The Blogging Journey Of A Thousand Miles Begins With Me Being On The Back Of A Harley
My First And Probably Only Motorcycle DiaryAs the wind whipped water from my eyes and snot ran from my nose, I wondered if at forty I was too old for this impromptu motorcycle adventure.
I hadn't been on the back of a motorcycle since I was nine years old, but when Joe, my ex-boyfriend from college, invited me out for coffee I decided to do something different.
As I held on for dear life praying that he wouldn't go too fast and that my ancestors were protecting me, I wondered if I'd waited too long to go through a rebellious phase. What he didn't mention was that we'd be sharing time with a few friends.
When we arrived at Starbucks, the first thing I noticed was the DJ booth set up in front, orange extension cord snaking through the front door.
As the female DJ spun hip hop tunes bikers steadily roared into the strip mall parking lot, parked with their club members, and stood in line to order venti iced cinnamon dolce lates with extra carmel.
Many wore jackets representing their car clubs and emblazoned with their names and titles, if they were club officers.
Standing in the lot drinking green tea, Mr. Curve, a man with a goatee tied with a rubber band, asked Joe if I'd ridden with him on his bike.
As I listened to the two men discuss me without addressing me, I felt as if I were a teenager whose coolness factor was being measured. With a nod from Mr. Curve, I was in.
A single black and white police car rolled up and warned the bikers, via loudspeaker, that they had to keep the noise level down. The DJ temporarily turned down the music, only to increase the volume once the officer left the lot.
As the 80's tunes commenced, one of the bikers on the makeshift dance floor started bringing back 80's dances such as the wop, the fluke, and the skate. Joe started feeling the groove as well and as he got fully into his new jack swing, I offered to retrieve his karate kicks for him. Mr. Curve leaned over and whispered, "Stop him before he hurts himself."
A young Latina, fluent in African American dialect, invited me to stroll the lot with her. When a man approached asking for her phone number, she told him that she no longer dated men.
As he walked away resigned to the fact that he wasn't going to get her number, she confided in me that she'd recently begun telling men this bit of misinformation so they'd leave her alone.
By 11pm Joe and I had seen enough. He strapped on my helmet for me and we eased out of the parking lot slowly so as not to attract the attention of the police officers posted at every stop light.
This time I closed my eyes, held on tight, and let the wind caress my face. It was more Joe's world than mine, but at least at forty I was willing to do something outside of my normal box.
Next time, Joe wants to see Swan Lake at the ballet.
I hadn't been on the back of a motorcycle since I was nine years old, but when Joe, my ex-boyfriend from college, invited me out for coffee I decided to do something different.
As I held on for dear life praying that he wouldn't go too fast and that my ancestors were protecting me, I wondered if I'd waited too long to go through a rebellious phase. What he didn't mention was that we'd be sharing time with a few friends.When we arrived at Starbucks, the first thing I noticed was the DJ booth set up in front, orange extension cord snaking through the front door.
As the female DJ spun hip hop tunes bikers steadily roared into the strip mall parking lot, parked with their club members, and stood in line to order venti iced cinnamon dolce lates with extra carmel.
Many wore jackets representing their car clubs and emblazoned with their names and titles, if they were club officers.Standing in the lot drinking green tea, Mr. Curve, a man with a goatee tied with a rubber band, asked Joe if I'd ridden with him on his bike.
As I listened to the two men discuss me without addressing me, I felt as if I were a teenager whose coolness factor was being measured. With a nod from Mr. Curve, I was in.
A single black and white police car rolled up and warned the bikers, via loudspeaker, that they had to keep the noise level down. The DJ temporarily turned down the music, only to increase the volume once the officer left the lot.
As the 80's tunes commenced, one of the bikers on the makeshift dance floor started bringing back 80's dances such as the wop, the fluke, and the skate. Joe started feeling the groove as well and as he got fully into his new jack swing, I offered to retrieve his karate kicks for him. Mr. Curve leaned over and whispered, "Stop him before he hurts himself."
A young Latina, fluent in African American dialect, invited me to stroll the lot with her. When a man approached asking for her phone number, she told him that she no longer dated men.As he walked away resigned to the fact that he wasn't going to get her number, she confided in me that she'd recently begun telling men this bit of misinformation so they'd leave her alone.
By 11pm Joe and I had seen enough. He strapped on my helmet for me and we eased out of the parking lot slowly so as not to attract the attention of the police officers posted at every stop light.
This time I closed my eyes, held on tight, and let the wind caress my face. It was more Joe's world than mine, but at least at forty I was willing to do something outside of my normal box.
Next time, Joe wants to see Swan Lake at the ballet.
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