The Spring of 1982 – Addendum (not part three – call it 2.5)

This is part 2.5 of a multi part post.  Part one is here.  Part two is here.

 I was asked about the diner incident. This is already going to be a long story, so I’ll try not to give you examples of things that happened unless I also am going to provide details (read that as, “I wish I would not have mentioned the diner”).

In any case, we were on the Interstate, and needed gas.  We had some basic rules – if anyone needs gas, everyone gets gas.  If any needs a potty break, we all take  a potty break.  So we pulled off into a two gas station town.

It was two hours since breakfast.  Tiny was hungry the (rules were modified after we realized Tiny would eat every two hours).  After we gassed up and used the restrooms, Tiny pulled crossed the street to a small local diner.  Our bikes were all across the street – in the gas station parking lot.  (Here’s another thing – gas stations don’t like a bunch of motorcycles pulling up either.  They don’t buy much gas, they generally hang around a lot longer than a car (so people can stretch) and unlike someone in a car, they can’t take a bunch of crap with them to munch on).

There was a sign on the diner.  It said something like, “Bikers are not welcome”.  I am not sure Tiny could read.

We followed him in and there was an older couple seated that were without a doubt in charge – but there were a couple of younger people actually cooking and serving.

“Alice!”, the old man suddenly shouted.  He was sitting at a table by the kitchen, smoking a pipe.

The girl from behind the counter came running (almost literally).  The old man said something to her and she came over to us and said she was sorry, but that they were closed.

Did I mention Tiny was hungry?  This looked like a one-diner town, and Tiny wasn’t listening to “no”.

Tiny had a menu in his hand, and he ordered.  The girl looked from him to the older man.  Finally the older man gave a motion with his head toward the back.  The girl led us to some tables outside (hard wooden picnic tables – great – the chairs inside were at least padded).  She said she was sorry, but they were going to “mop up” inside.

The food ended up being good, although I wonder now if they had spit in it.  Since then, I’ve never eaten where someone doesn’t want me.

And that’s pretty much the diner story.  Nothing amazing, which is why I didn’t go into a lot of detail before. 

Part three on Monday (with any luck).