"Pardon me, but what are you wearing?"
Confused at the wording of the question I looked up from my breakfast and focused my attention on the speaker. An attractive middle-aged woman smiled and easily met my eyes. A brunette, perhaps in her mid-40's, she was just a little plump, but in a rather shapely and healthy adult sort of way. Vivid, light, almost yellow eyes stood out against her hair with startling clarity. She was dressed in what surely must be the informal uniform of travelers on the highway…jeans and a t-shirt.
She was standing at my table and looking directly at me, but involuntarily I glanced around the room anyway just to see if she might be talking to somebody else. Odd reaction…that. Despite the easy friendship offered by most folks I'd met up here, the isolation of the road itself was a stark contrast and often it was just a bit of a shock to come back into the outgoing and friendly civilization of the gas-stops and road-houses. Startling every time…even though with the limited fuel range of my motorcycle I did it several times each day.
There were only four tables in the small but cheery Yukon café, and they were all full except the seat she had vacated directly behind me. Nobody else was paying us any attention at all.
What was I wearing? I still didn't quite understand the question. Self-consciously I looked briefly at myself. Standard fare, I was clad in blue jeans and a black t-shirt. My heavy leather jacket was sitting on the seat beside me, my sunglasses and light-leather, skin-tight riding gloves on the table. Basically, the same riding clothes I was wearing yesterday, but they were at least reasonably clean.
I understood the words, just not what she was actually asking.
I met her eyes again with a raised eyebrow. I was trying to convey a questioning look while I finished the mouthful of the excellent cheese and mushroom omelet I had been working on. Idly I wondered where the café had gotten the side of fresh strawberries they had served me with the omelet…we were hundreds of miles from anyplace I would expect to find those and deliveries aren't easy out here.. Odd, the things my brain chooses to wonder about at times.
She got the message and rephrased her question as she sat down across from me. "Your cologne, what is it? I really like it."
I finished chewing and swallowed. Stalling, I took a sip of my coffee (iced tea was unfortunately unavailable anywhere in Canada) and wondered what she was talking about. Cologne? I wasn't wearing any. I had camped last night, and had not even showered this morning. I had run over 800 miles yesterday, and another couple hundred already today…I was hoping to find a motel tonight to get a little more cleaned up.
The rest of her family was getting up to leave. I recognized her eyes in one of the teenagers that passed my table.
I thought furiously for a moment. No I wasn't wearing cologne and seldom do. At least I finally knew what she had been asking. Just because I wasn't wearing cologne didn't mean I had no scent, or that my scent was necessarily an unpleasant one. I tuned my senses briefly. Yeah, I guess I was wearing something. I had been traveling through fire, smoke, rain, dust, lightning, and hail. I was a long way from home and had been for far too long. This place was teaching me just how big the world could be.
I smelled of a thousand miles of smoke. I smelled of openness, outdoors, trees, and nights under the stars. I smelled of sweat, gasoline, oil, leather, and the machine I had been astride for days. I smelled of passion, desire, experience, and lust. How could I explain that? She was getting up to follow her family. I had to tell her something…
"It's just something my wife got."
She bent over and to my complete surprise, kissed me solidly on the cheek. She said softly in my ear, "She's got good taste. I really like it." She sighed and inhaled slowly, her cheek beside mine. "I don't mind telling you…it makes me horny."
With a swish of curves and mildly tight jeans she was gone, leaving me speechless and blushing like a little kid.
It's not often I am rendered speechless.
I looked up as the waitress topped off my coffee. She stood there and smiled impishly at me. I looked back at her for a moment, and then asked, "What?"
She smiled even bigger, winked, and mouthed silently at me, "Me too."
***
The bike was full of fuel, and I sat lightly in the saddle looking over my map, pondering my next stop. I chuckled to myself over the events of breakfast. So, I knew how to affect a woman…knew how to make her horny. The mystery of the ages solved. All it took was days of riding in some of the toughest, remote, and most beautiful conditions I had ever experienced.
Finally I sighed and twisted the throttle on the big machine, rapidly leaving the gravel parking lot and reveling in the sheer power available at my fingertips. With any luck I would pass the brunette shortly. I just wanted to wave. Really!
Smoothly guiding my mount through a sunlit valley, I thought over the last few days experience and wondered what the events of this day would hold for me.
She had said it without shame or embarrassment; "I don't mind telling you…it makes me horny."
I liked the attitude, and I had seen a lot of it on this road. Life is passion…why hide it?
I thought of a thousand miles of smoke. I thought of storms, trees, and nights under the stars. I thought of my wife, over 4000 miles away.
The Valkyrie and I screamed down the road and I laughed out loud. Yeah. Life is passion. I don't mind telling you…it makes me horny too.
Over four thousand miles from home.
I'll see you on the road.
CUAgain,
Daniel Meyer
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