It was already 9:00 in the morning and I was itching to go. This was one of those itches that you just can’t scratch. Not like an itch that you’re not supposed to scratch in public, and not the kind that gets all infected and scabby later. A deeper itch. The kind that can only be satisfied when the wife does EXACTLY what you tell her to do.

“C’mon, honey!” I begged in my best gottahavitrightnow voice. “Let’s go!”

She stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the leather straps. “You said ten o’clock,” she put me in my place. She turned and admired the way her Genuine Harley-Davidson Leather Vest made her look.

“No, I said between nine and ten, more like nine-thirty than ten, but we could go fer it right now if you want!” This is what I call “Using Reason.” It has never worked before, but I’m convinced that it will…someday.

“Okay,” she agreed. “Nine-thirty.”

All excited, I undid my belt buckle and peeled off my jeans. Rummaging through my pants drawer, I found what I was looking for. Cammie cargo pants. I’d need the extra pockets.

She found something new to worry about almost immediately. “I’m running on fumes,” she complained.

“Then we should leave earlier,” I argued. For some reason, this sounded logical to her.

So at 9:15 AM on August 22nd, 2009, we simultaneously ignited two throbbing Harley engines and went through our usual two-minute warmup. Then we drove out to the main road, checked for traffic, and pulled out into the chill of the previous nights cold front. The day would be clear, the humidity low, and the temperature delightfully crisp.

We were driving to Union, Mississippi, for the annual “Country Day.” Six point one miles away.

Country Day has been a regular occurrence in Union ever since General Sherman checked his staff officers into the Boler Inn on Jackson Street and burned the rest of the city to the ground. With a mix of country/bluegrass music, arts and crafts vendors, and carnival-style food, this sleepy little town comes alive for one day out of the year.

But every year, it’s the same old thing. Chicken on a stick, t-shirts, quilts, corndogs, beads, turkey calls, and funnel cakes. And every time, Country Day is held on the hottest day of the year and for some strange reason, nobody dies (even though the mean age is 64).


Behold! The infamous Funnel Cake. No, it's not overexposed. That's sugar!


This year was different. This year, over two hundred thundering motorcycles shook the streets of Union. Leather-clad outlaw gangs terrorized the unsuspecting townfolk, invading the vendor tents with their “biker chicks” and throwing money at the people selling trinkets!

Miz Roo and I live a few miles up the road from Union, so our bikes were barely warm when we pulled into the Clark Oil gas station. I was looking forward to ethanol-free gas pumped by a real attendant who knew how to gas up a Harley. I had already invited every biker on HDForums to drive down to Union and take advantage of this unique little gas station.

So, of course, they were closed. Filthy, heathen, money-grubbing grease monkeys were CLOSED! Miz Roo blamed me. So we turned East and drove out of town to get gas at Spanky’s. It was 9:25, and the streets of Union were already filling up with motorcycles. I was like a kid on Christmas morning.

Ten minutes later, full of 10% booze/90% ooze, we cruised in tight formation back down Jackson Street toward Main, where all the bikes were. But that area was all roped off and there was no way to get in.

I pulled up to ask the man tending the rope (let’s just call him “Rasputin”) how to get in. Miz Roo peeled off, too, following my lead. Rasputin must have been very impressed because he immediately opened the rope and waved us through. And right there on the light pole where the rope was tied was the most beautiful pair of words I had ever read… “BIKES ONLY.”


Union, Mississippi has never seen so many bikes. Or so many beards!


Ever since the dawn of Country Day, vehicles have been prohibited from Main Street during the festival. You could only travel by foot, wheelchair, or choo-choo ride. But not today! Today, you could drive right in so long as you did it on a motorcycle!

I parked next to the registration tent. Miz Roo parked her bike (“Gypsy”) in the show zone and busied herself with a bottle of Windex and a roll of paper towels. I paid $10 to enter the afternoon’s poker run, another ten for Miz Roo to do the run with me, and then another ten to enter her in the American Sport Bike show class.

There was paperwork to be filed with each purchase. For the bike show, I had to put down her name, then her address (same as mine), then her city, and her state, and her zip code.

Then all the blood rushed from my head. They had included a trick question… “AGE”.

Surely they meant the age of the bike! I looked around and saw further down a question about the bikes manufacturer, model, and year. So, no…they didn’t mean the bike’s age. I looked into the eyes of the sixteen year old girl who was processing the applications. There was no sympathy there, no inkling of sorrow for what she was asking me to do.

“Do you mean,” I asked quietly, “my WIFE’s age?”

