Twisted Spoke patron Allen Smith, who offered Taffy a cherry sapling.

Robi Thomas and Bill Birkle, regulars at Twisted Spoke.

Twisted Spoke, located at 980 Post Road.

9:15 p.m.

It's storming as I head east along Washington Street, looking for cover. There isn't much room in the Twisted Spoke, but the bar takes all comers.

The Harley-colored building houses a 20-foot bar and four tables. There are no quiet corners, but that doesn't seem to bother anyone. All eyes are on the TVs, which are tuned to prime-time sitcoms. "Normally we're not watching 'Two and A Half Men,'" Robi Thomas says. The bartender explains that Mondays are usually busier but without football or basketball on TV and no bikes on the streets, people must be staying in.

The Spoke is a biker bar, but it's not a dive. It's not even rough around the edges. The restroom is cleaner than your average fast-food joint, and no one gives you the crazy eye when you walk through the door.

"Most of the guys ride in all the charity (motorcycle) rides," says Bill Birkle. Birkle is a regular who lives in the neighborhood and he starts rattling off the bar's best features -- the friendly environment, the former potluck dinners (held every week before the Health Department nixed them).

9:33 p.m.

Allen Smith walks in the door and shouts at a woman across the room before taking a seat next to Birkle.

"Didja see my yard?" Smith says.

"Did it have anything to do with drivin' a car in it?" Birkle asks.

"I make the whole neighborhood look bad," the recent arrival says, and both men laugh. It turns out that his yard is ripped up because he's adding a turnabout to his driveway, not because he's doin' doughnuts in the grass.

9:45 p.m.

Birkle steps outside to take a phone call and Smith and I talk some more. He mentions all the cherry tree saplings in his yard and I ask him if he grows cherries. He says no, but that the whole neighborhood, from 10th to Washington streets in between Franklin and Post roads, was an orchard up until around World War II. He offers me a sapling if I want it and invites me to come to the tavern where he tends bar two nights a week. He grabs his coat to leave, turns to the bar and says, "Thank you, Indianapolis. Good night!"

10:45 p.m.

The Twisted Spoke has a decidedly blue-collar, redneck vibe, but it's "good ol' boy" in the best possible way. The bar's clientele runs the gamut of age and income and, according to patrons and employees, everyone gets along.

I grab my stuff and head out into the storm, happy to have found another friendly port.