I walked into the showroom and eyed the line of seductive high-octane toys. When a salesman appeared I said simply, "I have permission." Being a married man himself, he understood instantly - on a cosmic level.
Out in the parking lot, I chatted my way into a set of keys. I saddled up a large mount, adjusted mirrors, tinkered with things I knew nothing about and generally fantasized I was going for a ride - which I wasn't – but starting it would turn the experience from simply intellectual to sizzling sensual.
C.D. was with me, and this was all new to him. He was just watching, interested, but not entranced. Now I don't know if you've been near a Harley-Davidson when it fired up, but let's just say it’s about as hard to ignore as a bumblebee in your ear. I wasn't sure if C.D. would stand his ground or run. When I punched the starter, it was as if I tossed a lit match in a firecracker factory. "I wanna get on! I wanna get on! I wanna get on!" My BOY. It must be in the genes.
But now there was an instant family crisis. While dad had been granted permission, son certainly had not. In fact, just the opposite; he's been strictly forbidden from riding until 1) he either has children of his own or 2) when hell freezes over, whichever comes first. I figure those rules roughly translated into "guy reality" are equivalent to 1) he can wait for a really long time or 2) ride when he's learned that there are certain things we simply don’t discuss with Mom, whichever comes first.
My new best friend with all the keys invited me back to an open house in a few weeks, at which time I could actually ride two or three models. The only catch was I had to have a valid motorcycle permit. Now you know I’ve lived in lots of places, and had you given it any thought, which I hope you haven’t, you might surmise that I have a collection of drivers licenses from all of ten states, and you would be correct. What you probably don't know is that I'm what you might call "casual" about getting legal when I hit town. (Jennifer, of course, is licensed, inspected and tagged by the time the moving van arrives.) But 30-day residency requirements have never meant much to me, and on several occasions it's taken intimidating conversations with the local constabulary before I have found sufficient inspiration to visit the DMV. But here I was, well within my first year in town and I was ready to deal with the state for reasons that didn’t include the threat of incarceration. I like to think of it as a personal best.
I passed all the written tests with relative ease - it’s not as if I don’t have lots of experience with driving exams, after all - and I had all I needed to ride.
When I pulled up to the dealer’s open house, I was stunned to see several hundred riders all dressed in variations of basic black. I, being basically black, but not really fitting in as neatly as that might suggest, swallowed hard and moved in.
It was a crowd you could easily characterize as “hard core”. I’m old enough to remember 70’s motorcycle ads that claimed that doctor and lawyer-types are riders, too. Trust me on this, the folks I saw were not doctors, although some clearly needed to visit a dentist, and almost certainly some of them had extensive experience with the legal system, but I’m guessing not on the lawyer side of the bar. But I got to take my test rides and I made it out without being injured or insulted. Harley-Davidson’s are interesting bikes, but basically the people I saw who ride them didn’t give me that warm-all-over-welcome-to-the-fold feeling.
I’ve been through two motorcycles already. My first was the smallest Honda made, and the only bike I could talk my parents into. It was a 50-cc job that refused to move if I offended it by offering someone a lift. I couldn’t solo much over 45 mph down hill, but it had a motor and at 16, I loved it. Then in my college days, I drove a BMW 500, a substantially larger machine that carried me all over New England. There were many upstate NY Friday nights I would leave Ithaca after class and head east for five cold wet hours to Boston and the warm arms of my sweetie. Thirty years later, I’m pleased to report that’s as far as I’ve ever gone looking for love.
So, I still had a good feeling about BMW and their new line is smashing. (Hmm. Poor choice of words?) Test rides were made, the model selected, color decided and options chosen. It is cool and sophisticated with its electric windshield and heat. HEAT! Only one thing remained.
When I took Jennifer out to look at the object of my attention, the first words out of her mouth were, “My God, it’s so big,” something no man ever tires of hearing from a woman. I knew I had my ride. The deal was closed and I’m one happy 2-wheeled boy.
P.S. The other night CD and I were about to watch a movie on tape. I thought I was preparing him for what he was about to see with a little history lesson and a few words of wisdom, all of which apparently went unappreciated. He said, “Dad, just turn on the damned TV.” Realizing this was language he obviously picked up from his mother, I cautioned him that was OK for a big guy to say, but not for a little guy. He asked me not to tell Mom.
I think he may be ready to ride.