When I watched American Chopper on TV, I never understood where all the tricked-out motorcycles went. After one week in Arizona, they are within a two mile radius of me, give or take a block. Then there are the “normal” bikes — the Harley’s — and only one crotch rocket. His cool factor must increase somewhere north of dirt bike central, Mohab.
This afternoon, I pulled up alongside a biker at a stoplight in my car, which is cool somewhere north of Lincoln, Nebraska. His beard was very ZZ Top, less the drivel.
Even though I don’t like ZZ Top, I liked how when he took off, his beard flew back like dual straights on either side of his cheeks while hearing the sound of a Harley and thinking, “potato, potato, potato.”
