Martin left his motorcycle at home when he went to New York City for a weekend of theater and fine dining. He stepped out of the terminal and waved at a taxi. Amazing! It was available. He got in, and the cabdriver says, “You’ve got perfect timing. You’re just like Tom.”
Martin asked, “Who?”
“Tom, Tom Henderson. He did everything right all the time. Just like now. I happened to drop off a fare just when you needed a taxi. Things like that happened to Tom all the time.”
Martin said, “Everybody has problems now and then.”
“Not Tom Henderson. He was a star athlete; he could have won the grand slam in tennis. He could golf like Arnie in his prime. He sang like one of the three tenors and danced like Fred Astaire and he could play just about any instrument you can name.”
“He must have been really special.”
The cabbie continued. “I’m just getting started. He had a memory like a computer—never forgot a birthday or an anniversary. He knew which wine went with which entrée, and which fork to use for everything from oysters to dessert. And he was good with his hands. He could fix anything. Now, you take me. If I change a fuse, I’ll put the lights out for blocks around. But not Tom. He did everything right.”
“My goodness, he must have been quite a guy.”
“Oh, yes indeed. He always knew the best route to avoid traffic jams. I always seem to get caught in them. And he really knew how to treat a woman and make her feel like royalty. Yes, he was the perfect gentleman, the perfect man. No one could ever measure up to Tom Henderson.”
Martin asked, “How did you meet him?”
“I never met him. He died, and I married his widow.”
Yet, there’s no denying it: Unless you plan to ride exclusively around the Southern United States, you’ll face some chilly winters. And even before it...
