Yesterday being a very hot humid day, it was voted by the inlaws as being too hot for a hike, as well as too hot for a BBQ on the back patio. It was decieded then a ride was in order. The inlaws went for a breazy ride in the country.
The Vespa's were fired up, and we meandered up through the rolling Maryland countryside to the north, and ended up at Whites Ferry, on the Potomac river. Its always fun to ride the ferry over the river, so we ended up in Leesburg Virginia, and stopped there for lunch and something cold to drink. There was a big line of bikes backed up to the curb in front of Payne's Biker cafe so we carefully backed our scooters in and parked. Now parking Vespa motorscooters in front of Payne's was a bit strange, but not as bad as one would think. They say it takes all kinds to make the world go around, and to our surprise, the inlaws have found most of the Harley crowd to be very friendly, with the exeption of the monied yuppy bikers who are lawyers and dentists durring the week.
But Sunday afternoon at Payne's it was not the case, alot of old time bike enthusiasts that gave us a good greeting, wanted to know where we rode from, and talked bikes a bit. Inside we settled at a table and got a few cold drinks and some sandwiches. Paynes is known for great hamburgers and subs, so Karen and I decieded to split a sub, as our senior citizen tactic for staying slim. While the order was comming, there was some friendly banter about Vespa scooters and old pre-evo Harleys, and jokes about mods vs rockers. On this particular Sunday, it was an older crowd, that had been into bikes long before the Harely craze of the 90's.
The subs arrived and I took out my old Hen and Rooster stockman from grandad to half the sandwich. As I cut the sub, a voice from the next table spoke up, "Nothing like old stag is there?"
I turned and looked, and there was this lean older guy, maybe close to my age with grey beard and a long grey ponytail. His face was seamed and tan from long years outdoors, in constrution I would find out later. He gestured to my knife and admired it, so I handed it over for him to look at. He knew old knives, and remarked that there was nothing like the old Bertram made ones, and as he handed it back he unsnapped the black leather pouch on his hip and took out his own, and handed it to me.
It was a model of a Puma I haven't seen many of in this country. Very old, from the green and yellow box days, the stag handles were as rich and smooth a buttery yellow/brown as my Bertram. It had a slim spearpoint blade about 3 1/2 inches, worn a bit thinner than when it was new. But it still locked open with a snap, and had a small bit of blade wobble. It had an external peened rivit, so it could be tightened up if needed. It was a very nice old knife and I told him so as I handed it back, and then he surprised me. Replacing it in his belt sheath, he dug into his frayed old jeans pocket and took out his ace in hole to get my total attention.
In his calused palm, was a Hen and Rooster stockman, yet not a stockman. On close examination it had a clip and spey blade like grandads, but no sheepsfoot. It had only the main clip and a spey at the opposite end, with only a single backspring, making it a very slim, nice pocket knife. The blade tang was marked with the logo of the Hen and Rooster on one side, and Gutman on the other. It was a very nice old pocket knife, with the stag scales just as smoothed and browned by time as grandads old knife. It was moderatly worn, but still in good shape with years of service left in it.
Darrell, as the mans name was, told me it was his fathers pocket knife, and it was in his dad's pocket the day he passed away suddenly with a heart attack. There was a sense of familiarness as he told me how it may seem strange, but he felt a bit like his dad was never far away when he carried that knife. I had to tell him about my dad and the peanut that finds itself into my pocket very often.
It was a strange afternoon interlude, going to a biker bar on our Vespa's, and meeting another old knife knut on a Harley, and talking about our fathers old pocket knives.
We had eaten as we talked, and after paying the bill we walked outside and Darrell showed us his bike. A beautifull old 1966 creamsickle orange electraglide. He'd built it from a basket case that came in a bunch of milk crates and cardboard boxes. It was flat out gorgious.
We rode north up rt 15 back to Whites Ferry road, escorted by several old pre-evo Harleys, and as we made our turn back to the ferry and the river there was horn honking and waving as we went our seperate ways. The Harleys to the north, and us back over the river to Maryland. As we rode home, I couldn't help but reflect on no matter how different some of us may be, sometimes we're so much the same.
