I suppose like many men I have been accused at times throughout my life of doing some foolish things. And like most men, I profess that most of these accusations are untrue and I won’t commit to most of the remainder. Somehow or other it appears to us semi-macho guys that it is unmanly to admit to foolishness.
However, there is one accusation that I daresay comes nearly to the level of foolishness and therefore rationalized as not entirely foolish. But before I admit to any blip in my sanity, I declare this episode to be due to something diagnosed as a midlife crisis. This diagnosis is attributable to most men somewhere in their late 30s and early 40s, and sometimes can be used as a viable alibi for a decade or so.
The loss of hair, wrinkles, a larger waist size and more frequent washroom visits seem to awaken men to the fact they will soon be classified as elderly or more casually known as old men. A not-so-pleasant status to look forward to. Unfortunately, it is unavoidable even if one tries to mask the onset of symptoms by joining a paddleboard club or buying a gym membership.
This rare deviance in my otherwise mundane life was that I purchased a motorcycle. An unlikely purchase for this straitlaced, somewhat ordinary bit of a nerd who has not a single body tattoo.
Friends and neighbours upon learning this news exclaimed, “You did what?”
In making this purchase I had the guidance of a real-life motorcyclist who even raced one of his beastly two-wheeled vehicles. He led me to purchase a Kawasaki 350, which in retrospect was not a beginner bike and was in fact known as “The Widow-maker.” This machine had a mind of its own and did not like low rpms and was tickled speed-wise when throttled to the high end of its two-stroke rocket engine.
As a novice rider I looked down and could see daylight under the front wheel and so I would back off the throttle to the chagrin of this speed demon of a vehicle.
On another occasion I pulled up to a stop light and was surrounded by a quartet of real motorcyclists who made fun of my machine as they throttled up their hogs to show me what real biking was all about. I recognized them as real bikers by the number of tattoos they displayed under their leather, club-insignia-emblazoned vests. They left me choking in their exhaust, laughing at my semi-motorbike compared to their manly steeds.
Soon thereafter and finding this bike too hot to handle I traded it for a much more comfortable, quieter, and smoother-riding Honda 500. I regularly rode that machine over country roads with great pleasure. It was a larger framed bike and on the road other motorcyclists now gave me a nod and not a laugh.
But soon thereafter my wife and my daughter teamed up and put pressure on me to quit the motorcycling gig and take up some other and safer undertaking.
I soon gave in and reluctantly sold my treasured vehicle. Perhaps at some point I will write a column about my taking up riding the waves while sailing on Lake Ontario.
