Easy Riding Mama

Harley's name is Dallas. I should have just used his real name right off the bat because nobody would have believed it. I asked him how it was that a kid from New Zealand gets named after an American city. He shrugged and said it was popular at the time. Simple. The good thing is that I have never dated another Dallas and thus, I do not have any negative name associations. Anyway, we spent a fair chunk of time this past Sunday cruising on his Harley and I feel like I've been bitten by a stange, exotic bug.

We began the morning on the golf course trying to squeeze in nine holes before the heat became unbearable. Unfortunately, Dallas's clubs were forged during the bronze age so he struggled a bit and I got to see another side of him. I had a friend tell me that I should conduct at least one date on the golf course because performance anxiety in front of a new friend combined with the inherent frustrations of golf would allow me to get an immediate look at the anger management capabilities of any suitor. Well, in spite of the fact that Dallas and his clubs weren't on speaking terms, the worst epithet of the morning didn't come from his lips. I won that contest. Shocking, I know. He merely became quiet. His friend, Brandon, says that Dallas isn't coy and doesn't do subtle well because he was tragically deprived of American spy movies in his formulative years. I agree that Dallas is easily read but he's so even tempered that this comes off more like strong and silent than bleeding heart.

We ended up leaving early because the heat was suffocating and every time I drove the ball, my hand felt like I had stuck my fingers into a light socket. I had lightly mentioned to Dallas that perhaps a good Christmas gift for him might be a new set of clubs, which he took in stride at the time but later, at Starbucks, he couldn't keep his true thoughts to himself. As he was handing me my latte, he begged me not to spend a penny on golf equipment for him.

He was clearly tortured.

Instead, he suggested that I might want to peruse the local Harley Davidson shop in December......for something he might actually use. Oh well, he did agree to suffer through the occasional round of golf when the weather cooled.

So back to the ride. Dallas had changed into motorcycle gear and the whole look (jeans, shirt and boots) captured my attention. I had tried to dress appropriately but I couldn't bear the thought of jeans in 200 degree weather and I do not have one article of clothing that is authentic HD. For shame. I did make an effort by switching purses to a black leather with silver studs Prada and Dallas inexplicably, found this highly amusing. The point is that the Harley Davidson store is emitting this siren call and my resistance is wearing. There is this whole slightly naughty sub culture that appeals to me on a level worthy of psychoanalysis but the bottom line is that I want to learn how to ride and I am eager to shop for some cool new gear.

I have also been flirting with the idea of getting a tattoo.

I know that I now appear to be a neon, blinking, poster child for mid life crisis but I've been thinking about this for a bit and I may just go and do it if I can find a doctor who will prescribe a morphine drip. I have to face the truth. There is a leather-clad, do rag-wearing, tattoo-sporting biker chick inside of me who is trying to claw her way out.

I casually mentioned to my ten year old son that I was thinking about getting a tat and he looked at me, snapped his fingers in my face and said,

"Who are you and what have you done with my mother?"