Judd exited the Port Costa bar with a beer bottle in his hand, crossed the street, cocked his ear to the left and recognized the signature sound as it echoed louder and louder, each second closer to the biker bar. "Guess we're in for another lesson in high performance," he said, and swigged a mouthful of his favorite microbrew.

Knuckles could be heard way off in the hills, miles before he was anywhere near the place. His favorite bike had a reputation, well known by the noise it made as well as the company that kept it that way. Knuckles was a biker's biker, a career Harley mechanic with an attitude, who rode loud pipes.

Knuckles' nickname confused those who didn't know him, thinking his moniker revolved around fist fighting. But it came from his passion for restoring old classic Harley Knuckleheads. And he didn't mind being called Knuckles or Knucklehead. To him, that was who he was. But no one ever accused Knuckles of being a classic.

Even so, from the looks of him, one might conclude that he just might be a scrapper. A bulky dude with a hefty beer gut, black curly longish hair and an uneven, skimpy, never-finished mustache and scruffy beard, all of which gave the casual observer, pause. And him, ample room on a sidewalk.

But people soon learned to be comfortable with him, un-intimidated by his outlaw-biker appearance. His natural facial expression was set in a permanent smile, a face only a mother could love. Even when he wasn't smiling, he appeared to be, probably due to dimples that showed through the blotchy beard. His friends knew when he was really smiling, his teeth showed. If it weren't for that, he'd scare the ears off a brass monkey.

So, Knuckles got along with most people even though he had the Harley attitude that if you didn't understand the Harley thing, he couldn't explain it. The Harley mantra for decades. He was a walking billboard for The Motor Company.

His vocabulary was famous, too. He recycled the same set of four letter words in every conversation. They were infused, suffused and littered with repeated expressions of the same words.

His favorite topics revolved around technical data, settings for different camshafts and carburetors, and what mutha aftermarket manufacturer made the best freekin' goodies. He knew which company made the best of whatever. He was a walking reference library for exhausts, chrome and paint, all preceded by those same recycled words. He was known for "grabbing a handful of throttle," or "a fistful of brake," always preceded by the same four letter modifiers.

Knuckles rode the oldest, lowest, shiniest, most customized chromed bike around, suicide shift and all. On this particular hot Sunday, Knuckles thundered into the dust of the parking lot, killed the ignition, backed the gleamer against the curb and shook the hands of gathering Knucklehead admirers.

Knuckles enjoyed drinking Long Island Ice Teas served in the typical Port Mason jar, eschewing the beer image. He'd grab a handful of Mason jar with stained hands and fingernails that celebrated his wrenching career, then commiserate with the others in black leather chaps and vests. They would become immersed in Harleying, and the continuing search for the endless summer.

Knuckles yelled across the parking lot to Judd, "Hey, man. I found a '50 Shovelhead up in Napa."

It was like someone shut off a sound system. Several of Knuckles' friends, sitting on nearby bikes and meandering around inspecting others, turned towards him with confusion smeared over their faces like leaking lube oil. Mouths were agape, brows furrowed, and a hush descended over the parking lot.

Judd, recognizing the hush, realized he heard right. "A Shovelhead?" he shot back, shaking off his shock.

"Yeah, man. Gotta branch out. My Old Lady says I gotta get flexible. I think I've done restored all the ... Knuckleheads in the whole friggen area. I'm runnin' out of hardware."

"Geeze," Judd said. "Mid-life crisis? The Y2K bug?"

"No, man. I'm friggen branchin' out. I'm needin' new worlds to conquer."

Judd mulled the news. "What's your old lady say?"

Knuckles drained his Mason jar. "Trixie's flippin' out, man. Freekin' blown away. She hoped I'd get into somethin' really different, like friggen line dancin' or somethin'. 'As if you don't have enough shit around the shack', she said."

Judd made his way through the parked Harleys over to the Ice Tea man. "Don't like country music, huh?"

"Shovelheads, man. Breakin' into a whole new world of spare parts."

"Geeze, Knuckles. What's that gonna do to your reputation."

Knuckles shoved his free hand between his chaps and belt buckled jeans. "I wonder if I could get used to a freekin' name change? Shovelhead. Yeah, has a certain ring to it. Don'tcha think?"

Judd inverted his empty beer bottle. Foam dribbled onto the dirt. "Your turn to buy, Shovelhead."