Tag: motorcycles

All Fun and Games

  
Our housekeeper came on the 24th, and Doright Manor was spotless by the time she left: Tiles gleamed, faucets sparkled, and countertops shone. Studly Doright and I enjoyed Christmas Day and Boxing Day in a clean castle. Then the grandchildren arrived, along with the jolly mess that accompanies them everywhere they roam.

Within minutes of the kids’ arrival at midnight on Sunday the house looked like a violent windstorm had blown through. Suitcases exploded flinging clothing hither and yon, chairs that do not normally recline somehow morphed into loungers, and our cabinets were emptied of anything edible. 

And this was all before the gifts were opened. Once that occurred, Doright Manor disappeared beneath acres of brightly colored wrapping paper, ribbons, and bows. There might’ve been actual books, gadgets, and toys in the pile, I’m just not sure they’ll ever be located. 

Thankfully the weather here in the Florida panhandle has been perfect for exploring the outdoors this week. The kids spent hours riding the mini-bike and motorcycle that Studly (a.k.a. Poppa) fixed up for them in the weeks before their arrival. The property surrounding the manor provided a perfect track for our budding bikers.

   
 And we spent a couple of hours learning basic gun safety.

   
 A prodigious amount of tree chopping took place, as well.

  
In other words, we tried to keep them outside as much as possible. 

The crew headed home on New Year’s Day leaving behind a trail of detritus and memories. The house might look like we’ve lost a rousing game of Jumanji, but it was worth every second.

Peace, people.

Sonic Vroom

this afternoon was perfect
for two-wheeled adventures,
leaning into modest curves,
feeling brisk exhilaration.
briefly open throttles wide
to pass sedate pedestrians.
ease seamlessly into lanes,
give nods to bikes we meet.
brake for food, hungry now.
partake of Sonic’s cuisine:
cheeseburgers, tots, shakes.
turn toward home as evening
breezes creep under helmets,
and leafy shadows crisscross
roadways, cautioning riders.

Studly’s “It’s NOT a Man Cave!” Man Cave

In the beginning,

   
    
 …there was a big mess.

But little by little…   
 …there was progress.

And today…

   
…the “It’s NOT a man cave”

        

…is beginning to look like a man cave. 

Studly still has quite a bit of inside work ahead of him, but just having a spot to park all of our motorcycles is heady stuff. 

 

A Special Gift

  For a combination Mother’s/Father’s Day gift our daughter had this made for Studly and me. It’s a beautiful reminder of all we’ve been through and of just how far we’ve come.

The border lists all the places we’ve lived in our marriage. In the lower right hand corner the names of our children and grandchildren are written. All around our names are our interests and Studly’s famous sayings, “Don’t say whoa in a mud hole,” “Second Sucks,” and “Can’t never could.” 

The “Really, Really” is how Studly signs his cards to me. He’s been doing so since before we married. The one time he forgot I thought he wanted to leave me. 

Notice the cow in the upper right hand corner. That represents Salem Sue, the huge Holstein that adorns a hill outside New Salem, North Dakota, where we lived for 18 months. The town, not the hill; although, I always told people we lived behind the left udder.

The remainder of the picture contains little bits of our lives, our hobbies and activities. Studly golfs. I drink wine. We both follow the Dallas Cowboys and ride motorcycles. Oh, and we both look like idiots trying to climb out of our kayak.

When I get old, this will be my touchstone, my connection to our past. What a wonderful gift!

Road Trip

two bikes in the back
of an old blue pickup truck
red striped straps hold firm.

a long way to go
Fayetteville, Arkansas, bound
settled in the cab.

bypass truckers’ stops
favoring mom and pop shops
plain country cooking.

Good conversation
with a real good man, my man;
wonder if he knows…

that these shared journeys
mean much more to me than where
this old road might go.

  
Not our truck. Not our bikes. But you get the idea!

