Two weeks ago our twenty-one year son bought a motorcycle. I never saw it coming. It’s not anything I ever thought he would consider buying. Moreover, my husband and I are the farthest from the stereotypical motorcycle type, so I couldn’t understand where the idea came from.
However, I should have known. As a baby, his first noises resembled car sounds. By the time he was four, he could identify cars by their hubcaps. My dad loved it when he was in the car with us to listen to this little kid rattle of car models. Soon after, when he learned how to use the telephone, he would often call my parents to ask, “How’s your Buick doing?” And, our vacations had to include something to do with go-carts or some sort of motorized vehicle he could drive.
Our son knows I’m not happy about the bike, so he’ll say things to get me to lighten up about it. This weekend he was cleaning the motorcycle in our garage. He came in the house for a short break, and with his witty sense of humor, he said, “all the middle-aged men in the neighborhood stopped by to chat and reminisce about their motorcycles—but now they’re tied down by their wives and kids. They’re all wishing they could have one, again.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at his goofy remark. I understand he’s young, and not “tied down” to anything or anyone right now. And, he’s done everything right by buying a top-of-line helmet, jacket, boots, and gloves, as well as signed up for a motorcycle safety course—but it still scares the hell out of me.
A comic that an older neighbor gave me because it reminded her of our son. It’s still on the side of our refrigerator.