Looking Ahead While Running Backwards

                                                            By David Crerand

It was already shaping up to be a rare day in western New York. It was a hot, beautiful August Saturday afternoon. Three of the local riding clubs had pooled their resources, rented a pavilion at Mendon Ponds Park, hired a couple of local bands and were roasting swine. There was a refrigerated beer truck with four taps protruding from each side pumping out drafts like there was no tomorrow. There were tons of pretty girls in halter-tops or bikinis showing off ink and skin while their old men glared proudly at anyone who might gaze at their old lady for one second too long. In the parking lot, an impromptu bike show was underway as townies, other bikers and probably an undercover sheriff or two wandered up and down the long rows of motorcycles, dreaming, comparing and coveting. There were customs, classics, floor models and wrecks. Harley was predominantly represented but there were also some Hondas, Victory’s, an occasional BMW or Norton, and a wide assortment of Jap crotch rockets. Across the whole crowd wafted the pungent scent of marijuana and the gentle vibe of a chilling good time.

Pink sat on the hillside, a hundred yards or so from the stage, his shirt and vest folded beside him, helmet resting on top concealing his holster and Colt Python. His dark mirrored sunglasses allowed him to surreptitiously scan the crowd with anonymity. He sat cross-legged; balancing a plate of fresh roasted pork slices, salt potatoes and macaroni salad. Two twenty ounce plastic cups of beer sat on the ground in front of him. Yeah, he thought, this day was shaping up fine. Pink was an independent, who, though he knew members of all the riding clubs in western New York, stayed away from joining any of the groups. And all of the clubs were fine with that, for Pink, a fully licensed and bonded Private Investigator, made his services available to any rider who might have a need. Those who could pay did, those who couldn’t, slid. Pink was a coin with two very different sides. One involved wealth, decorated military service, law enforcement and highly developed but lethal skills. The other was a laid back dude, who valued friendship highly, was willing to intercede for the benefit of those who rarely had advocates and who strived to ride his custom Harley as much as was humanly possible. Recent events had caused the destruction of his last ride, and now he was the proud owner of a two-tone sterling silver and vivid black, 2003 Harley-Davidson Deuce, with Luxury Blue and gunmetal pearl trim.