It was probably about seven or eight years ago now. I was sitting on a wooden boardwalk, right out of the old west, and there was a hitching post that ran in front of the boardwalk where people would come to park their motorcycles or on occasion, a horse. The coffee shop is in a little town, right on the entrance to the main road that takes you into the Rocky Mountains.
It was my favorite coffee shop, a true motorcyclist’s place of worship. Inside it smelled of coffee and motor oil, bearing grease and strudel. The old building had truly been an outfitters station. A last stop on the way into the mountains for those who would ride. A spittoon still sat, dented and dirty on the boardwalk, and the wood planks were worn, almost to dust from the number of boots that had crossed them.
It was one of those warm summer days in the mountains where the breeze smelled of fir trees and wood smoke. I was relaxed, staring at my bike, wondering what else I might need for the next long ride, when an old olive green bike and sidecar pulled off the main road and puttered up to the front of the cafe. On the motorcycle sat the most grizzled, wirey, and weathered man I had ever seen. He slowly climbed off the bike, as if swinging a leg too fast might break it. He was wearing a leather aviator’s hat and goggles, and somehow it all felt right.
I said, “Good Morning. How was the ride.” He stretched and just nodded as he walked around to the sidecar. It was only then that I noticed an equally old and grey dog that was lying in the sidecar. He bent over and gingerly picked up the dog, taking the goggles off his eyes, he said, “What will you have old boy, huh?” He leaned down and the dog licked his face. The old man gave his head a tender pat. “I guess we’ll go have a look to see what you might want, eh Charlie?” And with that, he unhooked the dog’s collar from the safety chain, picked him up, and placed him on the ground.
The two walked like a pair of drunken sailors into the coffee shop, and I heard the owner say, “Burt, Coffee?” Again, the old man just nodded and leaned against the coffee bar. The owner came out from behind the counter with a bowl of water and a piece of cake on a plate and put it down in front of the dog. “There you go Charlie”, he said, patting his head.
I turned back to watching my bike and finished my coffee, placing the cup in the bar, thanking the owner, and walking out of the cafe to once again sit on the boardwalk, adjacent to my bike. I was digging in my tank bag when Burt came outside with Charlie, coffee in hand. He sat on his old air-cooled BMW boxer, picked up Charlie, and placed him back in his seat. He caught me watching him and said, “Tha BMW of yours looks a lot faster than this old gal? What year is that? I told him, and he just nodded. I asked, “How old is yours?” I asked. “Forty-one years young,” he said, smiling. “I bought this new one in 1975. It’s got about 150,000 miles on it now, but I’ll keep it. It suits me and Charlie.”
I said, “So you still love to ride?” I asked. He gave me a sort of quizzical look and said, “It’s all I want to do anymore. Me and Charlie just wander down from my cabin south of Kananaskis every day, rain or shine. Wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s the best part of my day, every day, and keeps me getting up.”
I smiled and said I agreed. He kick started the bike and rumbled back onto the road heading south.
The owner had been watching and came outside to stand on the boardwalk. He looked at me and said, “You know, I think that bike is the only thing that keeps Charlie and Burt alive.” I’ll miss them when they’re gone.”
I got back on my bike and thought about what he’d said. I figured he was right.
I’ve since moved east a thousand miles, but I’ll be back there this summer. I hope both Burt and Charlie are there too.
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