Easy Riders

Easy Riders or Hells Angels?

En route to Englewood Hospital at about 6:30, I saw a black stretch limo on my right and 10 motorcycles on my left.

Where were they headed? Was the limo taking a couple [or a group of girlfriends] out to a white- linen dinner in Soho? Were they dressed chicly behind the smoked glass? LBD, Prada handbag, high sandals, shiny pedicure, glossy hair, French perfume, reservations for 7:30? Fine wine, fresh rolls, heirloom tomatoes, prize olive oil, grass-fed beef, the perfect cup of espresso?

How about the bikers on Route 4? Nine men were riding solo. One had a woman straddled behind him, arms wrapped around his waist. Their ownership of each other was tangible and clear. Her bare arms were covered with tattoos that caught my eye as the bike whizzed by. Where did they go? A lake, a mountain road? Do they have regular jobs? I didn't see any baggage--literally or figuratively. Only perceived freedom.

Me, I was headed to the Glenwood Parking Garage, after touring a nursing home on a bad hair day with a tear in my skirt and dirty sneakers that I put on to take a walk but never did. I had gone to Whole Foods for a salad and ended up also getting dessert. Rough emotional terrain since this morning. Lost my footing.

In the hospital lobby, I feed a machine a fiver and it spits out a golden token. I can stay as long as I like. I had some laughs with Dad, who is getting nutrition from a feeding tube connected to his stomach. And with Sis, who called while I was there. Then I came home tired, with chores to do and work mail to check. A dog to walk under the moon because no one else in the family gives her fluffly little self walks as long as I do.

We're all going somewhere in this world. Near or far, frivolous or fast, plain or special. The bikers, the limo riders and I all had a date with destiny--some more exhilarating than others.