Doing stupid things is not reserved for teenagers.
I do stupid things in my 60’s, although not as much as when I was 18.
It’s more a matter of less energy than more brains.
About three years ago, in a moment of insanity I looked at the wife and said, “I’d like to get a motorcycle.”
“OK”
Could have knocked me over with a feather.
That was the first time I wondered if she had a boyfriend.
Women only let you do something like that if they’re happy and they are never really happy with their husband.
I always figured husbands are like an old favorite shoe the wife parks by the door.
Easy to put on when needed but certainly nothing to gush about at work.
Being happy like that usually means someone else is showering them with flowers and candy.
I was wrong .
She was just feeling generous.
Off I went before she could change her mind, which can be instantaneous.
Only a motorcycle rider could understand the freedom of the wind in your face, ladies glancing at you cause you’re dangerous, kids impressed by the rumble and some folks at stop lights not wanting to look at you because they think you’re going to say something scary.
There’s something that feeds the soul by looking badass riding around on 800 pounds of chromed-out wonderfulness.
Nice looking, huh?
And how about that inappropriate paint job on the gas tank.
I’m sure it offended a few people.
Made my day.
Real bikers – the mean ones that’ll eat you for breakfast – waved when they went by. And you damn better wave back.
I think we all wish for a bit of Clint Eastwood inside us.
Like all good things in life, it came to an end with a crunch one day.
Some lady in a hurry to take her dog to the park so he could poop turned left in front of me.
It’s amazing how far you can slide on asphalt.
It’s also amazing how much skin asphalt can take off while you’re sliding.
Anyway, the bike gets repaired and I finally get off the crutches and the wife looks at me, “I’m not going to tell you not to ride, but you know how I feel.”
Ladies, this is the most perfect thing you could ever say to ruin your man’s day.
Those 15 words leave no wiggle room.
She didn’t tell me not to do it so I would rebel like a 13-year old.
So the bike is a garage queen and I do my tooling around in a yellow jeep.
Mr. Eastwood has gone away.
No one looks at me now except to wonder why I have such an ugly colored Jeep.