I hate motorcycles.

There, I’ve said it. I know they are “cool” and they represent a certain kind of freedom and rebelliousness, and I know I am in the minority, but I hate them.

When I was a kid, my cousin Bob had a motorcycle. On the rare occasion he visited us without his family in tow, he’d have his bike and he’d give us rides. Oh, I can remember the thrill of sitting on the back, holding on to him and hoping that anyone I knew would see me.

But I was just a kid. I’d learn.

Fast-forward to my late twenties. My boyfriend at the time had a Harley. It was a deep yellow Roadster, and at first I dug it. But that’s because I only took short little trips on it, and I was in love. Both he and the bike were cute little novelties  in my life – the change was nice. But after a short time, I’d grow to hate that thing. It became competition.

Trade ya!

The first time it inconvenienced me was when the dude, who was in the air force, had to embark on a TDY (short for temporary duty). He wanted to borrow my car, a little Dodge Colt hatchback, rather than take his Harley. He was going to leave me with his 2nd vehicle – an old, red Ford Pick up truck. The Ford ate gas, had no power steering, and had roughly 412 billion miles on it, so him taking that was also not the wisest of choices. While I developed bursitis driving around town in the Walton’s old pick up, that lousy Harley sat under cover in the driveway.

We used to take rides that lasted 35 minutes or so to a store that sold Harley parts and merchandise where I bought little hog earrings and a leather belt. Usually by the time we got there I was more than ready to get off the bike. That little back seat was small and narrow, and even though I was only about 130 pounds back then, it was still rough on my fanny. But the visits to that store usually lasted at least a half an hour which was more than enough time for my ass to regain consciousness.

Then came the long trip.

We had to go to a dealership for a part that was close to a two hour’s drive away. I remember we left later in the day rather than earlier because dude had to wash the bike. The ride there wasn’t too bad, but I really needed a break once we reached the town of Bumfuck. Dude went into the dealership, picked up his part, and said “let’s head back!”

I was like, “huh? What?” I had at least expected dinner out or some other distraction that would require my ass to be seated on something wider than a balance beam. I think I was able to coax him into buying me a beer, but 20 minutes later I was once again seated on the back of that two wheeled whore.

I can vividly recall when the pain began to set in. I’d try to shift my weight a bit, which would help, but only for a short while. I’d look at houses passing by deeply envious of their cushioned sofas, recliners and lawn chairs. This was beginning to suck in a very real and major way. My ass was singing show tunes with every bump we hit.

When we were about 40 minutes from home I signaled dude to stop. We pulled over along the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, I got off the bike, sat on the grass and began to cry. It was just too much for me. I was in pain, I was tired, I was hungry, and I really hated both dude and his bike at that moment. Yet, there was nothing for me to do but buck up and climb back on.

I think I rode the majority of the way home much like one would post on a horse – I put most of my weight on the foot rests and tried to ease my tookus in the air just a little. I’m not quite sure how, but I managed to make it home. As I swung my weary leg over that fucking bike I vowed it would be the last time, and for the most part, it was. We took a few other trips after that, but dude managed to secure me rides with friends who had bigger Harleys – the back seats of which are like Lazy-Boys.

As time passed, I began to loathe that bike more and more. Dude would spend afternoons with her rather than with me.  My hatred went deeper than just a sore ass – I was always scared when we were out on the highway. The ground would rush by so fast with nothing but some cloth and balance to keep my pretty and fair skin from being torn off my body. Needless to say, we broke up.

That was my twenties. Now that I’m in my forties I still hate those two wheeled demons but for different reasons. I have two neighbors with bikes – very LOUD bikes. There are times spent enjoying a quiet Sunday when the peace is shattered by the loud revving of a Kawasaki which for whatever reason needs 20 minutes to warm up. Or when a Honda needs to be started at 5 am so a neighbor can get to work. How about I mow my lawn at 6 am on a Saturday you shit-heels?

I guess it just comes down to different strokes. I think motorcycles are dopey. When we pass some nut riding a bike on the highway in the snow, rain or heat, I settle a little deeper into my car seat, turn up the radio and think, “better you than me, buddy.”

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