So, there’s this guy….he’s broad-shouldered, cocky, drinks Budweiser and rides a Harley. A true man’s man. I hear he’s single too.
Apparently women flock to him. They go for his cunningness, his dedication to truth and justice…oh, and his good looks.
However there’s one big snag. Ike, the White Knight on an Iron Horse is not real—at least I don’t think he is.
Truth be told, when it comes to the man and his lore, I’m feel like an eight year old at Christmastime. While everyone tells me to believe, I have doubt. They share his stories, shout his name in praise, wear t-shirts professing their devotion to him, but me? I’ve never seen the guy…except in books.
I’m beginning to think he’s all made up.
Ike’s stories appear on book shelves across the world including in the novels Eyewitness Blues and Living the Dream. And though these books, written by acclaimed author Tim Baker are clearly fictional, people in Flagler Beach talk like he’s as real as a bottle of Jack Daniels at a biker bar.
When the opportunity arose for writers across the country to create Ike fan fiction for an anthology, people dove at the chance…more specifically women dove at the chance. Everyone wants to get their hands on Ike.
But me? I laughed at the idea. I’m not so impressed with this Robin Hood on a Harley, whether he’s real or not. Men with hero complexes don’t do much for me. Nor do stories about bookies and murderers, and people driving way above the speed limit, but one day while talking with Tim, Ike’s conduit, a thought came to me—maybe I could create a character that would kick Ike’s ass, make him weak in the knees, and expose his shortcomings.
When I asked Tim if I could write a story about Ike, he said, “have at it,” which was all I needed. I went home and devised a femme fatale built to do him in.
I won’t say anymore. You’ll have to buy the anthology, but I will tell you it was a lot of fun.
I hate to say it, but now, like all those other swooning ladies, I too keep my eye out for this legend, turning my head when I hear a gruff man’s voice at a bar, or perking up at the telltale rumble of a Harley.
Don’t tell anyone, but I think I think I’m warming up to the guy.
Is Ike, this man of mystery, real? I don’t know… but I don’t care. It doesn’t matter as long as his rough, gun toting spirit is alive and well in this little beach town.