On this summer's bikepacking trip, after cycling all day to reach our chosen campsite, my buddy Roy and I decided that rather than eating dinner from our dwindling selection of freeze-dried meals, we would find a restaurant and treat ourselves to food that someone else has prepared.
Before setting up at our camp, we bought some hooch at the local general store and when asked, the proprietor suggested we try a pizza restaurant down the road. Pizza goes down well anywhere, any time.
It turns out that the restaurant, called Marley’s is right on the main road in town and looks like a converted gas station. A low structure with several industrial sized garage doors which have been rolled up, creating an open-air dining experience.Some time later while dining on slabs of pizza heaped with ham, cheese and pineapple we noticed an older Chrysler New Yorker in beautiful shape parked out front. It piqued my interest having owned one years ago.
It was a mistake. Wolf, the owner of the New Yorker turned out to be one of those back-slapping bull-shitter types that you run across every now and then. Standing close, he'll touch you or put his arm around your shoulder while he belly laughs in your ear. Everything is a joke.
The next morning, while heading south along an abandoned railbed, Roy and I could see a dust cloud approaching at a terrific pace. Must be a motorized vehicle driving on this, a hiking/cycling trail. Choking on the stirred up dust, it wasn't any surprise to me that the asshole carreenng past us was no other than "Wolf" the king of the bullshitters.
In my handlebar mirror I could see that he had recognized us and had stopped in a flurry of gravel to converse. As if we wanted to talk to: 1). A jerk who drives on a non-motorized trail, 2). Someone who is going to waste our time with cock and bull stories and finally 3). A person we didn't particularily like.