Chapter 14

“Let’s ride,” Pastor James hollered over the two engines.

Zeke nodded.

The pastor turned his handlebar sharply and headed back down the driveway. He turned right on the Copper Gulley Road and pulled back on his throttle.

Zeke struggled with the bike’s gears but soon got the feel for her. The awkwardness slipped away as he caught up with the pastor and rode at a comfortable distance next to him down the county road.

They turned west on Highway 50. The Arkansas River flowed to their right as they wound their way toward Cotopaxi. It was a beautiful drive. Granite outcrops jutted up to their left, distant hills rose from the riverbed to their right. Log homes dotted the occasional clearing. Horses stood inside split-rail fences, munching on the native grass. One, then two, raised its head as the roaring cycles sped by their tranquil world. Billboards advertising river rafting tours and restaurants scattered the freeway.

The highway curved and straightened where the granite mountain allowed the engineers to lay its path however many years ago. Was this the same trail the wagon trains followed to get through the Rocky Mountains? The sun hovered above the horizon ahead of them and cast eerie pink and orange fingers across the sky. Shadows stretched along the multi-colored phalanges where springtime clouds blocked the light.

They eased their bikes into a parking area in front of a diner which apparently doubled as a small supply store. There was a long wooden porch across the length of the building. At the far end was a red telephone booth.

“Hmm.” Zeke marveled at the sight of it. “Haven’t seen one of those in ... forever.”

“True.”

The pastor removed his helmet and carried it on his right hip. His hand hung down relaxed over the bulge of the helmet.

Pastor James looked cool.

Zeke looked like a city boy on a Harley.

Together they entered the diner.

“Hey, Molly,” Pastor called to the graying blond woman behind the soda fountain counter.

“Hey, Pastor,” she called back. “You boys wanna soda?”

“Sure,” Pastor answered and turned to Zeke. “Do you want a soda?”

“Of course,” he answered with a chuckle.

She pulled two old-fashioned soda glasses from a cabinet, held them against a stainless steel box, and pushed down on a silver lever. Thick black syrup blobbed into the bottom of each glass. One at a time, she pushed the glasses against another lever and white, bubbly water poured into each. Stirring them both vigorously until she seemed satisfied with the mixture, she then scooped crushed ice into the concoction. She grabbed two straws from a shiny chrome dispenser and pushed one into each glass. Placing the glasses on the highly polished counter, she winked at Pastor James.

Zeke sat in amazement. He’d never had a real old-fashioned soda. He drew the liquid up the straw and let it flow over his tongue. “Wow. I have never had anything like this.”

“Few have. This is the only real soda fountain left in America, I think,” the pastor said.

For a while, nothing could be heard from the two bikers, except the squeak of chrome and vinyl stools and the slurp of their straws announcing the last of the liquid. Molly walked over and laid a hand-written receipt between them. Zeke reached for it but the pastor snatched it up. “I got this.”

“No, let me get it.” Zeke swiveled off his stool.

Pastor had already flipped a five-dollar bill on the counter and Molly picked it up with an odd smile Zeke couldn’t interpret. She winked at him and he instinctively winked back.

“You must be Zeke.” Molly wiped her hand on a white towel hanging from her apron and pushed it toward him.

He shook her hand. “Yes, I am.”

“You come down here and eat anytime. We got real good food.”

“I’ll do that, ma’am.”

“Ma’am.” She shoved a thumb toward him, over her shoulder. “I like this one.”

Zeke’s face flushed warm. He followed the pastor’s lead and the two men walked back outside.

“Where to now?” Pastor asked.

“Might as well head home,” Zeke said.

“Home it is. You take the lead.”

Zeke nodded and kicked his bike’s engine to life.

He loved the bone-jarring rumble.