Bassackwards

I was slow getting up and around this morning. The digital clock on Studly’s side of the bed clicked over to 8:05 before I even crawled out from under the covers. The cats demanded treats immediately, so I obliged them before eating breakfast. After a hot shower I looked through my closet for something to wear. Normally this is an easy task, but we are leaving on a motorcycle trip tomorrow, and I didn’t want to wear anything I’d need to pack.

After a bit of consideration, I pulled on my purple Haunted Mansion t-shirt and an old pair of JAG denim capris. At one time, these capris fit me perfectly, but they must’ve shrunk or something because their patented elastic band doesn’t seem to have much give anymore. I’m sure it has nothing to do with the 20 extra pounds I’m currently sporting. Okay, maybe it has something to do with the weight gain, but they just felt completely wrong. Since I had no need to go into town I didn’t change out of them and got down to business.

The morning was spent doing laundry and figuring out how to stuff everything into my smallest bag to make room for my riding gear. After rolling and folding, packing and planning, I went out to take water to the men who were putting the brick on Studly’s shop and chatted with them for a minute or two before heading in for a bathroom break.

After taking care of business I went to the sink to wash up. Taking a look in the mirror I realized why my pants felt wrong. I’d pulled them on backwards. The back pockets were right there as evidence. Sheesh. It’s a good thing the brick layers had my car blocked in. There’s no telling how many people in Tallahassee might have witnessed my blunder otherwise.

One question. How wealthy does one need to be in order to employ a stylist? I think I qualify as someone who desperately needs one. I’m sure the bricklayers would testify on my behalf.

Peace, people!

Shopping Online for Motorcycle Pants

Studly Doright and I are gearing up for our annual motorcycle trip scheduled for the 21st of June. We’re planning on trailering our bikes out to this year’s destination, Springdale, Arkansas, rather than riding them due to time constraints.

June is one of Studly’s busiest months at work, and not only do we have the bike trip in the works, but a Doright family reunion the week before. Poor guy is having trouble keeping his sanity while I can only act as his sexy support crew. It’s a tough job, but I’m well qualified.

I haven’t ridden my motorcycle in ages, and the last time I did so I remember being unable to zip my riding pants due to, well, accumulations of fatty tissue in the waist area. I tried the pants on a few minutes ago and found the gap between button and buttonhole even wider. Damn.

Apparently, though, Studly is in the same gravy boat, so here we are shopping online for riding pants that fit our expanded sillouhuettes. For him it’s easy. Men’s sizes are plentiful and assume that the wearer is going to be at least 5’8″. 

Women’s sizes are a different matter, though. Apparently someone hasn’t informed the motorcycle industry that woman come in all sizes; we are not all 5 feet, 2 inches weighing 100 lbs.  

I googled “women’s mesh motorcycle pants, tall.” Now I just want to know in what universe 31.5 inches is considered a tall inseam? Honestly?!  Finally I found a pair of riding pants that might fit, if I cut a couple of inches off of my legs. There’s nothing quite so appealing as a pair of motorcycle pants that strike mid-calf.

Motorcycle Superstore had a style I’ll try. My fingers are crossed that they’ll fit. stay tuned for a review. And maybe tears.

Not me.

Nana’s Visit

I wrote this piece for my grandchildren Garrett and McKayla several years ago. Parts of it are even true. 

Nana’s Visit

“Nana’s coming, Nana’s coming!” sang Garrett as he ran in circles around the room.”
“Nana’s coming, Nana’s coming!” echoed Little Mac following closely behind her brother.

Mama covered her ears with her hands.

“Enough, you two!” she exclaimed. “You are making me crazy!”

Garrett giggled. So did Little Mac.

“When will she be here?” Garrett asked, jumping up and down.
“Yeah, when will Nana be here?”asked Little Mac, hopping on one foot.

“Soon,” smiled Mama.

“Are we going to the airport to pick her up?” asked Garrett.

“No, not the airport,” Mama said.

“Are we going to the train station to pick her up?” asked Little Mac.

“No,” Mama shook her head. “Not the train station.”

“Hmmm,” said Garrett.
“Hmmm,” repeated Little Mac.

“Is she riding a bus?” Garrett wondered.
“Yeah, a bus!” shouted Little Mac. “A school bus!”

