Lucinda was a barmaid at Cheap Charlie’s, a local watering hole on Route 52 frequented by motorcycle enthusiasts. One day, after completing her shift, she accepted a ride from one of the regulars, just for the fun of it. With the wind blowing through her hair as they roared down the highway, Lucinda must have been exhilarated. But then an accident happened. She was thrown off the bike and killed instantly.
A lopsided cross and some faded flowers now mark the spot where she met her maker… a reminder every time I pass it on my bike of the finality of our days and Lucinda’s untimely death.
On my bicycle rides, I occasionally stop at Cheap Charlie’s for a dollar draft of beer. I had been warned by my poker buddies to stay away from the place at night. It had a rowdy reputation. But, by mid afternoon, on a warm sunny day, I felt safe and I needed to quench my thirst. Several motorcycles were parked at the front of the premises. I carefully chained and padlocked my expensive bicycle to a post and moseyed up to the bar. I was seated between two tough-looking hombres sporting pony tails, muscle shirts and tattoos all over their exposed flesh.
Michelle, buxomly barmaid and an apparent graduate from Hooters, served me a Bud. The fellow to my left eyed me suspiciously and then asked: “Are you biker?”
“I sure am,” I replied without thinking, finished my beer and continued my tour of our neighborhood.