As I red from Houston to Louisiana, I wasn't expecting to have very much fun. I'm here for a funeral after all. The service was this morning. Followed by our family gathering the rest of the day. I decided to head out around 11:00 PM. Didn't want to be too tired if I decided to leave back to Houston tomorrow.
Then I noticed the bike on the side of the road. Rider hunched over with pack bags and fairings splayed all over the floor like a surgical operation. I dismounted and asked my fellow rider what was troubling him. Simple. A battery. Not to worry though. He already had a friend coming from a town ~ 30 minutes away with a replacement. I offered to stay with him and keep him company while he waited. He happily accepted and then asked if I would be willing to grab a drink for him.
I rushed off to the nearest gas station to grab something. Took a little longer than expected to find a station that was open this late in small town Louisiana. By the time I returned, our battery toting buddy had arrived.
We took our time pulling the old battery out, diagnosing what could have caused the failure, and installing the new one. All the while cracking jokes. They spoke freely about other personal things never once treating me like I was intruding. I didn't even get a “Thanks for your help. We got it from here "command. Which is what any Ducati sporting city boy would expect to get from two patched Harley riders.
Instead, as we buttoned the bike back up and put all our tools away, I was offered an invitation to the clubhouse. Wow! I couldn't believe it. The only knowledge I had or any MC was the horrible shootout in Waco, TX. I wasn't sure if this would be a good idea, but I excitedly accepted the invitation and we rode out.
We stopped at Waffle House and a gas station before heading to the clubhouse. At a certain point I realized that I had actually stopped to help the National President of this MC. His title patched onto the front of his vest. Pretty awesome, but I was oblivious to how big a deal this truly was.
When we got to the clubhouse around 1:00 am, there were spots reserved for us at the front doorstep. Amongst a sea of choppers, my bike stuck out like a sore thumb. I ground second guessing my choice. We all know how serious the rivalry can get between old and new age riding. I prepared for the sausage.
Then I noticed the bike on the side of the road. Rider hunched over with pack bags and fairings splayed all over the floor like a surgical operation. I dismounted and asked my fellow rider what was troubling him. Simple. A battery. Not to worry though. He already had a friend coming from a town ~ 30 minutes away with a replacement. I offered to stay with him and keep him company while he waited. He happily accepted and then asked if I would be willing to grab a drink for him.
I rushed off to the nearest gas station to grab something. Took a little longer than expected to find a station that was open this late in small town Louisiana. By the time I returned, our battery toting buddy had arrived.
We took our time pulling the old battery out, diagnosing what could have caused the failure, and installing the new one. All the while cracking jokes. They spoke freely about other personal things never once treating me like I was intruding. I didn't even get a “Thanks for your help. We got it from here "command. Which is what any Ducati sporting city boy would expect to get from two patched Harley riders.
Instead, as we buttoned the bike back up and put all our tools away, I was offered an invitation to the clubhouse. Wow! I couldn't believe it. The only knowledge I had or any MC was the horrible shootout in Waco, TX. I wasn't sure if this would be a good idea, but I excitedly accepted the invitation and we rode out.
We stopped at Waffle House and a gas station before heading to the clubhouse. At a certain point I realized that I had actually stopped to help the National President of this MC. His title patched onto the front of his vest. Pretty awesome, but I was oblivious to how big a deal this truly was.
When we got to the clubhouse around 1:00 am, there were spots reserved for us at the front doorstep. Amongst a sea of choppers, my bike stuck out like a sore thumb. I ground second guessing my choice. We all know how serious the rivalry can get between old and new age riding. I prepared for the sausage.
Tenzij de schrijver natuurlijk de ontvangende kant is en ze dat misschien leuk vinden om te doen. 
