Join Date: May 2006
Location: Ellensburg, Wa, Washington, USA
Why do I ride a motorcycle?
When I was young, small, and innocent, my father almost gleamed. His smile sparkled, like the silver conchoes on the saddlebags of the ‘51 Panhead Harley-Davidson he rode against my mother’s wishes, a small satin cap with a white plastic bill perched on the back on his glossy head, his breath aromatic with whiskey.
He didn’t have much time for me, a child insignificant and shy, but every so often, just once in awhile, he’d smile down on me and then scoop me into his arms, setting me in front of him on that great, pure white gas tank of his Harley. Together, like ancient heros in a book, we’d go thundering across a desert landscape burnished bronze by a setting sun.
What joy! What undiluted joy! For awhile, we raced the sun on an untiring horse – and time stood still.
Later, much, much later, when he was small and angry and shot through with cancer, I could forgive him because of those glorious, never- forgotten rides.
Why do I ride a motorcycle? How could I not?[/align]
First name: Mel (Red\'s: Sandy)
"It's a dangerous business, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no telling where you might be swept off to." (Bilbo Baggins)