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Letter to the editor

Off/beat

This wife resisted lure of life on wheels

By MICHELE MILLER
Published June 12, 2005

The kid sitting on the back of the white and lime-green motorcycle isn't my daughter, but I shudder nonetheless, my heart skipping a beat as she whizzes by, weaving in and out of the three lanes of traffic on Little Road.

I'd like to grab her and shake some sense into her - tell her that shorts, a halter top and flip flops aren't proper riding attire; that leather is essential gear, not a fashion statement, when you're out on the road playing real life Mario Kart Double Dash!!

Perhaps she thinks she's invincible, that the helmet she's wearing will protect her. I'm betting she's never seen anyone with nasty pipe burns or a bad case of raw, weeping road rash, or worse.

So I say a silent prayer for someone else's kid and go home and give my two young daughters another lecture about the perils of climbing on the back of some dude's motorcycle.

"Never, ever," I tell them. "EVER."

Funny thing is, their mother married a biker.

That was way back when - before the term "Rolex Rider" was coined - before sporting tattoos became trendy and riding a Harley became a fun pastime for the poseurs. Back then, the sight of leather-clad bikers with their black-and-chrome rides lined up neatly in a row on the sidewalk was cause for crossing the street.

My husband and his buddies - a mostly harmless bunch - had some fun with the power that brought, sometimes taking impromptu rides through Boston's Callahan Tunnel for the sole purpose of seeing the terrorized looks of the car drivers as their loud pipes reverberated off the walls.

I've heard all the "glory days" stories - well, most of them - countless times, I might add.

But I was never on those lane splitting rides. In fact I can count on three fingers the number of times I rode on the back of my husband's bike - a 1948 Harley-Davidson Panhead, a sleek-looking black and chrome hardtail with a P-Pad (seat) not really meant for carrying a passenger.

I didn't like it. The seat was uncomfortable; the pavement seemed ominously close, and I remember thinking that if I really wanted to feel the wind in my face, I'd ride in a convertible.

Besides that was the aversion I've had to motorcycles ever since I was 16. That was the year my 25-year-old Harley-riding cousin was killed on his way home from work after being forced off the road and into the woods by a reckless driver.

My uncle - a big, strong, strapping man - wept like a baby when he told my father how he didn't recognize his own child's face when he went to identify him at the morgue, even though my cousin had been wearing a helmet.

Something like that sticks with you, makes you think twice about climbing on.

Even so, I understand the lure, especially after taking weekend road trips on the Kancamagus Scenic Byway, which runs through the heart of New Hampshire's picturesque White Mountains. Who wouldn't want an unobstructed view of that?

The last time my husband and I went for a spin together, the Panhead broke down. An omen of sorts, I thought. After a couple of hours spent on the side of the road waiting for a friend to show up with his pickup truck because the creed is you never let anyone tow your bike, I decided, "Thank you very much, from now on I'll take the car."

Before long my husband was taking the car, too - a 1968 mint-green Cadillac convertible - with me riding shotgun.

Our marriage nearly 25 years ago, followed by the arrival of our children and the more recent death of another biker friend at the hands of another reckless driver, has more or less sealed the Panhead's fate.

Unfortunately, the roads, especially here in Florida, can be all too unforgiving.

Now and then my husband ventures out to the garage to tinker with the Panhead. But mostly the bike sits idle, a monument to the glory days and a grown man's youth.

[Last modified June 12, 2005, 00:38:17]