tigerlilylovesmotorcycles.over-blog.com

It was Spring, 2005, when I visited my brother, Ray, in the heart of the Texas Hill Country. He showed me his cherry-red Harley Road King and said, “Wanna go for a ride?” It would be my first time on a motorcycle since my brother took me on a ride when I was 18 and in the Corps. I said, “Sure!”

He turned that bad-boy on, and I straddled that gigantic, loud, shiny-red thunder-machine. The instant he saw my feet touch the passenger pegs, Ray blasted off. So fast he darted that I was sure I'd have to scoop up my vital organs from ground. I screamed like a horror movie as my finger nails pierced into his torso. As soon as I recovered, I commanded to him to... “Go faster!” He cracked up and lamented to me that his wife wasn't so fun.

I was 44 when I had that Harley ride. Perhaps it was also the beginning of a midlife crisis. I came home and demanded to my husband that he get a Harley. Caught by surprise, he asked, “What the hell?” I explained about my thrilling ride and he said, “That's ridiculous. I don't do motorcycles.” I pouted and said, “Well, then, I guess I'll have to find me a boyfriend with a motorcycle.”

Although I was kidding about the boyfriend (sorta), I wasn't kidding about my need for excitement. If I die at the age my mom died, then I only had 15 years left. And at 44, who knows when my health would turn to crap. I was a nurse and knew there was a lot that could go wrong. After all, early cancer, rheumatoid arthritis, and heart disease run rampant among my ancestors. I was ready to really live. I was ready to ride on a Harley behind my husband and let nature smack me.

My retired husband thought about it and decided to go for it. So, the linear person he is, he was on a long quest of online research. He probably got a crick in his neck evaluating motorcycles as meticulously as a monkey picking ticks. I think it got him a little excited to know that there was a new way he would thrill me.

With flying colors, he passed a class and got a license. But things didn't turn out as I had hoped. My cerebral monkey tick-picker was not my confident Harley-loving brother. He was super-cautious. And when he talked about the day he would take me for my first ride, he looked as like a death row inmate envisioning the electric chair.

Another day I'll describe the first time I rode behind my husband on his new motorcycle.

Was there a moment you remember when you just knew you had to feel the thrill of a motorcycle ride?

A few years ago, while riding through Arizona, one of the riders in my club said to me, “I thought you were an intelligent woman. Why don't you wear a helmet?”

"Because it's not mandatory in Arizona,” I explained.

There are times, however, when a helmet comes in handy: like when it's hailing. But for the most part, a helmet tends to hurt my neck and can partially obstruct my view. I've also had some bad experiences with helmets – like when part of the visor comes off and I have to hold it with one hand until I can safely stop to fix it.

I think my well-meaning, pro-helmet friend was trying to shame me to conform. I was flattered, not insulted that he questioned my “intelligence.” It was his way of saying he cares about me. But should his concern for my welfare supersede my desire to be helmet-less?

Indeed, a motorcycle accident without a helmet can be the difference between life and death; or life and quadriplegia; or life and permanent mental damage. I, better than many, know the consequences. As a registered nurse, I've cared for patients with various injuries, motorcycles as well as cars – and certainly many other types of injuries for which laws cannot control. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that the ratio of injuries between motorcycle riders and car drivers are fewer. Because to ride a motorcycle, all of your senses must be heightened. You must be able to see the road well; to hear trouble to your bike or trouble headed your way; to smell something burning on your bike; to feel any strange movements caused by faulty mechanics. Senses don't need to be quite so sharp to drive a car. And yet, taking a person's right to drive is not taken as lightly by society, as forcing helmets on riders.

I'm almost 49 years old. I've lived the better part of my life for others – parents, husband, children, extended family, employers. Add to that the pretenses I've kept up about being “virtuous” among religious zealots – and man, they're all over the place. So as I get older, I tend to appreciate my freedoms more and more, my favorite of which is: freedom of expression. Quietly, and sometimes not so quietly, more freedoms are being taken away.

For me, riding a motorcycle in perfect weather, wearing a skimpy tank-top, an ordinary pair of jeans, a pair of tennis shoes, and no helmet, is as close as it gets to feeling free. I've earned it. My children are grown and can survive without me – like I've survived without mine. My parents are dead and don't need me. My husband would eventually get over my death and would likely find someone more compatible. But this does not matter to many. They care only about how they feel. And they will shove their self-righteous values and morals down individuals' throats. Let's not kid ourselves: if those of us who value freedom are not vigilant, we will have our freedoms taken away. In a country that often punishes more severely for acts that are non-violent and victimless, how free are we, really? And how much more do we stand to lose? The answer: a lot! How about the freedom to even ride a motorcycle? Already there are places that deny motorcycle riding because of the “noise factor.” Some cars can be noisy, too!

