I thought it was very uncanny. The paint on his bike was basically the same color as her hair. Seriously. Kinda funny what you notice when you take a step back and look at things. Tush was riding his chopped-out cruiser and it's a really light silver pearl...the little old lady who was giving him the talking-to had a nicely coiffed 'do in a natural hue that glimmered in the sun almost exactly like his gas tank.

I had taken that step back because, first, I had heard this one before and, second, despite the energy and spunk that this sweet little thing brought to the tilt, I thought my buddy would be able handle himself just fine. She did have vigor and resolve; I'll give her that. She was good to go and you can tell when a person is very passionate about something. God love her, she thought she was doing the right thing. And, I guess she was.

Here we were, four old riding buddies out for a sunny day cruise, just about to end our Timmy's break when this very concerned octogenarian felt it necessary to save us from ourselves. It started off innocently. As we were leaving the coffee shop, Tush held the door open for this dear old girl and her friend. Her response started off with a kindly "Thank you" but quickly turned with a "Why are such nice boys like you being so stupid?"

That one caught our attention. It was that loving slap. You know the one. Your mom is looking out for you, by spanking you. A little weird when you're over 40 though. I mean, we get it plenty from the wives, but this was old school. She was just trying to be that loving mom and, through detailed lecture, she was about to set us straight and tell us exactly how we were being stupid. You could tell. You could feel it coming. Nonetheless, a strong jab had been delivered and, while it did rattle us a bit, it was quickly answered with a "'Scuse me ma'am?"

"Well," she said, "It seems like you boys are nice young gentlemen, and I can't for the life of me figure out why such nice young gentlemen would be so stupid as to risk their lives riding motorcycles. They are very dangerous. You could die on that thing. Don't you know that?" She meant it, too. You could hear the concern in her voice, and you could definitely tell she was not kidding as she lovingly laid into us. She was serious.

This is when Tush stepped up to take the hit for all of us. He's that kind of guy. He's always been that kind of guy. The little big man (all five feet of him) who always pulls for the underdog, demands everyone be treated with respect no matter what, and hates people who have over-inflated ego/authoritarian issues. Which also means, he doesn't take crap from anyone. And, I do mean anyone. I don't care who or how big you think you are.

He was the perfect guy for this one-sided debate. He knew where she was coming from and that she had good intentions. He would take this elder's criticism with humility. Acknowledge her concerns and respond with the utmost respect. Which he did. No surprise. "Yes, ma'am." "No, ma'am." "We appreciate your concern ma'am."

As the rounds progressed, I wanted to jump in. I didn't, but I really wanted to. I would have loved to tell her that Tush had cancer. Bad cancer. And she would probably live longer than him. I knew he wouldn't say it; he never plays that one. He could have laid a trump card that would silence almost any argument with a simple "Look, I'm dying. Do you somehow think this matters to me?" But, like I said, that's not how he rolls.

I still felt like debating it, though. I felt like going into detail about other things that are risky. Like trying three different types of experimental chemo that run your body into the ground. Like new types of laser brain surgery that focus 120 serious beams on your noggin and zap your grey matter while your skull is literally bolted into a halo they use for broken necks. And you're awake to watch and feel it all.

I felt like having a chat about other things that can be scary. Like 11 surgeries in less than five years. Like having one of those surgeries for a large tumor on your right shoulder and having the doc tell you he's not sure if you are going wake up with a throttle hand. For anybody who lives to ride, that one would be pretty friggin' scary. On so many levels.

I felt like discussing other things that can make life miserable. Like the fact that the chemo makes every food you love taste like clay. To the point you can't stop throwing up. For hours. Or like having to take so many pain killers and getting so constipated from them, you get a rectal fissure that makes you not want to eat anything at all because there will be screaming consequences later.

I felt like talking about the precious future as much as she did. Like doctors spewing out stats that end in months. Like oncologists forecasting limited hope while they lower their eyes. Like times when things got so bad, the only thing in the future that kept our prizefighter going was the thought of the "next" ride.

But I said nothing. Neither did Billy or Lynn. We knew better than that. Tush would have killed us if we did. We knew he'd let this sweet old lady finish her speech, thank her for looking out for us, and let her leave feeling she had done some good.

Even after all was said and done, I still wanted to say something. I wanted to tell her that the motorcycle would not be his cause of death. It was his reason for living.