Garrett Wants a Motorcycle
I envy the cardinals now gathered at the Vatican; their vote seems easier to arrive upon than the one I recently had to cast in my new family
Kerry’s only child, Garrett, returns home tomorrow from his second year of electrical engineering studies at the University of Maine. He has strong grades in a rigorous academic program, and he has an impressive summer internship lined up. He is an impressive young man, and as you might imagine, he’s very much the proverbial apple of his mother’s eye. In his non-sleeping leisure Garrett enjoys the very Maine recreational pursuits of fishing and hunting.
To which he’d like to add, quite soon, he informed at the Easter dinner table last month, ownership and operation of a motorcycle. At age 19.
His mother, being his mother, responded thusly: “Not happening.”
When I successfully proposed marriage and the sharing of life to this single mother this past winter I imagined myself reliably helping out regularly with home chores — the mowing of the lawn, meal prep and the cleaning of dishes, laundry, the usual domestic endeavors two adults undertake while the returned collegian daily sleeps 12-plus hours. What I never imagined was the formation of our own high-stakes conclave, over motor sport participation, with yours truly casting a decisive vote.
Aren’t I now to be enjoying some manner of new engagement honeymoon, free of strife, contention, and showdown, I wondered silently in our holiday dining table tempest?
Garrett received his mother’s verdict and immediately cast a wide-eyed, woe-is-me visage of plea in my direction. Heretofore the young man and I had collaborated over issues such as summer job cover letter drafts, the appropriate marinade for grilled steaks, and a few modest forays into the wooing of women. I enjoyed all of that. In this moment, however, I was quite uncomfortably positioned as a compelled voice of overarching, decisive, paternal jurisprudence.
Naturally, I dithered and stalled. I brought something less than the Judgement of Solomon to the moment: I staked a claim to Easter dinner dish washing followed by an imperative immersion in the debut of the National Hockey League’s postseason. Mom seemed unimpressed.
For the remainder of the holiday mother and son saber dueled all about our abode, oblivious to the Battle of Ontario unfolding on TV before me. She raised the issue of costly insurance. He countered that his savings from tutoring on campus covered it entirely. Maine’s roads, mom next litigated, are littered with auto drivers routinely distracted by phones, and fog. Bikers are an afterthought, she thundered. I figured I’d surely be drawn back into the battle at first intermission. And I was right.
With cunning logic (I thought) I introduced a line of argument that I imagined would flatter both combatants, and earn me some badly needed reprieve. In light of Garrett’s great success at school, I suggested, and his forsaking of a university’s myriad corrupting social distractions in favor of his studies, now dating fully two years, might this not be a moment with which to acknowledge his precocious maturity, and award him our faith in handling this responsibility . . . responsibly?
It bears motioning that at age 19, Garrett in the eyes of the law is entitled to independently purchase and operate any motor vehicle he covets. He knows this. Undoubtedly, mom does, too. But to his credit, in this moment, Garrett sought his mother’s acquiescence, as he has with every initiative of import his whole life. And I very much doubt he proceeds with his engine revving reverie without mom’s support. I reminded mom of this as we ended our holiday evening under the covers, and feared her smothering me with a pillow.
Garrett returned to campus, to complete finals. But before he left I secured from him a few important pledges, should he move forward and buy a bike. No off-season riding, like in late autumn or winter; absolutely no riding in Maine’s iconic fog or other hazardous conditions; absolutely not a drop of alcohol anywhere near operation.
We now had a couple of weeks to consider the matter more. I knew that Garrett wouldn’t be long returned home before we resurrected the topic. And in point of fact Garrett didn’t wait until the end of the school calendar to advance his cause: he texted his mother a photo of a biker’s helmet he’d purchased.
I further suggested to mom that as a snowmobile owner and operator myself I could have some helpful influence on Garrett with respect to safe and responsible operation. But I also share her overarching concern; bikers are uniquely vulnerable out in traffic, no matter the training riders complete. Our hope is that Garrett’s riding, at least initially, will be restricted to off-road exploration in rural hills and outposts, well away from car congestion.
I decided to put a note in the mail to Garrett at school, to signify not only that I wouldn’t be passing the buck in our newly formed family but that ultimately I would side with my fellow motor sports enthusiast . . . so long as he held up a critically important component of the arrangement.
“I am working hard on persuading your mother on the Motorcycle Initiative,” I wrote. “but it is slow going. Necessarily. She is doing precisely what diligent and devoted and loving mothers do with such a request (protect).
“Ultimately, I’m optimistic that with time and thoughtful assurances (by both of us), we can get her to our side, but this will require patience, coordination, and most of all — on your end — a continuation of all that you are doing to make her and me exceptionally proud of you. I am totally in your corner on this, because I’ve seen in you inordinate maturity, terrific effort with a rigorous program at school, and simply a high quality head on your shoulders. You’ve earned trust in this important moment. (I am also a snowmobile owner, and motor sports lovers must stick together.)
“But you must never, ever forget that you are the greatest and most precious treasure in your mother’s life — now and forever — and she will never cease being a protective mother of you. Motorcycles, when operated and maintained appropriately, are a joy of adventure. But they are also uniquely vulnerable while on roads shared with car traffic. Additionally, we live in an age of too often, too easily distracted auto drivers. This is what consumes your mother’s concern. And mine.
“We have allies in our cause: Jim, the father of a young woman who works with your mom, is a huge motor sports guy, and we were together for dinner the other night talking about motorcycle safety courses. And a former co-worker with your mom, Gustavo, rides a snazzy looking pair of bikes with his wife. Their advocacy will help us.”
“Focus on finals, and we’ll make this a summer to remember once you get home.”