Another blast from the past, this post was originally published on Oct 19, 2010. Nothing has changed. Seriously…
Last weekend, we took the motorcycle out to Birmingham to check out an antique motorcycle show. It is nearly a two hour ride and I was amazed at how well my butt did this time. Either I’m breaking in the seat, or the motorcycle is finally breaking me in. Of course, it probably helped that my sister and her husband rode with us on their motorcycle.
Since we are not members of a motorcycle club yet, we have never ridden with anyone before. Honestly, we’ve looked into it, but found out that those clubs aren’t exactly free. And the hubby and I are on a tight budget.
We have hung out at several gatherings at Harley dealerships and tried to smooze with the locals, but it didn’t really work out. Something about me just says “Crafty-type person who falls off of motorcycles with the kickstand still down”. I’m not really sure why.
Everyone kind of ignores me in an embarrassed kind of way. Hubby says I’m paranoid and I need to relax and make friends. But I really don’t have the look going for me. I have no tattoos, I have no piercings, I do not smoke and my idea of a fun outing has nothing to do with a biker bar or a motorcycle ralley. And I’m betting that none of those women know a thing about quilling techniques or the advantages of low temp hot glue guns.
So why did we end up at an antique motorcycle show? Well, we were invited. And I really don’t like to turn down a good invitation. Especially when we finally get to ride with someone and create a motorcycle “gang” of our own. We just need a name. Something like “The Startled Hellcats”. Yeah. Then we could buy leather vests and have them embroidered with a cat something like this….
We could have one larger dude assigned the task of being the designated guy with no shirt and a tiny, tiny vest (just to blend in with the rest of the gangs better). We would all wear plaid do-rags.
Because plaid is in, folks!
We could park the motorcycles in front of Waffle House and amble in all mean looking and scary and ask for an order of hashbrowns- scattered, smothered, covered, chunked and topped. Because we are tough. Startled and tough…
And when we amble back out into the parking lot and they help me up after I fall off the stupid bike again, and as we roar off, those folks at Waffle House will be standing at the window, watching us with open mouths. And they will be totally jealous of our wild motorcycle lifestyle.
Yep. It will happen one day…