This afternoon I was immersed in the task of making the kids turkey and cheese bagels, while Doug stared at his laptop, tongue lagging.
“Look at this bike,” he beckoned while I tried to spread an even coat of mayonnaise over my creation. “Is this a sick-ass ride or what?”
Oh, crap, I thought to myself. He’s on his motorcycle kick again. It’s back to the pre-baby days, when he’d go out riding …with his friends all day and halfway into the night, coming home dehydrated with a sunburned head (the consequence of his aversion to helmets). Two babies into our marriage, he finally decided to give up the bikes—a decision he regrets every time we pass one on the road.
I knew it was only a matter of time before he’d go back to his old ways. I sighed and glanced at his computer screen.
It was a bicycle.
“Look at those red rims with flames on it,” he drooled. “It looks like my Honda chopper without the motor. But this time, I”LL BE THE MOTOR!”
I hoped my snickering wasn’t as loud as it was in my head.
“…Look at those disc brakes with a hidden shifter. That’s a suicide shifter. Who the f*ck has a shifter like that that?!”
“No one,” I agreed, all the while wondering if I should’ve added the mayonnaise after microwaving instead of before.
“You need to get over here for a closer look,” he demanded. “Stop what you’re doing right now and look at this. Look at those whitewall tires and brown leather saddle seat. You’d find a saddle like that on a $20,000 horse! It looks like a Schwinn from the ‘70s, back when guys started to trick them out. Those ape hangers, the banana seat, those sweet chrome fenders! It’s vintage!”
“I’m sorry, did you say ‘banana seat’? Do grown men ride bikes with banana seats?”
“Hell yeah! People design motorcycles with those!” By this point, he was nearly salivating all over his keyboard.
My next thought was on our dwindling—or should I say, long overdwindled—bank account. With some trepidation, I asked, “You’re not planning on, say, purchasing this bike, are you?”
“Some day,” was his wistful response.
“And what about the bike you just bought last month?” I was referring to his Specialized mountain bike, which would supposedly take care of all his transportation issues while our car was being repaired.
“That’s my downhill mountain bike,” he explained. This one would be my around-town bike. It’s a luxury cruiser!”
There’s nothing sadder than a man going through motorcycle withdrawals.