Remember the 750?
Soon after my wannabike epiphany, I called my Harley-riding dad to tell him the good news. He was overjoyed to hear that I wanted a motorcycle.
"I think you’ll love it, Anthony."
"I think so too… there’s just one thing though, Dad."
"What’s that, son?"
"Dad… I don’t want a Harley. You won’t disown me, will you?"
"What? Of course not!"
"Oh. Good. That’s a relief."
"Don’t you remember what we used to ride around on?"
I remembered a motorcycle, that was for sure — black… I was four…
it scared the piss out of me at the time. "Wasn’t that a Harley?"
"No — it was a Honda 750."
"Oh! I’m looking at Hondas."
"You’ll love ‘em."
Phew. There’s a relief.
Heart attacks with Mom, rides with Dad
There’s nothing like getting m’ dad’s blessings for my latest craze. I
have Mom’s blessing now too; she’s already used to her oldest son’s odd
decisions (Mom… I’m moving to Oregon… Mom, I’m going to Scotland…
and Ireland… Mom, I’m engaged… Mom, I left BootsnAll… Mom, I’m
going to Asia… Mom I’m going to Asia again… Mom, my fiance left
me… Mom… I’m buying a motorcycle." Wow. Poor woman. Even she’ll
admit, though, that these heart attacks her son occasionally gives her
always work out for the best.)
Even better with Dad though, is that he’s supposed to come visit next
year. He’s already said that if I stick with the motorcycle, he’ll rent
one while he’s here and we’ll go for a wee jaunt.
Can’t wait, Dad.
