We live on a country road to mostly nowhere. Our road is not a shortcut to anywhere, it seems to me, but I have heard from others that our winding, mountainous road is a shortcut. To where I wonder. Our ridge rises above rolling farmland, and is itself a patchwork of irregular farm fields and rock-filled forests. Turkey Vultures cruise low over our farmhouse. Raven, Osprey and Bald Eagle wheel above.
Our road rises, turns, and rises again and turns again, and finally heads down into the Delaware and Musconetcong river valleys dotted with more farmhouses, barns, and old bridges. For these reasons - the twists, changes in elevation, and the views and scenery - Sunday drivers, riders of bicycles and motorcycles, and others cruise our road.
One drinks Fireball Cinnamon Whisky and smokes flavored cigars. We know because we pick up debris that flies out of the recycling truck and is tossed out someone’s window on the road to nowhere. We fill a sack of such trash at least four times a year. We call ourselves the Clean Team.
Several times a month, a biker cruises along our road to nowhere. He rides his motorcycle and wears a German style half helmet, and leather jacket with patches. Motorcycle, helmet, and jacket all black. I hear his bike come up the ridge and around the bend. He turns his head, looks up the hill, honks, and waves.