I Dream of Leather

Every Spring when I hear the rumble of motorcycles, my heart ignites. If I had my wish, I would straddle a Honda Shadow(my dream machine), clad in fringed leather from head to toe and with a red bandana in my hair. I rode a motorcycle for a few years until my significant other deemed it too dangerous. With great sadness I sold my Vulcan 750 to a man with sleeved tattoos, long, black, braided hair and a wicked grin. I’ll never forget that last ride….bumping down highway 70 with my husband driving behind me while I delivered the bike to its new owner. He was certain I would hit a bump, fall and roll, and he would run over me. He would say it was the most stressful drive of his life.

But I still dream of leather. My favorite part of my bike was the leather seat. Soft and cushy, it held my enormous rumpus while I glided down the highways, covering miles of ground with no purpose other than the wind in my hair and the sun on my back. Now that I’ve lost the weight I dream of owning a new bike again, but every time I mention it to my husband he gets this squinty face and says, “I know you want to be a Motorcycle Mama, but the truth is, you will die.” I usually sigh and go back to dreaming but decided to push the issue over the Independence Day holiday. He told me a few gruesome stories of death, decapitation and paraplegia, all true tales from “morons” who participate in that misfortunate activity. I wanted to punch him.

I feel very much like Ralphie in A Christmas Story. “You’ll shoot your eye out.” Well, maybe I’d be happy with one eye. Did he ever think of that? Hm? So I say, “If I die riding a motorcycle, at least I will die satisfied with my life!” But he is like the Grinch that stole Christmas. His heart is 3 sizes too small.

I have been trying to think of covert ways to manipulate him into letting me get a new ride but he is very unmanipulatable. So I’m stuck with daydreaming. But there is no law against buying leather motorcycle clothes, right? So I have set my eyes on leather chaps, a leather vest with a fringe and a red banana. Maybe even *gasp* a leather bra! Of course I’ll need some cool black boots and I have even decided I need a new tattoo. It will be a big heart on my right arm that says “Motorcycle Mama.” And I shall walk up and down the street, and I shall go to the grocery store(Aldi and Shop N Save) and to Wal-Mart(where I will fit right in with the rest of the weirdo’s) and I shall drag my children behind me, red faced and frustrated while I pretend to be what I feel I already am inside.

Because a dream deferred makes the heart sick. And dreaming of motorcycles makes me happy. Maybe one glorious day my husband will give in-–he will I just know it-—and I will get to be a Motorcycle Mama once again.