They call it a “mid-life crisis”. I’m not a big fan of that term, but I guess it describes the situation as well as anything. It’s the conflict a man encounters when he reaches that point in his life where he arrives at a crossroads; continuing to provide for his family in a manner to which they’ve become accustomed or chase a dream. For most men, the choice is easy since they settle into a comfortable life, too. For others, like me, they screw up everything around them and destroy relationships that should last forever.

Hell, some of the choices I made didn’t make sense to me, much less to others. But, you live with your decisions and you keep on keeping on. That’s just part of life. Would I do it differently if I had to do it again? Maybe, but the fact is you rarely get “do-overs” in life, so it’s a waste of time to worry about it.

I hit the road about 2 years ago when my wife couldn’t understand why I turned my back on a life in corporate America and a six-figure income. She couldn’t comprehend why I wanted to open a bar that catered to cowboys and bikers. It took my partners and me over a year, working our asses off, to get the bar running smoothly and generating a profit.

That was a year of constant arguments with my wife. She refused to accept that I was doing something I really enjoyed. Working ten times as hard for a third as much wasn’t a concept she could accept. She couldn’t appreciate my desire to be with brother bikers. She was never able to see me as a biker. It fell into the category of “If I have to explain, you wouldn’t understand.” We drifted further and further apart.

Once the bar was up and running, I decided to leave. I left my partners instructions to send my share of profits to my wife every month. I transferred all of the retirement funds and bank accounts to her and walked out. That was almost 2 years ago and I’ve been on the road ever since.

I’m in Sturgis every August and in Daytona in March. Other than that, I don’t have a schedule and can’t tell you where I’m going until I get there. My wife and youngest son live in Oklahoma now and my two older sons are in Texas. I try to get by and see them when I can. I’m like a damned migratory bird these days. I ride south for the winter and head north for the summer.

I usually camp at state parks to keep my expenses down. I stop and find work when I need money.

I’ve been riding hard for a couple of days now. I needed to put some distance between me and Springboro, Indiana. I hit the road again after things got hot with a couple of the locals there. I collected enough money in Springboro to keep me in fuel and food for a while.

I entered town for the first time a couple of months ago. There was still plenty of daylight left, but I needed to make some money and Springboro looked like a good place to check out options. Plus, I knew there was a state park outside of town, beside the Wabash River. I’d be able to get a shower and wash off the road grime. I found a cool spot near the river, pulled my bed roll and tent from the bike, and set up camp.

I decided to take a walk and see what my new “home” had to offer. I strolled beside the river for a mile or two, trying to remember the businesses I passed back in town and contemplating my prospects for employment. That was the first time I saw her. She was sunbathing topless on the rocks at the edge of the river.

It was difficult to take my eyes off her. She didn’t look very tall, but her legs were long and muscular. Her strawberry blonde hair flowed over the edge of the rock in long ringlets. Her head rested on her arms. Her breasts glistened in the late afternoon sun. The air was cool and it seemed strange to see such a wondrous sight this time of year, particularly in Indiana.

I quietly backtracked to give her some privacy, but found that the voyeur in me was vetoing what little chivalry I possessed. I stepped behind some bushes, but couldn’t make myself leave. I watched her for a few minutes.

She got up, pulled a long white dress over her head, gathered up her belongings, and started toward me. I don’t know if I was embarrassed for her or me, but either way, I turned around and headed back toward camp. Once I reached the park, I found a nearby picnic table, sat down on it facing the path, and waited for her to make her entrance.

A couple of minutes past and she sashayed into the opening. She was about 5 foot 5, and her long, curly, strawberry blonde hair fell down to her tiny waist. Probably in her early to mid-thirties, if her D-cup breasts didn’t grab your attention, her dazzling blue eyes would lure you into another world. She had a half smile on her face when she looked my direction and, at first, I thought she must have seen me taking flight.

We nodded politely to each other as she turned toward the parking lot. Her tight, curved ass was a magnificent as her breasts. She tossed her towel and book into an old Jeep Cherokee, jumped into the driver’s seat and backed out of the lot. As she made her turn toward the exit, she gave me the slightest of waves.