I briefly lost my balance as the world slowed down ever so slightly. The wind in the trees suddenly became dead calm. Five thousand people stopped talking simultaneously. I couldn’t look, but I had to. I turned my head slightly and saw Miz Roo stiffen. Her back was turned to me as she came to attention, arms outstretched yet still gripping a roll of paper towels. Her feet fluttered ever so lightly and she lifted straight into the air, pirouetting slowly and floating across the fifteen yards separating herself from me. Nightmarish eyes, all white, were set in a furrowed mask of pure flesh-eating horror, and then she spoke.

“WHAT,” she spat, “do they need to know THAT for?”

A small male dachshund heard her voice and wagged his tail furtively. She looked at it and the little dog fell into a coma.

I had one chance… one chance only. “21,” I wrote. Then after a quick scowl-check over my shoulder, I added “(or thereabouts)”.

The breeze started up again, and once more the streets of Union were teeming with conversation.

I helped get Gypsy ready for the show, and then noticed the time – 10:30! “If we hurry,” I told Miz Roo, “we can get lunch at Peacock’s before the crowd hits.” She was looking forward to biting off bits of meat with her bare teeth, so together we light-heartedly scampered up the steps and forced open the door into Peacock’s.

Of the several places to eat in Union, Peacock’s is undoubtedly the best. The décor is bare brick and plaster with eight ceiling fans providing air conditioning. The interior is a single gigantic room, the kitchen walls a mere afterthought. It’s sort of a brick cave. The walls are decorated in photographs of Union since the turn of the century. The tables are heavy wood, each one with a bucket of peanuts in the center.

But their front door sticks when it's closed and to get in you have to use your shoulder to break the seal. That makes everybody look up from their meals and stare at you like you were some sort of filty biker and his "biker chick" coming in to cause trouble. In turn, this makes me automatically check whether my zipper is down, which I do by grabbing at it and testing it. In turn, this gesture makes me very unpopular with the locals. Maybe it has the opposite effect on other ladies, but no one has ever pointed out how cute it looks when I do that.

We ordered cheeseburgers and tea. Miz Roo complained that there were other Sporties on the show line, and she had seen rust spots on her chrome, and her tires were dirty. There was no way she was going to take home a trophy.

I agreed, by mistake.

Gentlemen… when your wife is feeling insubstantial, she is expressing a desire to be reassured. Do NOT agree with her. Especially if she can levitate. I had only one recourse… spend money.


We left Peacock’s and headed West down Main Street. Right away I saw an airbrush booth. There are always several airbrush artists at Country Day, but not like this one. She was painting motorcycle helmets… those mean, SOA-style skullcap helmets. And, yes, she told us that she could paint a realistic-looking DOT sticker on the back. Miz Roo is certain that she looks absolutely Geek-y in her white half-shell, so I reminded her that she could always get it painted to match her bike. This made her happy, and since she was happy there was no longer any need to paint her helmet, so we left.



Big, bad bikers on the choo-choo ride. Note the look of
terror on the little girl's face. You can't see it, but she has written "Help Me" on the other side of her balloon.


Across the street was a tent covering a quilt on large frame. Urgently, two guys came over and offered to let me buy a chance on winning the quilt, all for charity of course. That’s when I noticed that it was a very unusual piece of work. Each panel in the quilt was made from a t-shirt obtained a different Harley-Davidson dealership. The end result was stunning. I bought two tickets and hope to win this bed-warmer when they hold the drawing in September.

No, I’m not an idiot. I didn’t get taken. The booth was being manned by an old friend, Sandy McBeath, one of the nation’s premiere farriers (“hoss-shooers” to the unwashed). I never knew he was into bikes until he pointed out his 2005 Ultra parked on the corner.

Miz Roo and I wandered around town a bit, even stopping at the post office to check our mail. Then we decided to go back and make sure the bikes were OK. Bluegrass gospel music floated through the streets, courtesy of a live band and good speakers. The best crafts were on display, as were the worst. The air was still cool but the midday sun was warming me up so I removed my vest.

The bikes were perfectly safe. We couldn’t hang around, though. The show judges were circulating and they didn’t want any undue influence. I was trying hard to convince Miz Roo to exert some influence, but she kept her clothes on anyway.

All that walking around was hot work. Union is a pretty big place. We had an hour before the poker run was scheduled to hit the street, so we returned to Peacock’s for one last iced tea. I was halfway up the steps when I heard my name.

“RoosterBoots,” a woman’s voice called out. “HEY! ROOSTERBOOTS!”

I turned and stood face-to-face with a woman I had never met. Her husband caught up quickly, extending a hand. “69Z28,” he introduced himself. I had finally been identified and cornered by a fellow Avatar. They had deduced my identity through the slimmest of hints… a white dancing chicken emblazoned on my back under the words “Rooster Boots” in bright red. Sometimes, it’s the evidence you can’t see that gives you away.

We shook hands all around and introduced our real selves. Then talked for awhile and barely noticed when another gentleman and his lady sidled up. I looked at him, and for a fleeting second thought that I knew him.