The Vespa's were fired up, and we meandered up through the rolling Maryland countryside to the north, and ended up at Whites Ferry, on the Potomac river. Its always fun to ride the ferry over the river, so we ended up in Leesburg Virginia, and stopped there for lunch and something cold to drink. There was a big line of bikes backed up to the curb in front of Payne's Biker cafe so we carefully backed our scooters in and parked. Now parking Vespa motorscooters in front of Payne's was a bit strange, but not as bad as one would think. They say it takes all kinds to make the world go around, and to our surprise, the inlaws have found most of the Harley crowd to be very friendly, with the exeption of the monied yuppy bikers who are lawyers and dentists durring the week.
But Sunday afternoon at Payne's it was not the case, alot of old time bike enthusiasts that gave us a good greeting, wanted to know where we rode from, and talked bikes a bit. Inside we settled at a table and got a few cold drinks and some sandwiches. Paynes is known for great hamburgers and subs, so Karen and I decieded to split a sub, as our senior citizen tactic for staying slim. While the order was comming, there was some friendly banter about Vespa scooters and old pre-evo Harleys, and jokes about mods vs rockers. On this particular Sunday, it was an older crowd, that had been into bikes long before the Harely craze of the 90's.
The subs arrived and I took out my old Hen and Rooster stockman from grandad to half the sandwich. As I cut the sub, a voice from the next table spoke up, "Nothing like old stag is there?"
I turned and looked, and there was this lean older guy, maybe close to my age with grey beard and a long grey ponytail. His face was seamed and tan from long years outdoors, in constrution I would find out later. He gestured to my knife and admired it, so I handed it over for him to look at. He knew old knives, and remarked that there was nothing like the old Bertram made ones, and as he handed it back he unsnapped the black leather pouch on his hip and took out his own, and handed it to me.
It was a model of a Puma I haven't seen many of in this country. Very old, from the green and yellow box days, the stag handles were as rich and smooth a buttery yellow/brown as my Bertram. It had a slim spearpoint blade about 3 1/2 inches, worn a bit thinner than when it was new. But it still locked open with a snap, and had a small bit of blade wobble. It had an external peened rivit, so it could be tightened up if needed. It was a very nice old knife and I told him so as I handed it back, and then he surprised me. Replacing it in his belt sheath, he dug into his frayed old jeans pocket and took out his ace in hole to get my total attention.
In his calused palm, was a Hen and Rooster stockman, yet not a stockman. On close examination it had a clip and spey blade like grandads, but no sheepsfoot. It had only the main clip and a spey at the opposite end, with only a single backspring, making it a very slim, nice pocket knife. The blade tang was marked with the logo of the Hen and Rooster on one side, and Gutman on the other. It was a very nice old pocket knife, with the stag scales just as smoothed and browned by time as grandads old knife. It was moderatly worn, but still in good shape with years of service left in it.
Darrell, as the mans name was, told me it was his fathers pocket knife, and it was in his dad's pocket the day he passed away suddenly with a heart attack. There was a sense of familiarness as he told me how it may seem strange, but he felt a bit like his dad was never far away when he carried that knife. I had to tell him about my dad and the peanut that finds itself into my pocket very often.
It was a strange afternoon interlude, going to a biker bar on our Vespa's, and meeting another old knife knut on a Harley, and talking about our fathers old pocket knives.
We had eaten as we talked, and after paying the bill we walked outside and Darrell showed us his bike. A beautifull old 1966 creamsickle orange electraglide. He'd built it from a basket case that came in a bunch of milk crates and cardboard boxes. It was flat out gorgious.
We rode north up rt 15 back to Whites Ferry road, escorted by several old pre-evo Harleys, and as we made our turn back to the ferry and the river there was horn honking and waving as we went our seperate ways. The Harleys to the north, and us back over the river to Maryland. As we rode home, I couldn't help but reflect on no matter how different some of us may be, sometimes we're so much the same.
But I've been riding not just "a" HD, but my current HD since before the RUBbie ("rich urban biker") craze hit, and looooong before "Orange County Choppers" was a gleam in some network exec's eye, so I get a pass. 
). The spin we get from both conservative and liberal media is a real shame. My last bike was an '83 FXRS, the last of the shovelheads. Now I ride a bicycle, and that is REALLY cool!:thumbup: