my index finger.

“Too ugly for public?”

Dramatically, I smacked my hand above my visor.

“Too pretty?”

I thrust my hands into the air in mock triumph.

She sputtered and choked on her laughter then.

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