Motor CYCLE mama.
By Elizabeth Thompson
“Damn thing’s leaking oil again!”
I threw the wrench back into my tool box and squatted down closer to the engine for a better look. The wind began to pick up and the latest gust blew my short flowered skirt up over my hips. I jumped and quickly looked down both sides of our street. Just what I needed – one of the neighbors catching a glimpse of my…engine.
It was getting late and my bike was giving me a problem all afternoon. It bucked and heaved like a bull on Viagra. After setting the kids up with an early supper, I was going to fix the damn thing myself. Besides, I wasn’t sure when my husband was going to find the time to look at it and we certainly couldn’t afford another visit to the garage; the minivan and my husband’s 15 year old car saw to that, nicely.
I wiped my hands on my jean jacket and scraped the heel of my black leather boots on our front stoop. I opened our front door and stuck my head in. “Everything okey-dokey in here?” My 7 and 5 year olds were watching a movie and the two older girls were playing a computer game. Everything was cool.
Back to the bike.
Hands on my hips, I slowly walked to the back of the bike and then to the front again. I fluffed my hair and thought, “Maybe it’s the fuel line?”
The car’s lights nearly made me jump right out of my skin. With both arms folded across my chest, I watched the police cruiser come to a full stop just a few feet from me and thought to myself, “What the hell is this guy thinking?”
The cop got out of the car and I nervously looked back toward the house.
“Can I help you officer? Is there a problem?”
He doesn’t take his sunglasses off and is hovering over my Harley, “Uh, yes Ma’am; there is a serious problem. Is this your bike? May I see your license and registration, please?”
Just as I turned my back on him, I heard my husband’s car (needs a new muffler) coming around our corner. “Oh, thank the goodness! I’ll be happy to get all the information you need. Here’s my husband. Please let him go inside with the children.”
My husband hesitated before getting out of his car, “What’s up?”
“Uhh, sir? I’m about to question your wife about her bike. It seems to me that she is about to repair this motorcycle, illegally.”
“What? What are you talking about? I wasn’t aware that I needed a permit to repair a motorcycle?”
The officer turned to me and answered calmly, “No ma’am. You do, however, know that it is not very seemly for you to be bending and contorting your body in your driveway and in such a fashion. I’ve been watching you for the past 20 minutes.”
He must be out of his mind!
“Are you out of your mind?”
I’m dumbfounded, but continue, “You mean to tell me that the guy two houses down can rev his stupid motorcycle, at all hours and late into the night, and nobody cares about that. But, I’m breaking the law by wearing a skirt -- that you think is too short -- in my driveway!?!?”
I look to my husband for some sort of back up, “And you haven’t said a word!”
My husband turned toward the police officer, “Officer, I agree. I have a real problem with women and motorcycles. I’ve been trying to convince her that it isn’t right for a mother of four to be riding one in the first place!”
I slowly turned toward my husband, shoved a knee deep into his lower back and quietly went back to sleep.
Later that morning, my husband pulled the shower curtain aside and seemed a bit apprehensive approaching me any further, “Uh, are you mad at me or something?”
I shake my head, “No, why?”
“Uh, ‘cause you kicked me, in your sleep, and...well...it hurt.”
“What?!? I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”
He looked at me as if he didn’t believe me.
“What? I’m sure I was dreaming!”
I closed the shower curtain over as he started to shave and said, “Well, you called me a prick! Whoever it was you really were dreaming about, I hope he was good. You know women in mid-life are supposed to get really raunchy.”
“Which is really good for me, I guess. Unless your migraines start up and that slipped disc -- not to mention your sciatica and those bad bouts of PMS you seem to be having, lately -- begin to bother you, again. Then, well, perhaps in another year or two...when you’re a little more seasoned and in the mood.”
I rinsed the rest of the shampoo out of my hair, turned the shower off and accepted the towel.
“Oh yeah, that’s right -- who knows...in a few years, when menopause sets in...one can only dream.”
“And I believe I called you an insensitive prick!”
(Note: No, I don’t have a motorcycle, have never ridden one and really did have this dream – in full color! What does that mean?)
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