Chris and I met in a bar and while that story – our story, so to speak – certainly deserves a post of its own, this is actually the story of our first date. Or, was it our second date? Shit, now I’m wondering if it could even be considered a date. Regardless, here’s the story of how I became a part of the super secret bikers’ gang.
As I said, Chris and I met in a bar and the following weekend, we met at that same bar again for a date (or not; see above confusion.) The next morning (SHUT UP, nothing happened…no really, nothing happened), as my friend Michelle and I were driving Chris back to his place, he mentioned how it was a nice day for a bike ride.
Allow me to interject here to tell you how much I’d always wanted a biker boyfriend. Don’t we all, right? No, I really wanted a biker boyfriend. Like, to the point that when I was creating my list of What I Want In A Man, I almost added Rides A Motorcycle to the list. But then I decided against it, deeming it too vain or something (nevermind that Must Be Over Six Feet Tall made it to the list. Priorities, people.)
Anyway, so Chris mentioned how it was a nice day for a bike ride and I agreed and then he asked me if I’d like to go for a ride. And I was like, “You have a motorcycle?,” which hopefully came out very cool and nonchalant, because in my head, I was going, “OMG OMG OMG I’VE FOUND MY BIKER BOYFRIEND! AND HE’S SIX-FOOT-FOUR, CHECK AND CHECK!”
Obviously, Chris did indeed have a motorcycle and so he said he’d come pick me up for a ride in a couple hours. Those few hours went by and as Chris’s arrival time was nearing, I suddenly got a terrible thought: WHAT if the motorcycle was actually a crotch-rocket? Now, I did not then, nor do I now, claim to know anything about motorcycles, but I did know that in my vision, my biker boyfriend rode a Harley-type bike. Something about crotch-rockets conjured up visions of…I don’t know…Small men. Small girly men.
[Being married to Chris, I’ve really gotten a lesson in cars/motorcycles/things with engines/things that go fast, and have since learned that crotch-rockets are actually really bad-ass. BUT STILL.]
During my moment of fret, I called not one, but two girlfriends, to discuss my options if Chris did in fact ride up on a Kawasaki (Would I refuse to get on the bike? How would I suppress my laughter? Was I a giant bitch?) Luckily, during the middle of Phone Call To Girlfriend Number Two, Chris pulled up on a “regular” motorcycle and so all was well.
As we were out on the bike, I kept noticing that when we passed other motorcycles on the road, Chris and the other rider would put their left hands down, oftentimes making an upside-down peace sign. What is this mysterious biker gang sign they’re making at each other, I thought?
Well, come to find out, SADLY, all bikers are not a part of some super secret biker gang that requires a special hand signal. Nope, it’s just their way of waving to one another on the road. Disappointing, isn’t it?
Anyway, the bike is long gone; up in Portland with its rightful owner, Chris’s younger brother, but now every time I see a biker on the road, I want to give them the special wave. Too bad they wouldn’t be able to see it…Me waving from my car with DOORS and all.
—————————————————————
A PSA: Y’all know I don’t like to get too preachy up in here, but I have to ask you to please be courteous of those drivers on motorcycles. I know they’re sort of annoying because they can split lanes through traffic and always get the good parking spots (should I park on the sidewalk? Sure!), but they’re out on the road without a giant hunk of tin covering them and if they get hit or go down, they’re probably going to be seriously injured OR WORSE. It could be one of my brothers or my husband or even me on that bike, so every time I see I biker, I stay where I am, I don’t speed up so they can’t get through, I don’t change lanes, and I don’t cut them off. Motorcyclists are (usually) some of the best drivers, so if you stay put, they’ll probably be out of you way in no time.