If lack of money wasn’t incentive enough, seeing her on the river was all I needed to make Springboro a viable option for an extended stop. The next morning I made my way into town for some breakfast and to check out employment opportunities. There was an old diner, called “Becky’s”, on the outskirts of town and it seemed like a good place to attempt a start at both objectives.

I finished breakfast and, in an effort to make small talk, asked the cashier if there was anyone in town who could use a hired hand. I’ve done a little bit of everything for the past couple of years. You don’t need much when you live the way I do, and it opens up all kinds of doors.

As luck would have it, she was Becky, and she needed a cook for the breakfast and lunch shifts. The previous cook got married and moved away. Becky was covering cooking duties during breakfast and lunch.

I assured her I could cook breakfast with the best of them and whip up a mean lunch, too. She handed me an apron and put me to work on the spot. I didn’t ask how much she was paying. I strapped on the apron and headed for the kitchen.

Becky was a good looking woman about my age, in her mid-forties. Her hips spread wider with age, but she still had a comforting, round ass. Her hair was an artificial red and radiated against her light complexion. Her huge tits fit snugly in her blouse. She didn’t wear makeup and although her face showed her age, she still had a youthful look.

She was married to a trucker named Jerry. He made it home every other week. She started running the diner ten years ago when her mother passed away. She possessed the right touch of sassiness and modesty to make her a favorite with every one of her customers, male and female.

She showed me around the kitchen and then gently chastised me for being behind on three orders. I busied myself catching up and laying things out kitchen items where I could find them. The morning rush flew by and the next thing I knew it was 10:00 and the place was empty except for a couple of old-timers who sat in a booth sipping coffee and discussing the local news.

We prepped for lunch and she warned me that the chicken-fried steak was the daily special and local favorite. She was expecting a big crowd. I would work the kitchen while Gina, the breakfast waitress, and a second waitress handled the dining room. Becky managed the cash register and help out on the floor and in the kitchen when she could. I busied myself battering steaks and getting ready for the rush. I didn’t even notice when she came in.

Just as Becky predicted, the diner began to fill around 11:15. I didn’t see the new waitress until I satisfied the first lunch order. As I poured gravy over the chicken-fried steak sitting in front of me, my mysterious sunbather appeared. I lost concentration and filled the plate with gravy. We recognized each other at the same time and she blushed slightly. I said, “Hi”, and she returned the greeting as she spun around to deliver her order. I sensed the magnetism in the air and shuddered.

The rest of the lunch rush was a blur. We stayed busy and I didn’t have time to speak to my bathing beauty, but every fragment of my roaming being tingled at the sight of her delicate neck or the way her soft locks framed her face. It was torture to be so close, yet so far, at the same time.

Things settled down about 2 o’clock and Becky made formal introductions. She introduced Gina Romero, a plump girl in her early twenties with a beautiful smile and an equally pleasing personality. Gina and I met informally during the breakfast rush. She delivered the grub I was hurriedly preparing.

Then Becky introduced Maggie Callahan. “Ah, an Irish lassie.” I thought to myself. Our eyes locked for the first time. Hers were soft and tender and her handshake sealed the deal. It was butter in my calloused paw, warm and fragrant.

I swallowed hard, nodded and said, “We met, kinda’, down at the state park yesterday. That’s where I’m stayin’ while I’m in town.”

“Oh, really, how long do you plan to stay in Springboro?” Maggie asked trying to make light conversation in front of our boss.

“Who knows? I ride out once I feel like I’ve worn out my welcome. Sometimes, that happens inna week, sometimes longer.” I said and my hungry gaze drifted down the cut of her blouse to the soft swell of her breasts. It had been awhile.

As with most women, the questions kept coming, “Is that your motorcycle out there?”

“Yeah” I replied. I didn’t want to continue the conversation. Every nerve called to me to snatch her into my arms and I knew I needed to get out of there.

“What kind is it?” She inquired.

“A Harley-Davidson Fat Boy with a few modifications.” I didn’t offer any specifics. The damn conversation needed to end.

“My husband, Jerry, rides.” Becky interjected. “Well, he does when he gets home. He has a Road King sittin’ in the garage waitin’ for him. Maybe you and him can go for a ride when he’s home.”

“Yeah, maybe.” I responded, shuffling my feet on the tile floor to keep my eyes away from Maggie’s curves.

“Where’re you from?” Maggie asked, but her eyes didn’t want an answer. It didn’t matter.

