French Husband said we needed to practice riding together, as he pulled out his twenty year old Honda 600. He told me to wear jeans, a jacket, boots and gloves. I asked if I could wear a shirt? He looked at me oddly, that is the beauty of being married to someone who doesn't speak your language. Humor is often lost in translation.
As he kicked started it. My daydreams raced back to when I was a kid on the ranch riding with my brothers. We had motorcycles and rode in the fields behind our house. I was not as good as my brothers, (who raced and rode often with our dad,) but I always had fun riding.
When the Honda let out its roar, I came to my senses. I looked at that small, uncomfortable, rip roaring little machine and asked if it could really support us both?
French Husband reassured me that it was small, sturdy, uncomfortable, and would feel like we were going faster than we really were, "On this bike we will feel everything, it is the most uncomfortable bike, especially for two. It is good training for the hours we'll spend on the Harley. If we could endure this we can handle the Harley, Get on."
I gulped.
Our helmets sort of match, they are both black. I need to buy a real motorcycle jacket, French Husband's does too. His has been around, he has had many bikes, jackets and falls, he has been riding since he was a teenager.
The Honda 600 is a flashback to the past.
Before the Honda, he rode for ten years, everyday to work on a BMW, but that is another story for another day… the BMW had a wooden seat. (And you thought I was the only one who liked old things in the family!)
I noticed the black clouds rolling in. French Husband noticed the blue underlining. I felt rain. He felt adventure. I imagined getting wet, he imagined a rough ride, on a small bike, and the women he loves holding on for dear life behind him. He laughed, I gulped again.
"Get on."
"But it is going to rain…" And with that I heard my dad laughing, "Get on!"
"…born to be wild, looking for adventure and whatever comes my way."
We chased the rain, it chased us. The mountainous rode twisted and turned like an angry snake, it had me holding on tight around French Husband's waist. At times I looked at the flashing pavement that seemed like velvet running underneath me, or I caught a glimpse of the cliff's edge as we whipped by it, or I felt the pressure of wind as a truck zipped by. I was scared, confident in French Husband but scared. I looked at the spedonmeter trying to convince myself that it was telling me the truth.
When French Husband finally stopped, my arms would not let go, I had held on so tightly that they were stuck.
I guess I need to practice relaxing.
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