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| People I didn’t expect to wave, did. Foremost among these are the bikers, Harley riders mostly, but there’s a division among them. The real bikers haul ass on chopped hogs in clusters—ones and twos, threes and fours. Momma rides relaxed on the back of his bike while his washed-out gray Harley shirt flaps in the wind. He wears worn leather and a smile. Real bikers wave two ways. One is the flag. Left hand (right holds the throttle open), thumb on top, palm to the wind. Fingers remain closed. It’s tight, a minimalist wave with eye contact.
The other wave is the power claw. He opens his fingers if possible, but it just might be a loose fist. The wave is casual, tired, ready for beer. His beard breezes to the side as he turns his head to check out the crazy bicyclists. Mommas don’t wave: they laugh. At least mommas look like they’re having a good time. The other type of biker, the wannabe, stares straight ahead, affecting attitude. He’s an accountant or a lawyer tricked out in a leather S&M power suit on a custom, gleaming chrome hawg with flames painted on the gas tank. His trophy wife will clutch tight, her cutoffs pushing the limits. His Harley shirt is pure black, and she wears expensive little round sunglasses. He is a poseur. Poseurs never wave. Hitchhikers didn’t wave at us either because we had nothing to offer. RV drivers and Honda motorcyclists wonder what’s wrong with two young men who have chosen to cross the prairie without the benefits of internal combustion. That kind of thing is un-American and subversive. These people always operate their motor vehicles with both hands on the steering wheel or handlebar. So they don’t wave. Other bicyclists, neohippies in VWs and kids in minivans do wave, but like us, they’re passing through and just learning to overcome the numbness of urban anonymity. When they wave too much, they’re making up for the times they waved too little. They feel guilty because they missed waving at a kid on top of a hay truck a 1/2 mile back. Or as the target of a rural wave, they hesitated, asking, “Did that old woman wave at us?” They look in the rear view mirror, realizing they are in the only other car out there, but by then the old woman’s Plymouth Valiant has appeared in the mirror. Too late: she’s passed. They resolve to be sharper next time, and the person riding shotgun is assigned waving duty. In this way, they’re finding balance. Too much waving and the recipients will squint and wonder if they know you or raise an eyebrow as if to ask, rhetorically, “You’re not from around here, are you?” Too little and they don’t see it. |
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