“Most recently, South Dakota, but I travel around a lot. I’ll be heading south soon to escape the cold.” I said. I wasn’t really from anywhere any more and didn’t want to discuss it or my past. I wanted Maggie and Becky to know, sorta, I wouldn’t be around long.

Gina and Maggie took off. They were scheduled to be back at 4:00 for the dinner shift. Becky told me to fix myself some lunch and said the night cook would be in at 4:00. I spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning up from breakfast and lunch, chopping vegetables, and helping Becky get ready for dinner. If it wasn’t for Maggie, I’d finish my shift and peel out.

The evening cook arrived at the diner about 3:45. He appeared to be a grumpy, old bastard, slightly older than me. Becky introduced him as “Dave” and he grumbled something about his kitchen better be in order and walked past me. It wasn’t likely that Dave and I were going to become drinking buddies.

Maggie and Gina came in together a few minutes later. We exchanged pleasantries and I asked where a guy goes for evening entertainment and a drink in Springboro. I needed to catch a buzz to calm the chemistry. I didn’t know whether to pump my hopes or make a quick escape. Becky gave me a stern look, but Gina suggested a local bar up the highway with good music on the juke box and a decent crowd.

“You can’t miss it,” she said. “It’s right on Highway 1, about 5 miles south of town. It’s called Pepper’s.”

I gave Gina my thanks and a big smile and nodded to Maggie and Becky. I felt like a school kid when my eyes met with Maggie’s warm blue eyes. I can’t describe what makes a woman’s gaze warm or soft, whether it’s her smile, the curve of her lips, the sparkle of her eyes. Whatever it is, Maggie’s look encompassed it completely.

Becky said she’d see me at 5:00 the next morning. I think she wanted to remind me that I worked for her now and a night of carousing wouldn’t get us off to a good start. I stopped at a convenience store on the way back to the park and picked up a Styrofoam cooler, some ice, and a six-pack of Bud Light. I loaded the beer and ice into the cooler and bungeed it to the bike. It never hurts to keep a supply of cold beer handy.

Pepper’s fit Gina’s description to a tee. I rolled up about 8:00 and the parking lot was lined with pickup trucks. The place had a reasonable crowd, but it wasn’t a problem to find a seat at the bar. I ordered a beer and spun around on my stool to get a better look. I’ve never been a fan of sitting with my back to the door.

I was pleasantly surprised to hear the juke box playing southern rock and roll and country music. Couples boogied around the dance floor and the place seemed to be another small town honky-tonk. I managed some small talk with the bartender, Jason. He was in his early twenties and attending school in Marion. He seemed like a bright kid trying to make some money and get on with his life.

I killed an hour sipping beer and watching the locals. I was getting ready to leave when I heard a ruckus at the door. A big guy entered like he owned the place. I asked Jason what the deal was and it turns out, the big guy did own the place. His name was Donnie James, but everyone called him, “Pepper”.

It was obvious that the patrons of Pepper’s either loved or hated Pepper, with the majority in the latter category. He came in larger than life and immediately became the center of attention for his admirers. I was sure, right from the moment he walked in, I didn’t like him. He ambled over to the bar and in a loud voice asked Jason, “Who’s fuckin’ bike is that out there?”

I turned toward him and said, “That’s my fuckin’ bike. Why, you got a problem with it?”

“Naw, no problem partner. I just wanted to tell you it’s a fine lookin’ bike. It kinda gives the place a new element, if you know what I mean,” he said, as he grinned at me.

Actually, I didn’t have a clue what he meant. But, I knew one thing; I don’t take any shit about my bike. My worldly possessions consist of a couple of pairs of jeans, some leathers, a few tee-shirts, a pair of boots, my tent and bed roll, a set of well worn Willie and Max throw-over saddle bags, and a Glock 26 9mm semi-automatic. That bike is my only possession with any real value.

I bought the Fat Boy back in my previous life. When I look back, that’s when the changes in my life started. I quickly made it my own with a few modifications. I painted the skins a flat black and added pinstriping to give it color. I replaced the engine with a blacked out 124-inch S&S, put in a Baker 6-speed transmission, installed a set of Supertrapp Road Legends X-Pipes, and added Ness Reaper Billet Wheels. I attached Lindby highway bars to provide foot props for those long runs and slapped on a few other after-market chrome components. I turned her into my version of “Black Beauty”.

“Thanks.” I said.

“How much you want for it?” He asked.

“It ain’t for sale.” I replied.

“Aw, come on now, son. Everythin’s for sale. It’s just a matter of price, that’s all.” He continued.

I stood up for emphasis, and though he stood 3 or 4 inches taller, I made a point to look him in the eye. I stated with certain finality, “It’s not for sale” and turned for the door. As I walked out I heard him shout, “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

I was back at the park before 10:00. I didn’t want to disturb the other campsites, so I idled the bike through the camping area. I crawled in the tent, peeled off my clothes and slid into my bedroll. I found myself thinking about Maggie as I drifted off to sleep.

I was up at 4:00 the next morning taking care of the three things they taught me in the military; shit, shower and shave or, as my Puerto Rican drill instructor put it, “Chit, chower and chave.” I arrived at Becky’s shortly before 5:00.

Becky was there already preparing for breakfast. To Dave’s credit, the kitchen was in excellent shape. The food and utensils needed for breakfast were placed where they were easy to reach and ready to go. The first customers began to arrive a few minutes later.

I made it through breakfast with sweat-soaked ease and found myself looking forward to Maggie’s arrival. She came in before the lunch rush and other than a few exchanged glances, neither of us had much time to talk. After the shift though, everyone sat around and shot the breeze.

I told them about my brief encounter with Pepper. Everyone seemed to be of the opinion that he took it easy on me. Normally, they said, he would have waved money in my face and created a scene. He usually gets his way or someone gets roughed up by him and his buddies, they told me.

The next few days were repeats of each other. In at 5:00, work until 4:00, catch a quick conversation with Maggie when I could, have a beer or two at Pepper’s, and crash back at the park. Maggie and I were getting friendly, but opportunities to get closer didn’t arrive, like the Fed-X package I was hoping for.

It was Saturday. As I was leaving the diner I shouted to Becky, “Same time tomorrow, Becky?”

“Heck no,” she replied. “Tomorrow’s Sunday. We’re not open on Sundays. Can’t you read the sign? Most of my regulars are church-goers and after church, they go home and have Sunday dinner with their families. That’s one tradition I don’t want to see die. So, I don’t tempt them by opening my doors on Sunday. Besides, we can all use a day off every now and then.”

That news gave me an idea. I called out to Maggie, “Hey Maggie, you wanna come to the park tomorrow and go for a walk along the river?”

I heard Dave release a loud sigh from the kitchen and mutter, “Goddamn horn dog!” I didn’t say anything to him because, basically, he was right.

I must have caught Maggie off guard. She almost dropped the piece of pie she was holding. Once she regained control, she answered, “Well, we usually go to mass and have dinner as a family too. Just like Becky said. You’re welcome to join us, though.”

“God and I have an agreement. I sit under the stars and get spiritual guidance. In exchange, I promise not to drag riff-raff like me into His churches. It seems to be working well for both of us.” I said.

“Well, you could come have dinner with us. It’ll be me, my mom and my little boy. I’m sure they’d enjoy meetin’ a real biker.” She offered.

“I’ll take you up on that part of the offer. See you around 1:00?” I asked.

“See you at 1:00.” She confirmed.

“Hey Becky, you got a minute?” I asked, as I reached out and tugged her elbow.

“Sure, what’s up?” She inquired.

I decided it was time for me to remind her I wasn’t going to be around long.

“Look, it might be gettin’ time for me to move on.” I informed her.

“Don’t leave yet.” She whined. “I’ve finally been able to relax around here. It sucks when it’s Gina and me on the breakfast shift and I do all of the cooking.”

“Why don’t you have Dave come in and help for a couple of hours during breakfast and lunch?” I asked her.

“Dave’s a drunk. He can’t possibly be here at 5:00 in the mornin’. He’s just gettin’ home at that time. Workin’ from 4:00 to 8:00 durin’ dinner and cleanin’ up until 10:00 gives him all the work he can stand. He leaves here and heads straight for Pepper’s. I’m surprised you haven’t seen him there.” She added with a hint of frustration.

