Born to be wild

A few months ago my dad scored a real coup. He asked my mom what she would think if he bought a motorcycle. She replied, "Well, what would the gas mileage be?" Quite a change from their early days of marriage when my mom got hysterical at my dad's mere mention of the word motorcycle. Now Dad has passed the required training, has bought his bike, and is revving around the countryside like a pro. I was home for a visit last week, and Dad took me for a 15-mile spin. It was fun, and marked by all kinds of those unusual moments that make up a memorable experience. I was initiated into the "brotherhood" of low fives from fellow bikers. I learned why bikers should always ride with their mouths closed (in addition to the risk of causing an unsuspecting bug to meet an untimely death--yuck--the side mirror provided all the evidence I needed to convince me that flapping lips are the farthest thing from attractive). And when we returned and dismounted, I experienced the loss of all feeling in the lower half of my body for about 15 minutes.

Are we a pair of daredevils, or what?

(This picture was taken a few days later when Mom was on hand to snap a shot. Thus the rainy background. There was no rain when we went for a ride. We're not that wild. Geez.)