“You’re kidding.” That’s the most common reaction I get when people find out I ride. No, I’m not. I really own and ride a motorcycle. It’s just a little one, but it’s just right for me.
The next one makes me laugh: “Does your husband know you have a motorcycle?” Um. Yeah. He’s pretty bright. Picked right up on the two-wheeled black and chrome thing in the garage. Also noticed right away that I left for work and the car was still there. Doh!
“But...it’s not safe.” Yeah, well neither is eating red meat or shark (gotta watch that mercury), watching too much T.V, or attending public high school. You calculate the risks and make your choices.
“Isn’t riding a motorcycle more of a ‘guy thing?’” I get that a lot, and not just about riding. I get it about being a pastor, about watching football, and other things I won’t mention here. Last time I checked, none of those things had gender.
“You must be doing this because of gas prices.” Ok, I get close to 80 mpg, but that’s just a fringe benefit. If gas suddenly got really cheap, I’d still ride.
I ride because I love the sense of being more a part of my surroundings. I love to feel the heat rising off the asphalt when I stop at a light on a summer day. I love the wind rushing over me like a wave, and the way that the outside temperature changes with that wind. I love the way the air temperature drops and the air takes on a damp, musty smell when I cross the wash on Sunset Blvd. near Dean Terry’s place.
I ride because I love all the smells: the good ones, like air thick with honeysuckle, backyard barbeques, smoke from a wood fire, leather, and hot dry wind; and the not-so-good ones like exhaust from a diesel truck, the greasy smell of things frying at the fast food places, and the occasional whiff of skunk.
I ride because I love the way I see every pothole and break in the road’s surface. I love feeling the bumps and jolts when I take them straight on instead of swerving around them, and I love feeling at one with the machine when I do swerve. I love cornering and taking the lean so low that it scares the crud out of me.
It’s in my nature (and my upbringing) to serve other people, do for other people, and put everyone else first, and don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t give up that privilege for the whole world. It’s part of what makes me, me.
But I ride because it’s something that I do entirely for myself. And giving myself permission to do that is what I love most of all.
I'm trying to get back in the habit of writing every day. Lately, I've been working on character sketches. Some of those will find their way here, in the form of individual comments to this post.
Comments
The next one makes me laugh: “Does your husband know you have a motorcycle?” Um. Yeah. He’s pretty bright. Picked right up on the two-wheeled black and chrome thing in the garage. Also noticed right away that I left for work and the car was still there. Doh!
“But...it’s not safe.” Yeah, well neither is eating red meat or shark (gotta watch that mercury), watching too much T.V, or attending public high school. You calculate the risks and make your choices.
“Isn’t riding a motorcycle more of a ‘guy thing?’” I get that a lot, and not just about riding. I get it about being a pastor, about watching football, and other things I won’t mention here. Last time I checked, none of those things had gender.
“You must be doing this because of gas prices.” Ok, I get close to 80 mpg, but that’s just a fringe benefit. If gas suddenly got really cheap, I’d still ride.
I ride because I love the sense of being more a part of my surroundings. I love to feel the heat rising off the asphalt when I stop at a light on a summer day. I love the wind rushing over me like a wave, and the way that the outside temperature changes with that wind. I love the way the air temperature drops and the air takes on a damp, musty smell when I cross the wash on Sunset Blvd. near Dean Terry’s place.
I ride because I love all the smells: the good ones, like air thick with honeysuckle, backyard barbeques, smoke from a wood fire, leather, and hot dry wind; and the not-so-good ones like exhaust from a diesel truck, the greasy smell of things frying at the fast food places, and the occasional whiff of skunk.
I ride because I love the way I see every pothole and break in the road’s surface. I love feeling the bumps and jolts when I take them straight on instead of swerving around them, and I love feeling at one with the machine when I do swerve. I love cornering and taking the lean so low that it scares the crud out of me.
It’s in my nature (and my upbringing) to serve other people, do for other people, and put everyone else first, and don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t give up that privilege for the whole world. It’s part of what makes me, me.
But I ride because it’s something that I do entirely for myself. And giving myself permission to do that is what I love most of all.