| Author | Message | ||
     Crusty |
My dad used to ride an Indian Scout back in the ‘40s, and when I told my parents I wanted to get a motorcycle, he was instrumental in helping me find my first bike. My mother on the other hand, was dead set against it. She had grown up in the poorer side of town, and she could only think of the wild hoodlums who belonged to a club on Felton St. that used to roar around town. She knew that motorcycles were dangerous, only characters with undesirable traits rode them and she didn’t want me to be even in the same State as one. However, both my dad and I worked on her, and she finally surrendered to the inevitable. Kind of like the French surrendered to Nazi Germany in World War 2. They may have surrendered, but there were a lot of Resistance members who carried on the fight. Anyway, I was in love with motorcycles and I went through a succession of them and nothing dire happened. (Well, until I hit that car in Montana; but mom was back in Massachusetts, and she only heard about the accident after it happened. I also had minimized the extent of my injuries when I was talking to her on the phone.) It took over a decade, but she finally began to accept that I was going to ride motorcycles, and that it wasn’t just a passing fad with me. And since both my brother David and I had been in serious car accidents and had been pretty seriously injured, she began to let go of some of her fear (but not all). She would still ask me, "Don't you think you should get a car?", but she wasn't quite so vocally adamant about the dangers of riding. One particular Sunday in 1982 was a beautiful day. I had ridden my Harley over to my folk’s house for Dinner, The weather was picture perfect. We had the usual magnificent meal (My mom was a great cook) and afterwards, the whole family was sitting around talking and one of the kids asked if I could take them out for a ride. So I did. We didn’t go far; it was just a short ride for a couple of miles. When we got back, it was time to take another one out for a ride. Finally, after all the kids had their ride, I looked at my dad and said, “Let’s go”. He climbed on and we went for a short ride, but when we were only a little way down the street he said that he didn’t want to go far as it’s never as much fun on the back as it is when you’re holding the bars. Plus, he knew what he was setting up. We got back and he looked at my mom, handed her the helmet and said, “Your turn!” She hemmed and hawed but between my dad and I and the kids pressuring her, she put the helmet on and climbed on the back of the bike. I took her all of two miles at a sedate pace and returned her safely home. She actually enjoyed the ride, though she was a bit nervous. I don’t think my mom ever took another ride on a bike, but she began to look a little more favorably on them. For me, I felt as if I had won the Battle of Midway; that Sunday marked the Turning Point. | ||
| Akbuell |
Thank you for the great story. Much needed on my part at this time. And mega kudos to your Mom. Moms always seem to know the right thing to do. Good on her! | ||
| Strokizator |
My "dad" story is a bit different. Back in the late 60's when I was of high school age and we lived in Bakersfield, my dad would take me out dirt riding where we climbed local hills. The bikes were not real dirt bikes as there were very few of those back then. Most people just put a set of knobbies on a scrambler model, in this case a Honda 160, and did their best. He took a spill one day and jacked up his knee. On Monday, while I was in school, he took a trip to the doctor to have it checked out. He was on the phone laying in bed when I got home and I overheard half of his conversation. It went like this: Him: "Yes" Long pause Him: "No" Long pause Him: "Yeah, I know how old I am" (He was only about 44) Another long pause and then "OK, good-bye". When he hung up I asked him who that was. He said it was the doctor and he told him to either sell the bikes or get a new doctor. I didn't have a bike again until 10 years later. |
