There I was, quite a few miles South of Soso, Mississippi, minding my OWN business (as usual). I was trying to figure out how to squirt strawberry jelly onto a recently steamed MacDonald's English muffin while simultaneously pulling out into traffic in the "A" car when what do I see pulling up to the pump across the street but a teal-and-white '99 Ultra Classic with a matching SIDECAR!

NOTE: The "A" car is a white 2000 Ford Contour. Miz Roo says it’s so plain, the Amish would drive it.

I dropped the English muffin and jelly onto the passenger seat. The upholstery was adequately protected by an open laptop computer (free WiFi at Mickie D's) and my cellphone. I know what you're thinkin'... using a cellphone while drivin' is a mite risky. That’s why I had it on "speakerphone". Safety first!

So I cut across four lanes of relatively slower traffic and pulled into the gas station, cutting off a nice looking Camry whose septuagenarian driver was heading into the same pump, but at a much slower speed than myself. Of course, I didn't need gas. I needed to see that sidecar!

"I had me sidecar just like that 'bout five years ago," I hollered at the driver as I debarked from the "A" car, "but some disreputable ne'er-do-well stole it. Ya got a receipt?" Hee hee. Th' Roo is a great one for knowin' just what to say to break the ice!

Well, the old dude sneaks a hand under his shirt and slaps leather! That's what we call it down here..."Slappin' Leather". Up North they call it "Satan's Handshake".

"Damn!" he mumbles. "That's not my gun." Then his teeth slipped and he forgot what he was doin', which was fine by me 'cause I didn't want to get whacked today (that there's a double entendre, or what you Yankees call "over my head").

"Hi, I'm RoosterBoots," I said by way of introduction.

The noise from the Camry’s horn must’ve garbled his reception, ‘cause he came back with, "Who-boots? I wear thongs."

My visual cortex overheated, leaving me with a blue spot right in the middle of where I have to look when I'm dialing the cellphone. It's mostly gone, now, so tomorrow I plan on parking the "A" car better.

"Th-th-thongs?" I gagged.

"Yes, dammit!" he picked up his right foot and showed me the flip-flops on his feet. The straps had left dirt-free lines on the top of his instep. "THONGS! Sandals!"

“How do you manage to drive with those things?”

He readjusted his teeth, clicked ‘em, pointed at the sidecar and said, “Three wheels!”

I already liked this guy, but I was driven by envy. I wanted to know what made him tick. I pointed at his sidecar and asked a bunch of rapid-fire technical questions.

“Was it hard to get a matching paint scheme?”

“Harley did it.”

“The sidecar fender matches yer front fender. Howd’ja manage that?”

“Harley did it.”

“Was it hard to hook up to yer Ultra?”

“Harley did it.”

“I’ll bet the girls go wild over this thing.”

“I’m ninety-two years old.”

He didn’t look a day over eighty-eight. He introduced himself, but as usual I wasn’t paying attention so all I remember is “mumble Baxter”. Out of respect, I’ll just refer to him as “Mumble”.

It’s not every day that you run into an Olde Dude drivin’ around with a sidecar. I asked him how hard it was to get used to the third wheel stickin’ way out there.

“Five thousand miles,” he answered. “It takes about five thousand miles of driving until you’re really good at it, but I’ve been pushin’ a sidecar since 1948.”

“Well, then, I must say that yer Ultra looks surprisingly good, considerin’ its age …”

“No! This here’s a Ninety-Seven model. I bought it with the sidecar ‘cause of I can’t hold up a two-wheeler no more ‘cause of the stroke.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. How long ago did you have the stroke?”

“The second one was in Ninety Seven,” he patiently explained to me. “I’d had one before that. Figgered my bikin’ days was comin’ to a close. That’s why I got this here sidecar.”

I wandered around it, trying to figure out how to build one with parts from Lowe’s. “I bet people bug you all the time for a ride!”

“Not any more,” Mumble said. “It’s too small for grown men to sit in, and nobody wants to put their lives in my hands any more. Too risky. Had me another stroke in Oh-Five and a heart attack ‘round the first of this year. So I just keep luggage in it now.”

I let it all sink in. “Lemme see if I got this right,” I said, taking a step backward. “You’re ninety-five years old…”

“Ninety TWO,” he corrected instantly. “And a half.”

“…and you’ve had three strokes…”

“And a heart attack,” he reminded me.

“AND a heart attack, and you drive the coolest bike in the neighborhood.” I walked around to the front and examined the tire. I’d never seen one like it before.

“Cop tires,” Mumble explained. “Real special. They can roll over a spike strip and nothin’ happens. You can’t ordinarily buy ‘em.”

I wondered how often he challenged spike stips on his Ultra, but decided not to push my luck. He looked a lot tougher than me. “You can’t buy ‘em? How’d you manage to get three of ‘em, then?”

“Harley did it.”

I’d absorbed as much as I could. I bade him farewell and carefully negotiated a “U” turn in the “A” car. Within seconds, I was ready to pull out into traffic. I looked over at Pump #3 to wave goodbye to Mumble, but he was already gone. I doubt that I’ll ever see him again. I doubt that I’ll live to see ninety-two, but if I do, I hope that I can keep it together enough to scoot around on a pristine Ultra with a sidecar.

Wearing thongs.