The races rained out this weekend in Billings, so I’m left being a “normal” guyfor the weekend. No Smokin’ Joe appearance; just Joe.  The guy who needs to pack up his belongings tomove to Missoula, Montana on Monday. The guy who needs to do hislaundry and clean out the fridge. The guy who over fertilized his lawn and,even though he mowed it last week, now needs to rent a hay mower to knock itdown. Weekends at home in the summer are a hard thing for me to get used to.What do normal people do?

So with all these things poking priorities into my mind likeneedles in a voodoo doll I decide to get out my motorcycle. Ah, “Big Black,” my1979 Yamaha 750 Special. She’s a year younger than me, but she doesn’t let meboss her around. Big Black has been sitting in the garage for about two years becauseracing has come first. Like a neglected child she decides to be unruly. Shejust wants some attention. Fuel pours out of her and she sits idling like atractor on its death march. Poor girl. I don’t mind. I’m a sucker for prettygirls and a pouty look.

Now the day is just about done. Dinner is sounding good butI finally have Big Black ready to ride. “Should I start the chicken on theBBQ?” says Missy as I strap on my best torn jeans, boots and leather jacket.“Yeah, sure. I won’t be long,” I reply in a way that tells her my mind isalready absent. Now, out on the street I reach over and hit the start button.RRRRRRRR. Oh, yeah. Big Black is back in town. She’s a triple. There’s a lot offour cylinder and two cylinder bikes out there, but when you hear a triple youknow it. Eternally caught between a roar and a purr, Big Black makes the soundof a lover’s raspy cry in the heat of passion. Five blocks later we hitseventy-five on the incline heading into the foothills. Sunshine, wind, whitepuffy clouds, black twisting asphalt, the roar of her engine, the roar of myheart, I can’t get enough. Feeling the groove I pass a few other bikers givingthe underhand wave which shows proper respect to the two-wheeled brotherhood.Heck, I even shoot the kid on the scooter some props. Twenty miles later Icrest a hill and stop to look at the view. Green foothills surround me as Ilook down on all the people in their sub-divisions. I bet that chicken is donenow. I don’t want to go back. A date with a two-wheeled hottie is one thing,but dinner is another. I turn home. So this is what normal people do onSaturday afternoon.