“Ron?” I asked tentatively. “RoadKingRon?”

He nodded and grinned. “Are you really RoosterBoots?” he asked. He introduced his wife laughingly as “Miz Ron.” Then, looking up the stairs, he spotted my wife. Reaching up to shake her hand, he appeared to almost descend to one knee in homage. “And you… are you really Miz Roo?”


Behold! (Left to right) RoosterBoots, 69Z28, Miz Ron, and RoadKingRon1. We also answer to
"Roo", "69", "yes dear", and "Road King Ron the First".


She smiled. “I’ve never met this man before.” She batted her eyelashes and spoke to his wife. “Dear,” she said, “would you kindly go and tell the Sheriff that I’m being stalked?”

And so began a growth spurt of self-esteem that will carry me through at least three more attacks of hubris.

“69” had to leave, and Ron took us into Peacock’s to buy a round of iced teas. Quenched, we wandered down to the bike zone and looked over each others’ machines. I apologized for the saliva stains I had left on his wife’s Harley earlier that morning. I offered her some Windex and a paper towel, but she was a true Southern gentlewoman and politely declined, covering her mouth with a lace hanky when I described how many times and places I had dripped drool on her machine.

Soon it was one o’clock. The four of us sparked out engines and headed out on the poker run. There were four stops on the run. First up, Little Rock (Mississippi). To get there, you had to follow the “Poker Run” signs, each one lettered in a tiny, illegible font and barely visible above the grassy stubble on the side of the road.


Checkpoint Little Rock, and Miz Ron get bupkus again!


Also, the sign-makers had placed each sign PRECISELY across from the intended turn so that, traveling at sixty miles per hour, every biker unfamiliar with the route had the opportunity to practice emergency braking in heavy traffic.

The Little Rock route carried bikers through a series of tight curves, a couple of which were on steep hills. This is Highway 494, renowned for carrying log trucks of such weight and girth that they cannot stay in their own lane throughout a blind curve without violating the laws of physics. The savvy biker will stick like glue to the right-hand margin until the road ahead is once again visible.

There were few savvy bikers that day. Our little group kept attracting followers who were completely lost during the first stop. For me, it was simply the route I drove to go to work every day for two years, so we had a generally pleasant trip.

Our second stop brought us to the Piggly Wiggly in Collinsville. There, we picked a card from a deck held by Chris Jones. We learned after the run that part of Chris’ skull had to be removed after a 4-wheel wreck. The poker run was held to benefit his follow-up surgeries.

On the road again. A fifteen minute sprint to the BP gas station at House, Mississippi. Everybody paused for a nature call, another card from the deck, a soda, and some mutual motorcycle appreciation.

Back in formation, traveling West down Highway 492 we immediately run into loose gravel on a partially asphalted road. That messy hell only lasted a couple of miles before we popped up onto a stretch of new, pristine road. The afternoon air was cooling off again, and the wind had picked up. In my rearview I could see that we had picked up stragglers. Our group accelerated to the speed limit. We had curves to straighten out and poker hands to redeem.

Returning to Union at last, we banked left onto Main Street and Rasputin held the rope for us as we coasted back into the mustering area at 2:30 PM. We were treated like royalty. THIS was the way to run a bike rally.

Our poker hands all sucked. And by that, I mean that they were able to pull syrup off a waffle through a coffee stirrer. We won bupkus. RoadKingRon and Miz Ron walked up to the center of town to watch a dog show. Miz Roo and meself went to buy t-shirts, souvenirs of the FIRST Annual Country Day Bike Rally.


Not everybody rides a Harley.


By 3:15, people were filtering out to their cars, forced to park on the outskirts of town. I know it was rude, but I had to giggle. "Bwuahahahaha," I tittered, pointing at all the poor little non-bikers hoofing it to their cars. "Mwahaha...Bwuahahahahaha!" Miz Roo saw the people being forced to walk to their cars and understood the reason for my amusement. She joined in with her characteristic chuckle, "EEeeeeee-hee-hee-hee-heee!"

Yeah, it was a happy time.

I was busying myself digging out the last couple of bites from a cup of chocolate ice cream and Miz Roo was pestering me to get her a different t-shirt. Sandy McBeath walked by and overheard my plight. He gave me a sympathetic look, which translated into “nothin’ you can do, boy, give the lady ten bucks.”

We still had our choice of bikes to drool over, some of which were owned by people gracious enough to let us sit on them. I have a new list of stuff I gotta buy.

Miz Roo heard her name called out. Something about American Sport Class. Something about First Place. A quick photo with her bike and her trophy, and she was off again in search of a better t-shirt.


Miz Roo and "Gypsy". Best of Class. Both of 'em.


The announcer said something about an even bigger event next year. I sure hope so. Country Day is what rallies are all about.