The Best Dressed Biker

It was a red light at six AM this morning on the corner of Montauk Avenue and Bank Street. A small, beat-up, Japanese brand, pick-up truck pulled up to a small, shiny blue, Japanese-brand motorcycle. The driver of the truck rolled down his window and, with a cigarette butt hanging our of his mouth, told the driver of the motorcycle that he was the best dressed biker he had ever seen.

The motorcyclist was wearing a new, French, olive, boiled wool, trench coat with a double row of brass buttons in the front and a brass-buttoned belt in back. He had a silk scarf knotted between the dashing lapels of his coat in best Hollywood avitator's style. The knot was as puffed out and full as an ascot. He was wearing a stingy brimmed fedora that fits so well it stays on his head safely at any speed. His legs, that showed beneath the hem of his coat were clad in dark gray, worsted wool, pinstrip trousers.

The truck driver told the motorcyclist that he was the best dressed biker he had ever seen. The motorcyclist took his white, kid skin gloved hand off the throttle and tipped his fedora to the truck driver by way of thanks. They both chuckled and waved as they parted company when the light turned green. The truck rattled up Town Hill toward the New London border. The mortocycle sped up Montauk Avenue, the hems of the driver's trench coat flapping gracefully in the wind.

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