Ian owns a couple of motorcycles. The old "vintage" Ducati is more my speed. It's classic, understated, chrome, sexy, black. It's also a single-seater, so I can't hop on the back and go for a ride with Ian. But it doesn't matter right now, anyway. Even though his other bike, a BMW, has plenty of room for me to snuggle on the back, I won't ride. Not now. Not with two little kids who need their mother, the only parent who is really present on a daily basis in their lives.
I trust Ian. I'm not afraid to ride with him any more than I was afraid to learn from him how to shoot a gun. I trust him completely. He's a skilled rider with a couple of decades worth of experience. It's the other drivers I'm not so sure about. So maybe later, when the kids are grown, I'll finally climb on back like I want to. I love riding motorcycles. My uncle used to own an old Triumph, and I was lucky enough to ride around Manhattan (especially Chinatown!) on the back of that thing. What a blast. And like my Uncle Danny, Ian is smart: He knows his machine, he maintains it well, he wears a helmet, and he isn't cocky behind the handlebars. Still...not yet. Not yet for me.
So I listen a little enviously as bikes rip and croon up and down Lighthouse Rd, not far from my house. I watch a little wistfully as girls wrap their arms around their boys, cruising by the Seawall or up Coe Ave toward the 'Staven town beach. Some nights are just made for riding. For now, I'll take the dog for a long walk at dusk instead, wishing for that elusive stretch of road where no one gets hurt.