Meeting a Stranger

"That's the best car ever made!"  he said.  "I had me one just like that."

I looked up to see a man I assumed to be one of the thousands of bikers up here at the Red River Valley Biker Do that's happening in New Mexico this weekend.  Three big Harleys have been parked right here where I sit overlooking these beautiful mountains.  They've been talking and polishing their bikes outside our room since six this morning, and are just now riding away, one carrying a little dog.

I didn't know he was talking to me, but I looked around and there was no one else.  He came closer.  "I crashed mine on a Saturday and went to Vietnam the following Monday."  He looked longingly at the big old black Malibu, probably late-fifties or early-sixties vintage.  "I loved that car!  It was really fast."

We talked for a few minutes, but I woke up wishing I'd asked him more.  I should have.  He was a nice man.  He looked like a lifetime 3-pack-a-day smoker, red faced and stooped under his heavy backpack.  He had people in Georgia, he said, and he knew some Harrises in Texas.  No, he wasn't a biker, he told me; he was a walker.

"Look up Red River on your computer.  Take your mama there," he said.

I love talking to strangers and hearing their stories, but there's always that moment when we women assess the safety and sobriety of men strangers, and we mentally assess whether or not we'll need to get away fast if the conversation turns dangerous.

Turns out he was both, safe and sober, but who knows when it's night and you're all alone?

In the end, he shook my hand with his rough hand and professed his love for me for one day.  Maybe that's how it is when you travel solo your whole life.  Maybe love is a day-by-day thing.