A road story

That rumble is unmistakingly Milwaukee iron. Long before it comes into sight, the world tenses in anticipation. The vibration sends birds scattering from where they were chirping and bickering on the telephone wires. The cows behind me stop their lazy graze, and – echoing my anticipation – look up and turn their heads towards where the hog should appear any moment now on the hill.

It is a scorching day in the Karoo next to the stretch of black tar that snakes through the dry hills, and anonymous cars flash by in a whirl of wind and metal. The stage is set for one of America’s finest to come by and mark this afternoon as something special. That sound is definitely old-school; I can hear the sidedraught gulping lung-fulls of clean Karoo air. That lazy throb that eminates from deep in the belly of a... What will it be? Panhead? Knucklehead?

I’ve been hitching for a few days now. I am dirty, thirsty and bored. And I can’t wait to get a lift on whatever it is that will come over that hill. Surely, a rider on such a soulful machine will have a kind heart?

It’s a she. Her long dark hair blows around her face from underneath the helmet. She gears down, blip the throttle and smiles at me as she stops. Heading somewhere cowboy?

Sure, wherever you are going. I could not believe my luck.

There is only one trouble, boy.

What is that?

It’s a single seat. Better luck next time.

With a rev and another smile she leaves me in her dust.

I thought it was too good to be true.

Damn, itsa scorcher today.