Motorcycle Aficionado?

     Last month, while I was trying to make a quick buck at a local horse show, I took on a challenge. To some of my more foolhardy friends the “challenge” that I speak of may seem unchallenging. Scoff if you will I don’t mind. I am not embarrassed to admit when I’m scared.

     Motorbikes have always scared me and I have no good reason for this. A good friend of mine thought that I should face my fear head on and suggested I take her bike for a spin. The bike was red, which I liked very much. It was knee high which gave me confidence thinking of course that I might have some control, as I am literally twice the size of the bike.

     I should mention that it was an unseasonably cold winter day in Florida and I was wearing an astronomical amount of clothes. Layers upon layers of sweatshirts, down vests and jackets. Wool socks, thermal gloves, a toque (Canadian for winter hat), and in lieu of a scarf two pashminas. I appeared round and squishy with restricted movements.

     I was confident, to some extent, as I swung my leg over my motorized steed. I could only wish I had the freedom a t-shirt allows that six layers of winter wear does not. Nonetheless, I was doing the damn thing.

     I drove around a forty-acre field and struggled only with the changing of the gears, which I blame on the wind and my toque, as I couldn’t really hear what was going on. With the test ride being such a success, I was secure in my motorcycle handling skills. I told my friend to hop on the back of her own bike and I would take us up to the scoreboard before heading to the start of cross-country.

     As my friend checked her score I waited on the bike keeping it at a rather high idle to prevent it from stalling due to the cold weather. God I’m good at this. A complete natural. I know to keep the idle up, I converged easily from grass to dirt and I expertly missed hitting a number of people and horses. Why was I ever scared of these things? As I waited, I gave myself a good hearty pat on the back for being such a motorcycle aficionado and I may or may not have taken on the air of a Hell’s Angel or gangster of some kind. I noticed as people passed by and said hello I gave little more than a sideways glance and an off handed head nod. I knew I looked good with my hot pink pashmina peeking out of my jackets. I knew the bike sounded strong (not that I could hear it) as I kept it calmly red lined. These fools are all so jealous having to schlep around on foot where as I get to zoom about haphazardly on my hog. Suckers, all of them.

     “Rebecca I am not getting on that bike with you if you keep it revved so high.”

     What the hell does she know, but to appease her I eased up on the gas just a little.

     “You ready?” I asked with reckless abandon and before I gave her a chance to answer, I put her in first.

     “Holy f***! Holy f***! Holy f***! Why won’t it stop?”

     Sometimes innocence is bliss, but in this case, I would say a little knowledge might have proven dangerous.

     The only saving grace in this nasty bike business was the fact that when the bike, designed for a five year old, reared vertically toward the sky it whipped out from between our legs leaving my friend and I standing. However, since I was at the helm I was not only left standing but also left holding the handlebars and she was about to tip, and tip she did. This left me in a motorbike spinning frenzy. My pashmina had crept out from behind my collar and with each five meter circle completed a few more inches of hot pink pashmina appeared. Around and around I went in nothing but a blur of pink, red and a slew of profanities.

     I bet this has never happened to a Hell’s Angel and any chance I had of joining that gang was clearly disappearing with each rotation. Eventually it dawned on me that my right hand was the root of all evil. Once I managed to talk myself into letting go of the right handle bar everything stopped, except for my fear of motorbikes.

     At least now, I have a solid reason to fear motorbikes.