Sunny Day

Sunny Day pulled up on the footshifter and the big Indian roared back as he let out the clutch, beginning his approach to the rest area on I-70 just outside of Salina. As he rode in, he looked closely at the scattering of cars, semi trucks, and big honking rec vehicles. The usual smattering of people were there, walking in and out of the restrooms, reading the historical marker, and letting their dogs piss and shit on the grounds. Finally he spied what it was he was looking for, the powder blue ’65 Harley panhead. He didn’t see it at first because it wasn’t in the parking lot; it was wedged in between two red cedars next to a picnic table. His buddy, Nuke, was there somewhere because he was never more than fifty feet or so from his bike. Sunny coasted up to the curb and cranked the front wheel of the Chief as he let it down on the kickstand. He sat there for a moment, still looking for his friend and taking a visual inventory of the people on the grounds and also of those sitting in vehicles. He liked to know who and what was going on. A little yipper broke loose from an older middle aged man’s grip and ran toward Sunny, yipping and nipping at the toe of his cycle boots. “Hey ya little scudder,” Sunny laughed and nudged the dog with his boot. He liked calling little dogs that name just like Jon Voigt did in that one movie.
“Hey, fella, don’t be kickin’ my dog,” the old timer headed for the dog, glaring at Sunny who shifted on the seat of the Indian and smiled.
“Don’t worry, sir, I like the little scudder,” Sunny reached for the dog who backed up yipping louder than ever. The man scooped up the little dog and headed for his rec vehicle, looking over his shoulder a couple of times to see if Sunny had any reaction or if he was following him. Sunny Day could be intimidating like that. He looked like one of those guys out of the fifties with slicked back black hair and a white tee shirt under a black leather jacket. Maybe the old guy had seen the hunting knife slipped into the Chippewa motorcycle boot or maybe it was Sunny’s broken front tooth, but whatever it was it worked. It worked most of the time. One person this act of his didn’t work on was Nuke Dimmitis and Nuke was walking up the sidewalk toward him and laughing all the way.
“Sunny, you sight for sore eyes; I’ll bet you just insulted that old geezer’s dog, didn’t you. Probably called it a little scooter didn’t you.”
“Scudder,” Sunny corrected.
“Yeah, scudder, like in Midnight Cowboy and then the lady grabs the little scudder and huffs off.”
“You got it, Nuke, how ya doin’ anyway?”
“Oh, you know, man, I got my little problemos and idiosyncrasies just like anybody else, but for the most part I’m doin’ ok.”
“How’s your bike runnin’, I see you got it chained to that red cedar over there.”
“I brought the chain so I can pull that piece of shit Indian you’re ridin’ when it breaks down. My panhead is spot on, amigo.”
“Well then, let’s get goin’ on down the road.” Sunny flipped his leg back over the tank, flipped down his shades and cranked up the Big Chief while Nuke unchained the Harley and rolled it downhill toward the parking lot, firing the ignition on the way and jumping over the curb, wheeling out in a big arc and goosing the throttle when he went by the man with the dog. Sunny laughed as the guy jumped back up on the curb, clutched the dog close to his chest, and yelled something at Nuke who just kept on going; blowing past the big rigs and onto the acceleration ramp where he did just that, accelerate onto I-70, his chromed engine and pipes gleaming in the Central Kansas sun. Sunny wasn’t far behind, the throaty sound of the Indian Chief matching harmonics with the Harley as he caught up to Nuke at the end of the ramp. Sunny loved Kansas weather and this day was one of the reasons why. The sun seemed to pull them toward Kansas City as they rode side by side eastbound on Interstate 70, past the sand dunes and into the beautiful Flint Hills. Sunny liked the way the sun cast shadows of the hills creating light and dark areas of the browns, greens, and yellows of the tall prairie grasses and the myriad colors of prairie flowers. He liked the reds of the Indian Paintbrush, the little white roadside buttercups, and even the purple of the notorious Russian Musk Thistle, the scourge of Kansas agricultural extension agents. Sunny thought they were much maligned and impossible to eradicate, so why bother. But then Sunny wasn’t a farm boy any more, either. And every farm boy in Kansas knew that you had to snuff out this weed before it took over. And for those folks that pronounced Kansas as being flat? They needed to walk the Flint Hills and then tell him that Kansas is flat. He gunned his bike and pulled ahead of his friend who looked over and shook his head as he watched Sunny fly by.