So you are probably wondering what my wonderful wife, Katie, the woman of my dreams, the most important person in my life, thought when I announced I had bought -- and brought home -- an old motorcycle. Let's just say it was not good. It was not so much the words, which sliced and diced like a Ginsu, as it was the look: It went from "what were you thinking?" to battle stations! faster than I could prepare my mental foxhole. I had no place to hide and she was rolling out the artillery. That's when my six-year-old son jumped on the back of the CB, still strapped in to the back of my Toyota truck, and grabbed hold of the handlebars. "This is awesome! A racing bike!" Not exactly what she wanted to hear, see, or experience in even her worst nightmare, but I suddenly had an ally, and my foxhole feelings melted with the vision of my son against a cloudy sky, bent over that old blue gas tank, wind in his whispy hair, heading down that imaginary road. He looked really good. So damned cute. And I bet Katie was thinking the same thing, though she was never going to admit it.
There are still many conversations to come about why I bought the bike, what I was thinking, and promises forgotten. But that's part of the journey. Every meaningful trip has trials and tribulations. This is one of them -- one that requires skillful driving and spot on navigation. Take it slow. Ride during the day. Avoid bad weather. Will she ever come to love the CB? Maybe. Will she ever forgive me for bringing it home? Probably not. Will it be okay, though? I hope so.
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