Mama laughed, “Nope. Keep guessing!”

“Then she must be driving her car!” whooped Garrett. “We can ride around with the top down!”

“Wheeeee!” squealed Little Mac.

“Still wrong,” Mama said. “She isn’t driving her car either.”

Garrett frowned for a moment. “I hate to tell you this, Mama,” he said. “We are all out of guesses.”

“Yeah,” said Little Mac, crossing her arms and frowning, too. “All out of guesses.”

Just then, Mama put a finger to her lips. “Shhh,” she said. “I think I hear something outside our house.”

Garrett and Little Mac raced to the front door and into the yard just in time to see a shiny red motorcycle pull into their driveway. The rider turned off the motor, pulled off her helmet and smiled.

“Nana?” asked Garrett.
“Nana!” squealed Little Mac.

Sure enough, it was Nana.

  

Why I Like This Photo, Round 2

  
Sure, it doesn’t look like much now, but in a few weeks this is going to be Studly Doright’s long-anticipated man cave.

To hear Studly tell it he’s never, ever had a place to call his own. Now keep in mind, this is a guy who, after he spends 10 minutes in a bathroom, owns that bathroom, simply because no one else will venture inside.

Of course he did move directly from his parents’ home into our cozy little (read: crummy) rental house 38.75 years ago, so even though we’ve purchased progressively nicer homes every time we’ve moved, he really never has had a place of his very own.

Studly’s man cave is going to be part motorcycle garage/part workshop. I’ve even hinted that we could put a cot out there for those times when he snores so loudly that even the cats need earplugs.

I’m almost as excited for the man cave to be completed as Studly is. It means more space in my, I mean, our garage, less clutter in my, I mean, our home, and more opportunities for Studly to build stuff for me, I mean, us.

Who knew just how much I needed a man cave?

  
Peace, people!

Good Old Days

I had a motorcycle exactly like the one pictured below back in 1977 or ’78. Even better, I was once as slender as the young woman on this DT 175 Yamaha.

Now nearly 38 years, two kids, and probably 50 pounds later I can look back on those days with great fondness, at the time though life felt very complicated. 

Studly and I were learning how to be married. We were just kids, really, and pretty selfish. I was unwilling to learn the domestic arts. Studly felt like I should be able to do everything his mom did, and smile in the process.

I was ready to enjoy freedom from parental control, while Studly, raised in a very male-dominant household thought it was his duty to provide me with structure. That did not sit well with me.

We butted heads. Often. But we also had a lot going for us, not the least of which were our respective senses of humor and the commitment to making this very young marriage work. There were a lot of folks who didn’t think we’d make it, so of course we had to prove them wrong.

Not long after we married Studly went to Ronnie’s Yamaha in Dumas, Texas, and bought me a little yellow scooter called a Chappy. I rode that little scooter all over town and gained some much needed self-confidence. 

After I proved I could stay up on two wheels Studly came home with a DT 175 like the one pictured above. I loved that bike. We took it to the Canadian River, just north of Amarillo, almost every weekend, and while David took on the big challenges I learned how to ride in deep sand (go fast!) and shallow water (go slow!) and on rock strewn trails (pick a line and give the bike its head!). I even ran over a couple of snakes and a good friend (sorry Patricia!)

After our kids came along I stopped riding. It just didn’t seem to be a motherly thing to do. Back then I was pretty bound by what others thought of me. Dammit. Oh, to be young again and to know what I know now! 

Once our youngest graduated high school I took up riding again and wondered why on earth I hadn’t been on a bike for 18 years. There is something about having one’s own motorcycle that is both grounding and freeing, especially for a woman.

Even though I have a mega scooter now, I’d like to find an old “foo foo” bike like the DT. It wasn’t outstanding at any one aspect of riding, but good at most of them. And the memories of those early days of marriage are all wrapped up in it somehow.

I guess if there’s a take away from this post it’s that no matter at what stage of life we find ourselves we should do what makes us happy and more fulfilled. To heck with what others think.

Peace, people.