Rambo

I love meeting interesting people. Organically.

Yesterday, as Lisa and I pulled into the parking lot of Einstein’s Bagels in Loveland, we saw a group of bikers getting off their steel mounts. They were all tall. All wearing club leather. I think it said “Indians.” Three of them, a silver haired man and two blond women, were exceptionally tall. Pleiadeans. One of the other riders went into the store before us and began his order. The others all entered behind us.

When the rider before us completed his order, the cashier called for the next in line. I turned to the riders behind us and said, “Go ahead, you’re all together. We can wait.”

They politely declined, and after they waved off a final, “You sure?” Lisa and I stepped forward and placed our order, which included bagels and muffins for the younger generations back home.

Einstein Bagels has delicious food, but it ain’t cheap.

That’s when I felt a very large hand cover my right shoulder.

I spun like a New Yorker and was eye level with the name, “Rambo” on a riding leather vest.

“I would like to buy you breakfast.” A deep voice said from above.

“Thanks,” I replied, “we’re good.”

“No,” the voice insisted, “That was very kind of you to offer to let us jump the line.”

Now having once been a rider, though like with my mysticism, solitary and eclectic, back in the last century, I knew that polite articulation was not one of the stereotypes often associated with motorcyclists. Still, I was surprised by the soft but powerful energy coming from this particular voice.

I thanked him again, and told him that if he wanted to do me a favor, he can buy a copy of The Wise Ass, and then tell his rider friends. He said he would and then stepped back in line with his other riders.

Afterwards, while I was waiting for our ice coffees over by the Barista, the man approached again and put out his hand. “I’m Rambo.”

Now “Rambo” isn’t a name any man is going to take on lightly. After all, Sylvester Stallone pretty much set that bar out of reach for most humans. And this particular wizard-hobbit (I kept precious) would never try to pull that off, but the size and hand grip of this guy suggested that he could wear it proudly. There also was an energy flowing from that hand that I haven’t felt in a handshake since Dr. Wayne Dyer.

“I graduated the top 2% of my class.”

I was wondering whether to counter that I graduated Magna Cum Laude, just as he continued.

“I beat Pancreatic Cancer. Two years free and clear.”

Now it all made sense.

This guy was a survivor. And he didn’t beat just any old cancer.

All cancer sucks. But Pancreatic cancer is a motherfucker. Took my grandmother, Posie, who was tough as cat shit, in less than six months. Not a pretty way to go.

Then I felt that mojo energy flowing palm to palm and I started shaking that hand like I was working a mojave desert water pump.

I wanted as much of that positive joie de vivre energy as I could get, and Rambo was handing it out like snow to the inuits.

I did not let go of that hand the whole time he explained how much the cancer took of his innards, which NoCo (Greely) cancer center had saved his life, and how Jesus was the deciding factor that got him over the edge.

He also explained that the two pretty blond Amazons were his sisters and the other men his brother in laws. A family that rides together . . . .

I would have probably still been shaking that hand now, had Rambo not had to join his crew out by their bikes.

He stopped for a selfie, and asked that I send him a copy. I had to hold the cell phone at arm’s length and down by my hip in order to get us both in the frame.

“I’ll definitely check out your book,” he said before heading out through the doorway.

“You’ve got a copy in the car,” Lisa reminded me as he walked away, “inscribe it for him!”

So I did.

“Hurry,” Lisa said, handing me a marker. Rambo had just put his helmet on and was getting on the bike.

I ran over and handed him the book. “Here, congrats on being in the top of your class.”

He smiled, thanked me and tossed the book into the trunk case of his bike.

Lisa waved at the group as we drove past. I was still feeling the positive vibes.

I sent the photo to Rambo as soon as I got home.

Then Lisa and I went out Labor Day Weekend bargain hunting for a watercooler for the barn, so I would have water for my coffee maker, which we found and I installed.

Then, after I tested the ensemble with that debut cuppa of Peet’s Dark Brew, I opened my texts and found that Rambo had gotten the photo.

So, yesterday’s lesson. Just be nice. Doesn’t cost a penny and it can make all of the difference in someone’s life. In this case, mine.

Well, it’s a Magical Monday, a holiday, that not only takes the edge off, but leads directly into a shortened week.

I’ve still got my Casa Claire chores to get to, so I better get moving.

But first some kitties to cuddle and rounds to make.

You fine, five readers go out there and embrace the wonder of it all. Hang with the family and friends this last (unofficial) day of summer. Eat, drink and be merry, etc., etc.

And no matter what else we get up to, let us make today a great one.