The Hills Are Alive

Knowing I'd be making a trip to town, I called Camille to ask if she needed anything.  She didn't, but in the course of our conversation she said, "Omigosh, there is a steady stream of Harleys going by, and they just keep coming."  I told her it might be a poker run.  One side of her property fronts on the paved road, so she sees a lot more than I.  The hills were alive with the roar of those powerful motorcycles, which is music to a bike rider's ears, and I could hear it up here.  I left for town not long after that and the bikes were still coming.  Down the road apiece, a group of fifteen or so had pulled off to stretch.  I stopped to ask what was the event.  One rider in leathers and head bandana said, "Hi Mom!" and came over to the truck.  Hi Mom?  I didn't recognize this guy, but wondered if he was a member of the Freed Spirits whom I didn't remember meeting.  He wasn't.  Evidently grey hair qualifies females as mom, and I'm fine with that.  I asked how his day was going, and he said, "I'm riding a Harley on a beautiful day in the hills with a group of good friends.  What could be better?" (I was jealous.)  It was, indeed, a poker run, which is an organized, sponsored day-long ride somewhere for many clubs and individuals from all over with five designated stops along the way to pick up a playing card, trying to make a winning poker hand at the end.  Monies raised by the entrance fees not only provide the prizes, but the majority is donated to charity.  I've never known a more generous group of people than bikers.  As I was leaving, the guy said, "Have yourself a beautiful day, Mom," and I replied, "Ride safe, sweetheart."  (If I could be Mom, then this stranger could be sweetheart.)

The trip to town was uneventful.  It was a good day.