His nickname was blondie. It was his great mane of blond hair on top of that strapping build that did it. It was blondie like a lion might be called blondie out of respect. We first met as a newly formed gang of weekend warrior motorcycle riders met to head up to Daytona Beach for bike week. Bike week is just fun. Whether doctor, lawyer, accountant, stockbroker, plumber, handyman, tag along friend, it didn’t matter. It was bike week, motorcycles, cold beers, pizza, ribs, and more motorcycles with women of every dress style or not on the bikes or around the bikes. Just plain fun.
Later that year, it was meeting up to ride over to Sanibel, drink shantys at the Green Flash and hang out at the island house. The common connection was bikes and the love of the idea of freedom and the knowing that we had to fight against the absurdity that can fill the day as serious.
Earlier today, as I was catching up with a biker buddy I was told blondie was gone. Quick cancer can do that. He wanted one more ride across the Everglades. One more cold beer on a hot Alligator Alley day. One more getting away from the nonsense of the nonsense. But I am told his guide appeared and took him across the bridge to the other side. He was not afraid. He was at peace. He spent his days being true to his wishful thinking.
Don’t put off the ride. Don’t wait for the invitation to life. Write your own invite. I wish him a safe ride across the bridge.
The ageless experiment.
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