Repost from me olde blog.
Motorcycles are in my blood. My father and uncles have owned and loved them, and consequently so do some of my brothers. Women in my family, not so much, unless I count that scooter my cousin rode for a while.
I’d like to think my love for motorcycles is in my blood, but I’ve never owned one, so I’m not sure. I am positive, however, that my dad is surprised he’s alive after all the accidents he had in his youth, back when helmets were for chickens. He stopped rolling under trucks and leaping over cars after he got married and started sprouting, as did my uncles after losing a few body parts. My cousin had a scooter accident as well, but I’m not counting it, since she hardly bled at all, and the scars don’t cover more than 0.1% of her body.
I probably never will own a motorcycle, and if I ever got the money to buy one I’d spend it on guns, but that doesn’t stop me from loving the idea of owning one someday and including them in my collages, so here’s my first motorcycle-related one. There are more in the works, and I repeat, they will be ready about the time we finally elect our first female president. Well, when you elect, since I can’t vote.
As to the inspiration for motorcycle collages… it falls smack between the adventurous and the ridiculous, and as a tall fan of both I felt prompted to write this little scene.
I love having motorcycle races with my Little One. He has his own small one that looks like a toy that runs on batteries, one that couldn’t possibly catch up with the sleek monstrosity I ride, its engine too inadequate for the speeds mine reaches. Yet, invariably, he beats me every time.
How? I never know. All I know is that every weekend we get wake up and get ready for another race. We dress in the meanest fabrics we can possibly find, and wear the cruelest boots imaginable. We forget about the studs, though. He’s the only stud I need, in any case.
We ride to the dirt road where we always compete (you see, my Harley Goliathson is also a heretic dirt bike), and before we take off, we place our bets. If he wins, I have to make him dinner, and if I win, he has to do the same for me. You can imagine that at that size, the idea of cooking a meal for his giantess is terrifying.
Somehow, he never loses. He always takes off at the same time I do, and when I finally reach our dusty goal, he’s always there, pretending he’s napping, he’s been “waiting for me for so long”.
Until I discover he’s been putting Super Special Mega Giant Fuel in his little toy machine. When I find out this treachery, I decide to teach him a little lesson as we prepare to race again, and tie him up on his tiny motorcycle after its tank’s been filled up with toy petrol.
Somehow, he still wins anyway.
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