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7/17/2009 9:28 AM

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By Scott Paulsen

This article has been read 628 times.

When my wife and I were newly married, we tooled around on a Harley Sportster. Those trips through the countryside of Pennsylvania and West Virginia, as much as any other factor, were responsible for us ending up on a farm in Amwell Township.

The bike, like us, was unadorned, free of such ridiculous add-ons as a windshield, a fifth gear or saddlebags. It was undersized and overpowered, the epitome of what some call a “Milwaukee Vibrator”.

We were young people on a young person’s motorcycle.

Years later, having survived grunge rock and mullets, we moved up to a true cruiser, a Heritage Classic, complete with the previously mentioned “old people” add-ons. We remember and laugh about that Sporty every time we pass a roadside fruit and vegetable stand.

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They were having a sale at Janoski’s Farm Market that day. It must have been toward the end of the season and the folks on route 30 near the West Virginia border had all their remaining homegrown tomatoes, peppers and corn at severely reduced prices.

Did I mention we were on a Sportster?

I was reminded by a shouted voice from just behind my head that we needed tomatoes. Could we stop?

By buying a bike with no saddlebags, I had schemed, there would never be a reason to ever have to stop anywhere for anything unless it was a party or a beach.

Wrong again.

I watched helplessly as this woman stuffed a backpack so full of tomatoes that it was nearly impossible to lift. Lift it she did, however, and climbed back aboard.

The first problem was encountered during an s-curve somewhere near Raccoon Creek State Park, when the rear end of the bike tried as hard as it could to introduce itself to the front end. I slowed, we adjusted and headed up the road.

On the next curve the hands around my waist went from being a gentle reminder of couplehood to the grip of a woman hanging from a cliff, grabbing at the last remaining branch. As I began to howl in pain, the motorcycle lurched to the right and nearly created an opportunity for us to appear as “the unfortunate local couple” on the nightly news.

I managed to roll the Harley to side of the road with only bruises and nail gouges (another good weekend). As my partner of these many years hopped from the back, she hefted the backpack of tomatoes towards me and asked if I might like to try readjusting them somehow.

Yes, I replied, I’ll give it a go. Let’s readjust.

I picked a nice spot by the side of road, not too weedy, but still overgrown enough to hide a fifty-pound backpack of Best Boys. After cruising home, our wits and hides intact, we returned hours later, in the car, complete with a trunk (for carrying tomatoes).

Yes, they were still there.

It’s a good thing there was no sale that day on watermelons.

To hear Scott Paulsen's column, visit www.observer-reporter.com. He can be heard each weekday afternoon from 3-7 p.m. on 1250 ESPN Radio.


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