Thunder roared in the distance as I ducked under the rusty, corrugated sheet-iron structure. I was a lone 16-year-old boy wearing a faded Levi’s jacket, tight, high-water 501s, and a white T-shirt.
Three hundred miles into the day’s journey, my 4 a.m. departure was taking its toll. It was my longest day yet on a motorcycle. I was tired, feared getting wet, and the sun was low, somewhere among the western clouds. I laid my new 1972 Honda Motorsport on its side in the pasture and dragged it in behind me. The roof hung low, its walls succumbing to gravity. A stack of hay bales was all that held it off the ground. The shelter was enough. The unmistakable smell of new rain hit my nostrils first. Then began the noisy dance on the tin as I lay back on the loose straw, drops and then streams of water making their way through tiny holes. I drifted off, thinking of the long ride back and of my girlfriend … I hoped she was waiting.