Vroom Vroom

Somewhere between the end of my high school years and the end of my college years, which were extensive, my father bought me a red Honda Spree scooter. And I loved it. In front of the handle bars, he wired me up a green basket, in which I would place my little black Perry poodle. And we would ride around and we would do stuff. Like go for rides, get ice cream, and, well, I don't really remember.
Not long ago, when I saw Paris Hilton I remarked to my mother that I was doing that stuff with little dogs YEARS before Paris. And she retorted back, rather quickly, I might add, that Dorothy had been toting Toto YEARS before me.... Touche! I have a quick one for a Mom.
Fast forward several years. Okay, an entire decade. And I met my husband. Who was then my boyfriend. And we got a "wild hair up our ass"... and there is really no other way to explain it.
Desire, met with new love, met with two people who have difficulty making wise decisions, decided to get bikes. And I am not talking about the pedal kind.
We started off by signing up for motorcycle safetly lessons at the local Harley Davidson. Have you ever seen your boyfriend/husband in a classroom situation? It was really... informative!! He was such a good student. He took meticulous notes and paid attention the whole time. I was the rebel rouser and didn't really think he would respect me when it was over. He merely shook his head and wondered how I managed to earn myself a Master's degree. I mean, come ON!, who can sit for hours on end and NOT write notes about the instructor's pants??
Have I mentioned yet I was the only female in the class?
When it came time to hop on the bikes for the "hands-on" portion, I was anxious and excited. It was 70-something degrees and we were wearing full helmets, riding gloves, boots, jeans, and long-sleeves.
And I must admit, my first crank of the gas was exhilirating.
I also must admit that the guys, especially my husband, were cheering me on. They ALL wanted me to succeed. It was like nothing else I had ever felt before. One hundred percent support and hope, held in my precarious little hands. With every spill, cone knock out, and white over-ridden line, I was met with caution, advice, and encouragement.
On the last day, a DMV person came to the site and administered the actual state motorcycle test. I can't remember my place exactly, but I was somewhere in the middle of the group. My husband went before me. He aced it. Before my turn, I looked over at the guys I had spent the last three days with, especially my husband. I heard them cheering for me. I sped out too quickly and missed the first, and easiest obstacle. With no time to look for my fan club, I moved forward, knowing that with only two more misses allowed , and many challenging obstacles ahead, I was leaning towards the side of failure.
I focused. I tried. I prayed. I could NOT let my husband down... or any of the other hopefuls, who in retrospect, viewed me as the one chance they had to convince thier own wives/girlfriends/daughters that this WAS possible.
The next thing I remember is coming across the line with a smile that could compete with Tyra's! I PASSED the test.
In a convoy much like that in Swingers, we traveled to the DMV and waited in line for our new licenses. One by one, those of us who passed, upgraded our regular "D" status to that of "D' and "M". HA!
We were so excited that my husband and I went out and bought ourselves some motorocycles. I had a silver Honda Shadow VTX600. It was pretty. Billy's was cool. An Orange Honda Shadow 750. With white wall tires. Old school style.
We took them to the streets ( I mean parking lot) across the street from our house ( apartment building). We practiced turns and accelerating and stops and maneuvers. I was having a blast. I felt so great. I felt so cool. Eventually, my much more experienced rider husband and I took the bikes to the real streets. Three times. Total. Before we sold them back.
Because he couldn't take it. I would forget things. Like turning signals, and where the third gear was. And to look back before switching lanes. His hair was getting gray. And we were fighting more. About "bike-riding".
At the time it was a real bummer. But now, I know it was the best decision. The roads around us are two-to-three lanes and have speed limits at 45. I am not experienced. He felt responsible for my well-being. He didn't have confidence in my ability. And quite frankly, neither did I. I was no match for the semis and trucks that were honking at me. Nearly running me down. It was no place to learn to ride a motorcycle.
We talked about "learning options". Perhaps I could go riding with some "other people". Guys that knew bikes that wouldn't feel so responsible or emotionally attached to the subject. We tossed around the idea of a "trike"... and we still do. Or we talk about moving away to a less congested place that would allow us the liberty of going 25 and dodging mini-vans as opposed to 16-wheelers. I get it. It was a sound decision. At the time.
But it's not over. I still have the classification. I still have the desire. I still have faith I could learn and I still think it would be fun.
Either way, it was a fabulous way to fall in love, motorcycles rumbling in the garage or not.