So my brand spanking new shiny red motorcycle is now home safe and sound, tucked in under a tarp (shhh, she’s sleeping).
Which got me thinking about how motorcycles are like kids and dogs.
(No, not that they’re loud and stinky. And you take that back about my baby.)
This is what it’s like when you get your first bike. Swap dog for bike, and little kid for grown-up little kid:
Little kid sees a big dog. Runs behind parent’s legs, but can’t stop staring, wide-eyed, at the dog. Mom: “Do you want to pat the doggie?” Kid shakes head and hides face behind parents legs, clutching at fabric. Seconds later, kid is peering around legs again.
Time passes.
Kid mumbles something incoherent into fabric of parent’s slacks. “What’s that sweetie?”
“I want to pat the doggie.”
Holding parent’s hand, kid walks over to dog. Skin and fur barely make contact. Kid runs back behind parent’s legs. Kid resumes staring at dog.
Time passes. Dog scratches its ear.
Kid tries again. Maybe this time the dog licks the kid. Kid almost loses it, but holds it together. Barely.
Cut to later the same day.
Kid is chasing the dog around the house yelling “I want to play with the doggie!!!” “HERE DOGGIE!!!”
The whole ride home is doggie this and doggie that. Kid. Loves. Dog. (Dog just wants to be friends).
. . .
This is what it’s like with a motorcycle. When you first see it, you think it’s cool. Then you sit on it, and it’s suddenly huge and scary. Then you get used to it, and it gets smaller and smaller and you get bigger and bigger. Until you have one sitting out in your parking spot and you keep throwing on your flip flops to go peek under the tarp at it.
Hypothetically.
Woof.