September 13, 2009
Travel Report
The girlfriend and I stopped in Cheyenne, Wyoming, for breakfast today, on our way from North Platte, Nebraska, to Fort Collins, Colorado, the site of our vacation proper.
At the table next to ours sat a gaggle of biker dudes in their finest Sunday leathers. Their patches mostly advertised military tenures. From their age (about mine), I would guess they’d participated in Gulf War 1.
The loudest of this otherwise polite bunch originally got my attention because he seemed incapable of volume control.
Then I noticed the red, white and blue patch taking up the entire left lapel of his vest. It was the most patriotic, God-Bless-America swastika I’d ever seen — the perfect hate corsage for every occasion.
If he noticed me noticing it, he didn’t stab me with his butter knife or any knife he might have had on him.
I recommend the breakfast burrito at the Capital Grille, even though they use cheddar cheese.
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Brian, were you wearing your . . . ?
Biting my tongue.
It’s funny. Back in the wayback days (mid-1970s, we’re talking), I lived with a girl whose biker boyfriend and biker friends were always in and out of the house.
But there was no God Bless America nor Aryan Nation hoo-hah.
The roommate’s biker boyfriend was a pretty cool guy. And it was not a 100% Caucasian/Northern European ancestral scene there in our biker haven.
Plus: I really liked it when I walked into the kitchen that one morning and opened the fridge and the guy said,”That wine on the left is the one with the mescaline it it. The bottle on the right is just wine.”
The scene in Cheyenne sounds kind of different.