“I’m in bed by 10:00. Hell, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not really into partyin’ at Pepper’s. I just wanna make some money and be on my way. I don’t need any trouble with that asshole, Pepper. I usually make a point of leaving before he shows up. How about havin’ Maggie come in for the breakfast shift? She seems competent.” I added.

“Maggie’s great, but she has to be home in the mornin’ for her kid. He’s 9 and she gets him ready and sees him off to school. She has to be there in the afternoon when he gets home, too. He has special needs. That’s why she works lunch, then leaves and comes back for the dinner shift. Her mom gets home from the hospital around 3:30. Grandma takes over babysittin’ duties then.” Becky whispered, as if she were worried we’d be overheard.

“Isn’t there anybody else in this town who can help you out?” I asked, with frustration of my own creeping in.

“Look,” Becky said. “I promise I’ll start lookin’ for someone else Monday, if you’ll promise to stay until I find someone. Deal?”

This is exactly why I hate getting myself into situations like this. I should have known better than to start working for a good-looking, hard working, woman with the best eatery in town. The simple fact that she was a woman meant I was going to have a hard time leaving her in the lurch, but I didn’t sign on for a long-term commitment and I thought I’d made that clear.

“Yeah, deal.” I heard myself say, against my better judgment.

I lounged around the campground the next morning doing nothing of any redeeming social value. Finally, around 12:45, I left for Maggie’s. As I came roaring up the street I saw a kid and an older woman standing on the front porch. When I stopped in front of the house the kid was jumping up and down and the lady had to hold him back. I thought he was going to bound off the porch and run into the street. He was as excited as a kid who just met Santa Claus, and he had a smile that would brighten the heart of God Himself.

I could hear him shouting as I shut down the engine. I couldn’t make out exactly what he was saying, but I could tell he was about to burst with delight.

The lady apologized, “I’m sorry about this. He’s so excited about seeing a motorcycle.”

“Bring him over and let him take a closer look.” I suggested.

They came off the porch. He ran to the bike and stared with awe. I was worried he might touch the hot pipes, so I tried to keep close, just in case. He didn’t try to touch it. He appeared to be mesmerized by it.

It was easy to see the little boy had Down Syndrome. And, it was equally easy to see he was loved immensely by his grandmother and she was very proud of him.

Maggie opened the front door and called, “Dinner’s ready, everybody.”

With that he turned toward his mother and shouted, “Look Mommy, a motorbike, a motorbike!” “Yes Sammy, I see. Now come on inside and let’s have dinner.” Maggie replied. “By the way,” she added. “That’s my mom, Liz, and Sammy, my son.”

“Hi, Liz.” I said as I turned toward her. “My friends call me…” Right at that time Sammy jumped up and ran back toward the house. I took Liz’s arm and escorted her inside.

We had a great meal, including pumpkin pie for dessert. The type of dinner you would expect on a Sunday afternoon. Liz attempted to keep the conversation going by asking me about my past, family, and other topics I really didn’t want to discuss.

She turned the subject to Sammy and how well he was doing in school. After lunch, I offered to help Maggie with the dishes. She kept insisting I go in the living room and watch football, but I figured this was a good opportunity to get some alone time with her. I wasn’t sure how I was going to use that time, but I knew I wanted it.

I rinsed the dishes and Maggie put them into the dishwasher. I noticed several drawings around the room and asked Maggie, “Are you the artist or is Liz?”

“Those are mine.” She said, shyly. “They’re not that good. It’s somethin’ I really enjoy, though. I dream of having my own gallery one day. That way, I could draw and paint all the time. I know it’s a silly dream.”

“Hey, there’s no such thing as a silly dream. I think they’re damn good. Have you ever tried to sell them?” I asked.

“Oh no, I couldn’t do that. I’d be too embarrassed. What if someone didn’t like them? I don’t think I’d fare well with critics. I’ll keep doing it for fun and dream about it.” She said.

I let it die. I’m the last person to hand out advice about chasing dreams. I changed the subject and suggested Sammy might enjoy a ride on the bike. “I’ll take it easy and go up the block and right back. Whatta you say?”

I could tell Maggie was apprehensive. “Do you really think he can do it? What if he falls off? I don’t know.” She said as she considered the idea.

“Did you see his face while he was out looking at it? He was awestruck! C’mon, let’s at least let him sit on it.” I begged.

