I’m giving up this, for this:
Makes sense to me. While the Donald battles courts, rages against the Real Republicans, and ultimately dwindles and withdraws from public life, I’ll be out on the twisties, rolling over hills, scaring the crap out of myself and compelling my wife to put the insurance company on speed-dial. It’s a decision I’ve made, and I can’t think of a better distraction.
Why?
Good question. A great question. It’s a question I’ve asked myself more times than I can recall, and my wife– whew— she’s not exactly against it, but she’s said more than once, “I can’t picture you on one of the those things… don’t expect me to get on the back of it,” which I don’t…
Why?
All right, I’m living a cliche`.
I used to ride in my late teens and early twenties. At first I just hopped on whatever bike my father had in the garage, starting with a Honda twin cylinder 125, then a Honda 450 scrambler and, finally a Honda 750cc inline four. That was a sweet bike. And then he sold it out from under me. He never said a word, it was just gone. He never told me why, but my mother clued me in and said “You’re on it more than he is, and he decided he didn’t want you getting killed on his motorcycle.” So I bought my own. Then I got married and said goodbye to my Yamaha 650Xs.
I haven’t exactly pined for the old machine much. It was a fun bike, and I rode the hell out of it for a couple of years… and then got married. It’s easy using a wife as an excuse not to ride any more. That was the one I’d used. My prime motivation was that I didn’t get the chance to ride it as often as I’d liked, I couldn’t store it where I was living at the time and, honestly, the money looked better than the bike at that point in my life. Money in the pocket, and I forgot about the exhilaration of the open road, and meeting my maker on the asphalt was no longer a concern… and it wasn’t for forty years.
Sooo… why now?
A better question, and one I can’t really answer, to be honest. I just got an itch, and it didn’t go away. Then I saw a picture of a Royal Enfield 650. It reminded me so much of my old bike– almost the same specs– and when you added anti-lock brakes and fuel injection, the itch got worse. And when I saw how much they were brand new, I started thinking destiny was at work– exactly what kind of destiny is also a good question, and another one I don’t want to consider at the moment.
I sat on the idea for over a year. If anything, I didn’t want to write this off as an impulse, and it would certainly fall into that category if I just up an bought one the minute I laid eyes on it… A year later, and I wanted it even worse. So I ordered one, one right off the factory floor.
I’ve done goofier things, but not for several years. It’s a helluva way to backslide.
So now, as I wait for delivery to the dealer, I sit and ponder what got into me. I also realize I might get over it the second I write the check to pay it off. I’ve even thought about what I’d do if the urge suddenly vanished. Would I simply leave it there, screen my phone calls until they finally quit calling me? I’m sure it’s been done before… I could offer an excuse, shift blame to my beloved and complain she’d changed her mind and wanted me at home and compliant until my funeral– which would take place after I die in twenty more years, and in my sleep. Or I can just march over there, tell them I chickened out, and run back out the door. But I won’t. I know that for sure. Whatever trepidation I feel is– for now– the anticipation of having nothing better to do one day than throw a leg over a death machine and ride it until the sun goes down.
But I won’t be doing it alone, and I won’t be running before I can walk. I’m going to take my time, get myself re-trained enough to hit a country road, and possibly find Jesus by cutting a corner too hard and perhaps finding eternal peace at the courtesy of a guardrail or the bumper of an F-250.
I’m going to “do it right.” I’ll be taking an MMSC, probably in April, and… You will be there too! I’m going to drag you right along with my while I either turn into a capable, happy guy who enjoys a few hours a week at one with the open road, or sitting miserable in an emergency room while a resident picks gravel out of my ass. Let’s not hope for anything worse… See ya soon!