RETURNED TO ME

Last Wednesday, I picked up my wife, Mary, at the airport, following her 11-day business trip to Europe. After treating her to a quick Tex-Mex fix, I wanted to pick up another gal that I hadn’t seen for a while. I had quit riding my Kawasaki Vulcan motorcycle when my wife and I started dating 15 years ago. When we bought our house 14 years ago, my youngest brother unloaded the bike from the back of the moving truck and rolled it into the garage, where it has quietly beckoned me from beneath a blue comforter these many years.

Over the last few years I’ve repeatedly told Mary that I planned to get my bike running again, usually after watching some carefree soul pass by on their own slice of two-wheeled heaven. Mary would smile and nod, knowing that good intentions alone never accomplish anything.

I finally called the repair shop and had them pick up the bike on May 21, 2009. Now, a mere two months and one day later, the reunion with my old friend was at hand. On the drive to the shop, Mary expressed her concern that I would end up falling off the bike. I reassured her by telling her that in the 15 years I spent riding motorcycles prior to my most recent 15 years of inactivity, I had only had one motorcycle mishap. Besides, I lied; my helmet was equipped with airbags. In her transatlantic-jet-lag-induced-state, she was a little confused as to how that might work, but I quickly let her know that I was pulling her leg about the airbags. However, the guys at the repair shop got a kick out of it when I repeated the story to them.

Mary followed me home without incident, although I noticed that my helmet had an odor and kept sliding down on my forehead. Upon returning home, Mary had a few things she needed to do for work so I took the bike out for a quick ride. When I returned home, Mary tried to figure out why I had a two-inch scratch on my cheek and greenish-gray foam rubber in my hair and on my shirt. Obviously, there was a problem with the helmet, but I figured I’d look into that later.

The next day, Mary worked from home and I took advantage of the time to spend a little time renewing my acquaintance with my “V-twin” friend. Mary made me promise to stay off the highway until I regained my skills. I assured her that it was just like riding a bike, although I did promise to stay off the highway. I grabbed my sunglasses and couldn’t understand why my helmet was riding on the top rim of the sunglasses. I didn’t recall being this uncomfortable from my previous riding adventures a decade-and-a-half back, but decided to check the helmet more closely later and just ride through the pain in my brain.

I rode around the neighborhood for a little while, and then decided to take Highway 66 out across Lake Ray Hubbard to the small town of Rockwall, a favorite ride in the old days. I should probably explain that my earlier promise to stay off highways was, in my mind, a promise to stay off interstate highways. For the most part, Highway 66 was more street than highway, with plenty of stoplights through the towns of Garland and Rowlett before turning into a 55 MPH stretch across the lake into Rockwall.

Once I made it to Rockwall, there was an inexplicable abundance of road construction to navigate. Things went south when I was finally able to turn west, back toward home. I was second in line at a red light, waiting to get back on Highway 66 in downtown Rockwall. I’ve always believed that one good turn deserves another. This wasn’t a good turn. As I turned the corner, things (mostly my motorcycle) went so quickly that it’s hard to say the exact order of events. I turned wide and I’m sure my eyes got wide as I hit an oily patch in the road, sending the bike even wider into the turn.

I almost made it. I almost didn’t hit the opposite curb with the gearshift lever on the left side of the bike. I almost didn’t spill over to the left. I almost wished I had stayed home.

I wasn’t down more than three seconds, before I picked myself, and the bike, back up. I quickly started the engine and was back on my way. Only I couldn’t shift out of first gear, limiting me to 30 MPH on a 55 MPH road.

I managed to get across the lake before I had to pull over and let the bike cool off. I called the repair shop and asked if they could possibly fix the bent gearshift lever while I waited so that I wouldn’t have to tell my wife that I really did fall off as she had predicted. They were very kind not to laugh until they knew that I was personally okay.

When the bike cooled down, I again set out for the repair shop, but had to stop a few miles down the road so that it could cool down again. Motorcycles are wild creatures that really don’t enjoy extended journeys in first gear. Since I had to stop anyway - and since I expected to be a little bored with the wait - and since I had a grass stain to explain on the knee of my jeans, I called Mary. I planned to tell her what happened by starting slow and tapering down to nothing. Mary was too quick for me, as is usually the case. She quickly became convinced that the reason for the accident was a diabetic reaction caused by my not having eaten anything all day. It was only 11:30 a.m. and I usually don’t eat anything before 11:00 a.m. anyway, but that wasn’t enough to convince her. She wanted to come and get me, but I finally managed to persuade her that I would be okay, although I might need her to pick me up when I got the bike back to the shop.

After Mary, and the motorcycle, cooled down, I started the bike back up and made it in to the repair shop. The employees there were very kind to confine their amusement to smiles, instead of outright guffaws. Within 30 minutes, the bike was ready to go home, whether I was or not.

I paid the bill with cash. That way, I wouldn’t be reminded of my stupidity when the MasterCard bill arrived next month. As I was about to put my helmet back on, I finally gave it a closer look and realized that the interior forehead padding had completely disintegrated over the years. No wonder it was so uncomfortable. I went back inside and asked if I could buy new padding. I was advised that helmets are supposed to be replaced every five years for safety. My helmet was born in 1985, the same year as my adult daughter.

When I returned home, I checked the other two helmets in my home inventory. One was manufactured in 1975 and I couldn’t tell how old the other was, since I’m not proficient at reading Roman numerals.

As the evening wore on, I realized I was a little more worn than I had thought. My left wrist, elbow, knee, and ankle were all a little tender to the touch, and thought.

As I look back on yesterday’s events, I know the gearshift lever has been straightened out, but have I? I now realize I need better shoes and a new helmet. I’m not sure I want another $400 helmet if it’s only going to be effective for five years. One thing is certain; I need to make sure I wear my best underwear when I go out on my next ride. You know what mothers say…