SuperGimp

     Slouched behind high handlebars and mirrored sunglasses, Leonard (Pineknot) Gehring effortlessly maneuvered his black Harley-Davidson.  He power glided over grades and leaned to slice curves from the weathered asphalt.  His moustache and beard flattened to his face and neck.Lengths of brown hair blew back into wispy streamers, held fast by a red bandanna headband.
     A canopy of broad-leafed madrone and oak trees seemed to open and expose the roadway just as the motorcycle approached.  The dense, green foliage muted some of the blast of an un-baffled exhaust. Pineknot was thinking of Cherie Luveling. 
    Earlier, he had left her cedar and glass house in the foothills, east of Eureka.  For three days and three nights, they had renewed their physical attraction for one another.  Using tools of raw lust to mine fine diamonds of ecstasy. The facets from all former sexual explorations paled in comparison.
     He thought about the first time he'd ever seen her.  She was standing with her back to him and his attention was drawn to the open-back, high-heeled shoes which stretched the backs of her calves as she bent over the top drawer of a filing cabinet.  Her rump seemed to push a short dress away from her thighs like an invitation.  She shook her head to clear sun-bleached blond hair away from her face, and turned to catch him staring.  She smiled when he caught his breath. 
     Her classic features were slightly enhanced by makeup and her breasts were more substantial than most lithe ladies can support without appearing top-heavy.  Pineknot could still smell the sweet steam which had lingered as he'd carried her from the hot tub to the pedestal water bed.   His groin stirred, even now, as he relived the past weekend of intense intimacy.
     Just as they had many times before, each agreed they had hit peaks of pleasure unmatched by previous "bests."   Yet, he knew as surely as he'd cranked the starter to leave, he would probably never get the opportunity to spend those sort of passionate moments with Cherie, again.  She was attempting to dam a flood of tears when she'd kissed him goodbye, then told him to call before his next visit.  He knew this meant another man was likely in the picture.   She wanted to be married, and there was a line of anxious, solvent suitors.
     Ever since Pineknot Gehring first became aware of the furtive glances and grim looks from people expressing fear or revulsion when certain riders of large two-wheelers are present,  he'd accepted the fact that women of Cherie's social ranking would eventually be unavailable as close friends. 
     He realized, early on, this is part of the attraction for these highly visible travelers in the high velocity spaces astride powerful machines that growl when idling and roar when accelerated.   Even though Leonard is one of those inflexible lio who feel lines of freedom beneath them, as they blend with massive motorcycles, he ahs never nurtured the attitude which categorize the breed as outside the law and a bit too savage for many in civil communities.   Pineknot rides alone and smiles often.
     He wasn't smiling, though, when he first understood Cherie wanted him to give up the unkempt mien and uncertain means, to stay around all of the time or to not come around at all.  It wasn't the first time he'd initiated the loss of some close friend or relative, by his continued adherence to the lifestyle he'd chosen.  But he loved her and would miss her.  The memory of the crushed expression on her face, blurred his concentration and he passed the turnoff to Big Hazel and Custer's property.
     Deftly slowing, Pineknot pivoted the huge chopper around an outstretched leg, then throttled to complete a U-turn. The still mountain air was shattered by the sound of a honking horn, racing engine and squealing tires.
     Pineknot turned his head to see the driver of a lemon-yellow pickup battling to prevent a plunge over the high shoulder, after cutting sharply to the right.  The driver's white Stetson had tipped to cover one eye, during the panic stop.  Pineknot cussed himself for having turned in front of oncoming traffic, but continued on.
     He'd heard mention of the outrageous four-by-four.  It had dual sets of knobby tires on the rear and a matching pair up front.  The small bed and cab raised above those monster mud slingers suggested a Tonka toy/Massey Ferguson hybrid.  He remembered a guy at the SPOKES N' SPURS alluding to the vehicles ability to "climb a redwood."  Another figured the owner put tranquilizers in the gas tank to keep it from leap-frogging over semis.
      The big bike was slowed to nearly stop, then eased onto the dirt road with a sign, Horse Mountain Road.  After a quarter-mile of steep downhill, avoiding deep ruts, and braking through tight switchbacks, the biker switched off the ignition and began coasting thelast dozen yards to a resting spot.  It had been a logger's landing, thirty-years before.
     As soon as the motor was silenced, the sound of crunching deep treads tracking over baked clay and stones was behind the biker. He glanced to see the yellow truck, about ten-yards back.  As soon as eye contact was made, the driver pop-clutched the voracious V-8 to life.
     Chin-high six-plies ground the way towards their next grist, and Pinknot frantically switched the key on.  His attempt to start the engine failed, so he steered off the road.  The truck's right front tire was already crushing the rear fender, pinching the motorcycle into a wheelie.  It flipped in the air, dumping it's rider to crash within inches of the speeding truck.   Pineknot watched his ride as it seemed to gain speed in flight, twisting and spinning. 
     Stuggling to one knee, he watched the truck.  Thick billows of dust and smoke surrounded it, as it was jammed into a tight 180-degrees turn.  High rev whines emanated from under the hood as the truck reared, for an instant, then lurched uphill.
     Six-feet, two inches of American machismo was just a gasp away from becoming two-hundred-forty pounds of compressed burger on the cowcatcher grill of the searing six-wheeler.  Greasy denims shredded at the knee and seams ripped, as the mountainside matador scrambled to avoid the charging bull-machine.