Some sort of helmet-wearing law is required in most states. These requirements are slowly being infiltrated to kill that specific freedom like a slow cancer. Perhaps as early as in my own lifetime, a Federal law will require everyone to wear a helmet – much like seat belts. This might give relief to those on the road who fear watching someone on a motorcycle crash and die. It might give relief to loved ones who want at all costs to protect theirs. But what about my needs? Don't I deserve the right to choose when, if at all, to wear a helmet? Have I not paid my dues to society as a tax-payer, to my country as a veteran, to my family and friends? Should individual rights be taken away in the name of “safety?”

I know, I know – these laws are meant to protect me; whether I want to be protected or not. Others say that an injury has the potential to cost taxpayers a lot of money in hospital care. What if those of us who value our freedom not to wear a helmet signed a waiver saying: If I get injured and the likelihood is less than 50% that I can be recovered as a fully functional human, I hereby give my permission to be given a lethal injection. (And just to prove that I value life as much as the next:) Further, I hereby give any valuable organs to anyone that needs them. Don't get me wrong, I believe in protecting the most vulnerable in our society – children, the elderly, those with handicaps, and animals. We need laws to keep order and protect them.

Would a helmet law quiet the cheapskates who cry about spending our tax money on “irresponsible” non-helmet wearers? Probably not. Those people tend to be cut from the same cloth as those who value life above and beyond someone's individual freedom.

I think there are times when whether you live or die should be a personal choice, as in cases of terminal illness. And I'm optimistic that the oppressions of today could be – at least in part – successfully challenged. I'm hopeful that “enlightened” baby-boomers and generations thereafter will be the pragmatic voices that will fight through activism to restore some of our lost freedoms and to attain new ones. And I'm not just talking about helmets.

But while the debate continues, I intend to ride as much as possible, helmet-less, in States that don't force me to wear a helmet. And the next time someone suggests I should wear a helmet, I'll suggest they stop eating french fries. After all, a lifetime of bad eating can also kill.

Dear European friends:  What do you think about helmet laws?

So Jesus has long hair, but men with long hair are scorned by Christians? What gives?

It got me to think about other things. Like the day I paid attention to a church ritual, when I was told to, “Eat this bread, it is my body,” I thought, yuck! And then to wash down the “body,” we were to “take and drink, this is my blood.” Double yuck!! I recently heard a British, transsexual comedian, Eddie Izzard, say that he thought Jesus was a cannibal and vampire. Makes sense to me. I was an adolescent thinking like that. Maybe there's something odd about my sexuality. Could there be a connection? Although I had these weird thoughts about my religion's rituals, I knew to keep my mouth shut, lest I be accused of being a “pa-gen.” If you're Muslim, I think it would be like being an “infidel.”

Speaking of dogmatic views and rituals, the word “dogma” spelled backwards is “AmGod”. People with dogma, act as if their ideas AreGod. What does this have to do with motorcycle riding? Nothing. It's just a thought I had while I was riding one day.

That's the thing about riding a motorcycle on a beautiful day enjoying nature. I can think – especially on a long, lonely road where I don't need to worry about cages. (“Cage” is motorcycle lingo for “car.”) There is scientific evidence that exposing our face and neck to sunshine decreases depression. It's a natural upper. Sunshine + fresh air + nice scenery on a motorcycle with no cages = creativity.

It's been a long day today. I made jalapeno turkey enchiladas, rice, beans, and zucchini bread to take to my son's new place because it's his only day off of the week and he and his friends and my husband were landscaping all day. To make the zucchini bread, I had to take this jumbo zucchini that I bought at the dollar store and grate it. My daughter and her boyfriend were near the kitchen and I felt an odd need to turn my back so they wouldn't see what I was doing.

This is a practice blog for me. It may seem like I'm all over the place – but, like a bee collecting pollen, there is a plan.

I purposely found this French blog to bond with Europeans. So if you're out there, please comment. What do you think of my blog so far? Does it suck? Does it make you laugh? Can you relate to what I'm saying?  I promise not to bite.

Do tell...