As some of my longtime friends and regular readers (all three of them) know, I’ve long had an imaginary friend named Ned. (And Ned has an imaginary dog named Steve, but that’s another story for another time.) Few, however, know how Steve and I met, and until now, I have been reluctant to share that particular tale. Perhaps it’s the spirit of the new year or perhaps it’s the painkillers. Whatever the genesis, today, I find myself waxing reminiscent—and this, dear readers, is your lucky day. So, pull up a bar stool or a bean bag, pour yourself a stiff sarsaparilla, and settle in as I share the fabled story of how Ned and I met in the early eighties on a long and lonesome highway, east of Omaha.
It was a dark and stormy night.
I was traveling a long desert highway on my Huffy dirt bike (Evel Knievel Edition). I was on the prowl. For danger. For adventure. For a rousing game of chess. I belonged to the night, and I was going wherever that sultry mistress took me.
As I furiously pedaled along, I came upon a roadside honky-tonk that smelled of Red Man tobacco, Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, and cowboy sweat. From within, I could hear a band crucifying Johnny Cash’s Folsom County Blues. I knew this was the place for me, so I dropped my kickstand and climbed off my bike. As I strutted to the door, I adjusted my Toughskins and glanced down at my square-toed Dingo boots. Tonight was going to be a night like no other. I could feel it. The night was electric.
I opened the door and was met with a blast from the absolute worst country polka band ever heard. It sounded like heaven. I ambled to the bar, ordered a Yoo-Hoo, got laughed at, and settled for some peach-flavored Hi-C. You can’t always pick your poison. A man’s gotta be flexible, and I ain’t spent the last ten years perfecting downward-facing dog for no partic’lar reason.
As I sipped my peach Hi-C and surveyed the scene, I spotted him in a dark corner. At first, I could just make out his tall, lean silhouette. As my eyes adjusted, I could see that he was back-lighted by the jukebox and by George, I could tell that this was his place. He was one cool cat. If it weren’t for the country polka band’s butchering of Billy Thorpe’s Children of the Sun I’d have catcalled him. But it was just too loud, and my go-to catcall is a bit on the quiet side. I’ve learned to live with it. He was pure polka poetry in motion.
I moseyed his way for a closer look, wiggling my way through his entourage of nylon tracksuit–wearing groupies who were surrounded by a fog of Drakkar cologne. When I reached him, I was awestricken by his lace bodice, his fish fishnetings, and his big, floppy hat.
He asked me my name. Our eyes met. Sparks flew. Plans formed. The band skipped. Everyone turned to look…or so it felt. It could be that one of us just had really bad gas.
Without a word, he took my hand, led me out to his bike—a tricked out Big Wheel, complete with a bright orange flag and sparkly streamers on the hand grips. We swapped tales of the road, stories of cool nights with the wind in our hair, and the warm smell of colitas, rising up into the air.
By closing time, we were pedaling off together, looking for adventure and whatever comes our way. We’ve been on that road ever since. Just two hearty guys, our bikes, our wicked sense of style, and our grit.
Git yer motor runnin’…
