The end of the story about when my first motorcycle was stolen.

I'm beginning with the end of the story because It's the most interesting part. It includes the one and only time I've ever ridden on a Harley Davidson motorcycle.

I was 20. Thanks to one criminal, two stupid college kids and a substantial dose of bad luck, I found myself standing on a highway interchange clover-leaf on the outskirts of Chicago. It was sunny with temps in the high 90s, F. I was already sunburned and windburned from a long ride off-course in the college kids' convertible. And I had mild battery acid burns all over my lap from the new leaky battery I'd brought for the missing motorcycle. The acid destroyed the fabric of my jeans and they were slowly coming apart as I stood in the hot sun, futilely trying to hitch-hike the hell out of there.

Passersby honked and made faces and threw drink cups and yelled nasty things at me for a couple of hours. When I started seeing stars and feeling lightheaded I decided I needed a break. I walked to a gas station on the service road to enjoy some air conditioning. The attendant said "I thought you were going to die out there. I was about to come out and tell you to come in and get out of the sun for awhile." He got me a chair and tried to give me my cold drink free. I guess I looked as bad as I felt.

"Where's your bike?" he asked, pointing to the beat up white 3/4 helmet I was still carrying for no good reason. I told him the story up to the point where he joined it. I don't remember his name or what he looked like, but I'll never forget his kindness.

Somewhat refreshed, I returned to my spot on the clover-leaf and stuck out my thumb. A very short while later an angel from hell saved me. A big, hairy, bearded, Harley hardtail chopper riding biker pulled his noisy hog over. We had to yell to converse over the din of his machine. He asked me what happened to my bike. Stolen, I said. He asked me what kind it was.

I don't remember what I answered. It occured to me to lie, but I don't remember if I did. The stolen bike was a 250 Honda Dream, one of the least cool motorcycles ever built.

He told me to get on. I hastily buckled on my helmet and hopped onto the tiny passenger pad on his bobbed fender. Only one of my feet was on a passenger peg when he popped the clutch. I had no choice but to hold onto his big belly to keep from flying off. He accelerated as quickly as the old hog could do and soon his long, somewhat greasy hair was slapping me in the face. He reeked of masculinity; not a scent I'm fond of. It was not a comfortable ride. He saved my life.

About an hour later he dropped me off at a road house and then turned around and disappeared back down the way we came. I wonder how far he went out of his way to help me.

I had a pee, a burger and some coffee. When I was ready to leave, a rider asked me what I was riding. I told him my sad tale. He said he was breaking in his new Honda 750 and wouldn't mind taking me a little way in the direction I was going. He took me more than a little way.

I hopped off the Honda many miles later and the rider turned back. I think he was still in sight when a Moto Guzzi Super Sport stopped. This fellow lived a little farther down the road  than where I lived. He dropped me off at my door.

I had hitched from St. Louis to Indianapolis without a problem, but then found that my motorcycle had been stolen. I tried hitching back but one thing after another went incredibly wrong during the next 20 hours, culminating in my desperate situation on a Chicagoland clover-leaf.

Then my luck changed, and boy did it change. And now you know why I always smile and wave at chopper-riding bikers, even if they're too cool to wave back. I'm not sure if they're my brothers, but they're at least my cousins.