Two wheels

Max the biker pulled up to to his biker bar hangout in a foul mode. His kid mouthed off, the trailer needs repair, his vet disability check didn't come.

As he pulled his distinctive blue Harley into the lot, he noticed what he recognized as a racing-style bicycle leaning up against the handicapped parking sign, blocking access to a handicapped space.

“Somebody needs a lesson,” he thought. Max picked up the bike, walked over to dumpster on the side of the building, and balanced himself as he prepared to heave the bike over his head into the abyss. But he hoisted up the bike to heave it into the garbage, he noticed the sticker. On one of the rails was the distinctive black logo of a MIA/POW organization.

Max hesitated, then reluctantly put down the bike, though not exactly in a gentle way. “Somebody still needs to have a lessen in manners,” Max thought.

The bike worsened Max's already foul mood. As he strode into the bar, he spotted a slightly built man dressed in day glow green shirt and shorts. 'Who's the dumb ass who's blocking a handicapped space with a two-bit piece-of-horse-dung bicycle?” Max announced.

'What, you don't think bicycles are vehicles? I think I got a pair of shoes in my closet that has more sense than you,” shot back the guy in green.

Max strode up to the man and got in his face. “You've got a big mouth for such a scrawny doofus. What are you doing parked in front of a place like this?”

“Hey, cool off, easy rider. This scrawny doofus is cycling from Idaho to Denver. I'd like to see your sorry ass do what I'm doing,” the cyclist replied.

Max considered this. “That's about 800 miles. You're either crazy or full of shit.”

“I've got blisters on my butt to prove it. Want me to drop my drawers so you can get a good close look at them?”

“Keep your pants on,” Max said. “The sight of your ass might give me nightmares and I need my sleep. I don't care where you've come from or where you're going. That parking area says handicapped. That means physical handicaps and not mental retards. Keep your fucking bike the hell out of it or I'll be happy to fix things so you won't be in any shape to pedal around anywhere but the halls in a hospital.”

“Yeah, I like you, too,” the cyclist shot back. “I'm on my way out of here anyway. You have a nice day,” he said as he headed for the door.

A few of Max's biker brethren watched the exchange with amusement. “Do you suppose that guy is really pedaling that thing 800 miles?” said one, handing Max a beer.

“Yeah, I could see a dumbshit like that pulling a of hair-brained stunt that stupid,” said Max. “Freaking cyclists are a pain in the ass. If you ever see me on a bicycle you have my permission to get me to hospital. Because it will mean I've lost my mind. I would have to lose my mind to do something that idiotic.”

Once lunch at the bar satisfied Max's appetite, he headed back to his trailer as his thoughts turned back to his missing vet disability check. But the fluorescent yellow blob in the ditch caught his attention. He slowed the bike as he came up on it and then saw the mangled wreck of the bicycle lying near it.

As Max approached, the man from the bar said, “Some sonofabitch hit me.”

Max flipped open his cell phone and dialed 911. “You stupid fuck. Are you hurt?” Max asked.

“I think I got all kinds of broken stuff,” he winced.

The cyclist had a few weeks to consider the broken stuff in his body as he healed in the hospital. He would have to wait to complete his 800-mile trek. Fortunately he was well enough off; his medical bills wouldn't be a problem. But he remembered his relief when he saw the distinctive blue Harley pull up, and he pondered what would have happened to him had the biker not spotted his mashed torso and the contorted frame of his bike.

When he got out of the hospital, he would look up that biker. And thank him.

That day happened a few weeks later. The cyclist pedaled into the parking lot while keeping an eye out for the blue Harley. Though the lot was packed with Harleys, none of them was the right one.

He parked his bike well away from the handicapped spots.

As the cyclist walked into the bar, he noticed all the playing cards. Most of the bikers had one.

“Hey, what's with the cards,” he asked a waitress

“Oh, it's a poker run benefit. You get a card at every check point, and at the end of the run, the one with the best poker hand wins. It's a benefit for Max.”

“Max? Does Max happen to drive a blue Harley?” asked the cyclist.

“Yup. It's hard to miss,” she said.

“What the hell happened to him?”

“He had a heart attack, and he doesn't have enough medical coverage,” she said.

Stunned, the cyclist was silent for a moment. “Ok. How much for a card?” he finally said.

“Well, it's a donation, so whatever you want.”

The man pulled a check out of his shorts, borrowed a pen, and filled it out.

“Here,” he said to the waitress. “Just give me a card.”

The woman gave the man a quizzical look. “A check? Most people just give cash, but I guess I can take it.”

As she took the check, she glanced at the amount. She did a double take and looked at the cyclist.

“Did you really mean to put down this much?”

“The guy did me a solid. I owe him,” that man said. “Hey, do you happen to know what hospital he's in?”

A few days later, Max saw a face he recognized poke through his hospital door.

“Hey, I wanted to thank you for finding me in that ditch,” the cyclist said. “I owe you.”

“From what I hear, I'm the one who owes you,” Max said.

“You owe me squat. You travel on two wheels, so do I. I figure we should look out for each other.”

“Don't give me that modesty crap. How can I repay you?”

“Well, if you insist. If you want to do something for me, I know a way,” the man said.

About a month later, two cyclists could be seen making their way on a flat stretch of pavement near the spot where the cyclist had been fished out of the ditch.

“We'll take it slow,” yelled the man in the fluorescent green shirt. “Just remember the exercise is going to be good for you.”

Max slowly but deliberately pedaled the bike behind behind the man as the two neared the fateful spot. “I have to admit this isn't as bad as I thought it would be,” Max said.

“Yeah, well, neither are you,” the man said.