Confessions Of An Ex Biker Babe

Something in the past month or two has been torture for me and Trent.  You see, the weather has been nice, clear, warm, lovely.  And you know what that means?  

Everyone who owns a motorcycle is out on it...

It's like they all saw the thermometer rise into the warm-enough zone and took to the roads on their two wheels to mock us. We used to be among them. But now?  Tail pipes taunt us, sissy bars sail past, and helmets say "haha you don't have a bike anymore."  

Sigh.

You see, a motorcycle is not a good vehicle for toting babies and of course there's the whole you-could-get-smushed thing, but dang, I miss it.  

I miss the wind in my face and the noise at our back.

I miss the multitude of zippers, pockets and vents on my riding jacket. 

I miss carrying a to-go box of date night leftovers clutched to my side as we turned the otherwise 5ish mile trip home into 30.

I miss the excuse to hang onto my husband tight...oh wait, I don't need an excuse for that...

I miss singing to myself inside a full face helmet while going 70 mph, knowing I was the only one in the world that could hear.  

I miss the smell of bluebonnets in McGregor and Skittles in Hewitt.  

I miss the biker wave when passing other two wheeled comrades, just a low extension of the hand, since raising it to the height of a normal wave makes the wind catch it and throw it back, therefore making you look like an amateur.

I miss the playful punches we'd dish out to each other, knowing we'd hit elbow, back or shoulder armor. 

I miss conversations about drilling out baffles to adjust tailpipe tone down to a sexier rumble.

I do not miss carburetors, however.  I'd rather not see another carburetor in my life, thank you very much.

So, here's to you, Snowball.  You were impractical and dangerous.  

And you were some of the most fun we've ever had...