“Okay” She agreed.

We walked into the living room. Sammy was playing with his toys and Liz was reading a magazine. “Hey Sammy, you wanna sit on my bike?” I asked.

Sammy squealed with joy and bolted for the door. “Hold on, Tiger.” I said, reaching out and snatching him before he could escape. Everyone walked outside and I helped Sammy settle into the saddle. He was beaming and making an engine noise. It was hard to imagine an actual ride making him happier.

Maggie ran to the house to get her camera. A yellow, 4WD, F250 pickup truck with tinted windows came around the corner. The truck slowed as they passed the house and I didn’t think much of it. I assumed they were amused at the sight of Sammy straddling the “Black Beauty”. However, I noticed a look of concern cross Liz’s face.

Maggie came back out of the house before I could ask Liz about the truck. Maggie yelled to Sammy, “Sammy! Look over here. I want to get a picture of Sammy, my biker boy.” Sammy turned toward his mother with that angelic smile and posed for the perfect picture. It was a warm ending to an enjoyable day.

I thanked Maggie and Liz for a terrific meal and fantastic afternoon. I told Sammy goodbye and promised to bring the “Black Beauty” back so he could “ride” again. I wanted another shot at convincing Maggie to let him go for a ride.

I decided to swing by Pepper’s and have beer on my way out of town. I figured the Colts would still be playing on TV and I’d kill some time before heading back to the sack. I got about a mile out of town when I saw the yellow pickup in the rearview mirror coming up fast.

He got closer and I expected him to swing around me and pass. I realized he wasn’t going around, but over me instead. I twisted the throttle and brought the beast to life. The bike jumped forward and immediately began to put some separation between the truck and me. However, he stomped on the gas and the gap started closing again.

Running 100 mph plus, with less than 5 feet between my rear fender and his front bumper, I could see Pepper’s about ¼ of a mile ahead. I heard the squeal of brakes behind me. The truck slid down the road, tires smoking. I blew past Pepper’s running 110. The truck came to a stop on the highway in front of Pepper’s and calmly swung into the parking lot.

I slowed the bike down gradually and turned around. There was a gathering out in front of Pepper’s by the time I rolled into the lot. Pepper greeted me with, “Hoooooweeeee boy, that was fun!” I shut the bike down and dismounted.

“Listen you stupid son of a bitch, I don’t appreciate a bullshit stunt like that. You understand?” I snapped.

“Hell boy, I figured you wanted to race some. What’s the matter? You ain’t got the balls for racin’?” Pepper asked, baiting me.

“Fuck you!”, was all I said as I turned around to enter the bar.

“What’d you say, boy?” Pepper hissed.

I ignored him and kept walking toward the door.

Pepper was seething. “Hey, Biker Trash, I’m talkin’ to you!” He bellowed.

I stopped. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do, but it was obvious he wasn’t going to stop until I did something. I try to avoid fights. They usually involve the cops and I don’t care for spending my day answering a bunch of dumb-assed questions. Although I doubted it would work, I decided to try reasoning with him.

“Look, I don’t want any trouble. I only wanna have a beer or two and be on my way. Is that too much to ask?” I said.

Pepper stepped up and got directly in my face. “You stay away from Maggie. We don’t want your kind around here. You understand? Maybe it’s time for you to leave.”

I grew up in Alabama. One thing I learned there was: ain’t no such thing as a fair fight. If a fight is what it takes, then I fight to win. So, without warning and before he could even think about hitting me, I drove my fist directly into his unknowing gut. As he bent over to grasp his belly and find his breath, I met him squarely with my knee to his nose. He dropped spitting blood in a dusty puddle on the ground.

His goons weren’t far away. One of them grabbed me from behind and the other caught me in the side of the head with a set of brass knuckles. My scalp split and blood poured down the side of my face. I caught the guy behind me right in the shin with the heel of my boot. He squealed and dropped me like a sack of potatoes.

Jason was standing at the front door with a 12 gauge in his hands. He ordered the big guy with the “knucks” to help Pepper into the bar and another bystander to assist the guy with the bloody leg. Then he turned to me and suggested I call it a day and head home. As I passed Jason he leaned over and said, “You may have made yourself a serious enemy. There’s history between Pepper and Maggie. You watch your back, ya hear?”

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