I’ve always had a healthy respect of motorcycles, since one of us got hit by one when we were kids. My parents always believed motorcycles were dangerous.
In Guatemala I would catch an occasional ride on the back of one, then I learned how to drive one in a soccer field–I was hooked. Does bring out the wild side in a person.
There is a chemical change that happens in my body when I’m on my moto, picking my way up one of the highland mountains, blasting Highway to Hell in my earbuds, spinning out on dirt and loose gravel. Even the wild dogs keep their distance from my badassness. It’s like every cell in my body is on high alert, mostly because I could die or be maimed, and am most certainly losing my hearing.
I get the whole bad boy draw now, except I’d never want to date one, I want to be one. On those trips up the mountain, I don’t feel like a responsible middle-aged mother of three…probably because I’m not being one. I felt like a powerful free spirit with treads. Now that, I miss.