Williston

Out on the prairie Red and I often eat at McDonalds. And why not? Abundant, cheap, and relatively biker friendly -- Micky Dee’s is a fair bargain. Recently one summer, being broke and hungry, we wheeled into the parking lot of one such example just outside Williston, North Dakota.

As we were pulling off our helmets, a beautiful Native American child about three years old and his equally beautiful young mother, both with jet black eyes and raven hair, were passing by on the sidewalk.

"Momma, momma, momma," yelled the little boy. "Look, momma -- bike! Bike, momma, bike!"

The laughing mother struggled to hold the child with both hands as he scrambled to get to our Wing. I offered to let him sit on the bike, but the mother, embarrassed for some reason, politely demurred.

After we'd had our pancakes, bacon, and coffee, we returned to the bike and began to gear up. An older gentleman, as neat as a pin, stood watching us as we prepared to leave.

"D'ya mind if I watch you go, " he asked. "I saw you come in, and I'm interested in motorcycles and motorcyclists......."

I was bemused. "Not at all," I replied. "Feel free... not much to it, really....and did you own one, sir?"

A unmistakable sadness came into his eyes.

"No, " he said. "I've always liked them, and I've always admired those that rode them.... but I've never owned one. To tell you the truth, I've never even ridden one. Farmed all my life, never enough time..."

I stared at him.

"And I've recently been diagnosed with colon cancer...... too late, now... for sure."

Red was getting that look in her eye that means she’s about to cry, so I held the bike upright while she got on, and then I pushed the starter. The Wing, as always, fired to life immediately. "Well, " I said while searching for something to say. "Never too late, sir. Never too late......." But both of us knew I was lying. It was too late for him by any measure.

We pulled out, Red waving to the neatly dressed old man, and then we headed South on Highway 85 towards Theodore Roosevelt National Park, the Little Missouri National Grasslands, and Devil's Tower National Monument. As the Wing picked up speed on the straight, clean, free highway, I thought of the little Indian boy and the old man, and I wondered about dreams realized and dreams stillborn, and the difference between them.