What with the Mother Road Rally and all, I’ve been thinking more and more about getting a motorcycle of my very own.
I was thinking about the whole idea of the wind whipping through my hair, the power of the mighty machine throbbing beneath me and … well, the good gas mileage.
Surprisingly, my wife is not being very supportive of the whole idea. I mentioned the wind whipping, the machine throbbing and the gas mileage, but she was not impressed.
“After about the third whip,” she said smiling malevolently, “you wouldn’t have anything for it to whip through, the way it has been decorating your brush lately. As for throbbing beneath you, I would think your prostrate would not be overly enthusiastic about that whole concept. And gas mileage? …. Trust me, you get enough mileage from the gas you get eating a pepperoni pizza.”
I told her she was being far too critical of my idea. “It will make me a new man,” I said standing resolutely. “Yeah,” she said. “That makes sense. The doctors probably will have to do that, after the old one is destroyed.,” About then she started to dig through a pile of papers sitting nearby. Clearly she was determined to find something. So I asked her what she was looking for.
“Our health insurance folder,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“I want to see if you are already covered for terminal stupidity, or if we have to get an imbecile rider.”
I pointed out we would only need that if I got a sidecar for the motorcycle. We returned to the discussion after I got out of the emergency room. Who knew she could hit so hard?
I said I thought I would look cool sitting astride a “hog” on the open road.
My wife had a pained expression on her face. She said I really shouldn’t set myself up that way. It was dangerous, she said. If she wasn’t injured trying to hold in her comebacks, she might be injured by laughing too hard.
“I don’t think you realize just how important this is to me,” I said dramatically. “I really believe that this could bring out my adventurous side.”
“What adventurous side?” she said rather amazedly. “The only adventurous side you have is the side you sit on when you are watching Bruce Willis movies. And you always hide your eyes when the shooting starts. You’ll probably go into cardiac arrest when you start the motorcycle. I don’t even want to think about what will happen when you get above 40 miles per hour.”
I had to admit that I hadn’t got that far in my contemplation of being a biker dude. My mental image always stopped with me seated on the Harley and having beautiful, skimpily clad young women hanging all over me. The actual movement on a motorcycle put a whole new aspect to the idea.
My wife saw my hesitation too and followed it up. “And you remember when you saw the “Wild One” how Marlin Brando ended up in the street from a guy throwing a rock, and in “Easy Rider” what happened to Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda, and in “Electra Glide in Blue” how Robert Blake ended up dead on the highway? What does that make you think of?” she asked.
“Well, to begin with,” I said. “I think you’ve been spending too much time renting old videos.”
“No,” she yelled. “You’re supposed to think it is a dangerous pastime, especially for someone who can injure himself clipping his toenails.”
“Well,” I said. “Nail clippers are sharp and you’ve got to admit that airports do consider them dangerous weapons.”
In the end, we came to a compromise. I wouldn’t buy a motorcycle, but I do get to call her my “Motorcycle Mama” on alternate Fridays.