The Mistress

I remember the day our BMW 1100 RT came into our life. RD woke up and I realized he had that look. It’s hard to describe. It’s that far away look that always makes me pray that I will survive the coming change in my life. OK, it’s not that dramatic, but sometimes I get a feeling about stuff. RD had been taking me to different motorcycle show rooms for months. And I knew, without a doubt, the man was going to buy a motorcycle. I didn’t have any requests except that he do everything he could to get a safe motorcycle. I have no idea what I meant by safe motorcycle, but there you have it.

Sure enough, later that day, RD called and was whispering into the phone. Not a good sign. Apparently, he was in the middle of negotiating and things were going well. He really, really, really wanted this bike and by the way…this is OK right?

My mind flashed to the only motorcycle riding I’d done. In Germany, on the back of a Harley, I stepped on the driver as we turned, going uphill. We were castle hopping. He got road rash. I got jammed joints. I don’t think he appreciated me using him as a human landing pad. The only other experience I’d had was the time I wanted to learn to drive my own motorcycle. I remember the last thing my friend said, “Whatever you do, don’t hit a tree.” Of course, it was the first thing I did, though I thought I was practicing my shifting.

So I smiled and said, “Sure, honey, but if anything happens, I get the house.”

In the beginning I didn’t ride with RD. I didn’t say anything about him riding. He was having a blast. Getting to know people. Traveling. He was happy. God love him. RD had our daughter research B52 bomber art from WWII and draw a picture of a red naked lady in a very sexy pose. She would be painted on his gas tank. That’s when the Beemer became The Mistress. I knew I was in for a fight against this machine. I was worried. I didn’t look all that good as a red naked lady.

I started thinking about motorcycle fun. When I was a kid in Germany, I loved going to the motorcycle races. I envisioned myself as a “monkey.” I’d seen some of the women on the sidecars. I was intrigued. Hanging off a thin little platform, while driving 200 thousand miles an hour around curves, had a certain appeal to me. Call me crazy. It looked like fun. My father felt otherwise, and I was shipped back to the states. Eventually, I began working on a racetrack, but with horses instead of motorcycles.

Finally, RD realized I was jealous and wanted to travel with him. For Valentines Day, he suited me up, gave me a few pointers and off we went. It was a clear, cold night. We went out into the country. Everything smelled wonderful. The streaming landscape was awesome. I looked up and saw a blanket of diamonds on top of us. He shifted gears. I went dead calm. It was one of my feelings again. I knew we were going 100 miles an hour. In that moment, I knew I was experiencing perfection. I was in heaven. I wondered if this is what it felt like when an angel flew. After we slowed down, RD got the big hug. He grinned and said “110.” I said, “Can we do it again?”

See you on the road,

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