Suddenly, I'm in a Biker Family, and Soon, I'll Be a Member of a Biker Gang
The dominant talk in my family this spring and summer has been with the Great Motorcycle Initiative, inaugurated by our 19-year-old at the Easter dinner table, and succumbing to his incessant entreaties ever since, we carried it off this past Sunday, driving about 40 miles down to a small community tucked in the southwest corner of Maine to secure Garrett his first bike. It’s a 2021 Honda CB300R, aka a “crouch rocket,” which he found on Facebook Marketplace. Mother was something less than fond of the bike’s moniker, but this model of bike is perfect for a beginning rider, numerous family friends with riding pedigrees informed us.
The bike looks great, and Garrett is beaming day and night over it, but I wasn’t at all prepared for his mother’s reaction Sunday, moments after watching Garrett test-run it about a quiet neighborhood street without incident.
“I want to buy it from you,” Mom blurted out to our stunned assembly, seemingly thrilled by Garrett’s careful handling of it. “I want to ride it when you’re ready to upgrade.”
Suddenly, I’m engaged to a biker babe.
No joke. Kerry’s serious. She further resolved to enroll in the very same motorcycle safety and training course her son completed last month. I’m beginning to wonder if she’ll be willing to wait for Garrett to upgrade to larger, more powerful bike in a few years’ time. Suddenly I’m envisioning things like quarts of motor oil and riding leather chaps tucked under the family Christmas tree come December.
And you thought mid-life crises only affected men.
We led the lad home on his new toy in a carefully planned and executed motorcade Sunday afternoon, Garrett riding between mom and me and his girlfriend Anna out front and his best pal Daniel following him in a pickup at the rear. Mom was still nervous about Garrett’s fledgling riding experience out in traffic, while still scheming to leather up and join a biker gang with him. In the car I had questions for her.
“Are you going to get your first tattoo as well?”
“Are we going to scout out a biker bar for a weekly family dinner outing?”
“We must form our own biker gang. What shall we name it?”
I latched on to the subject of biker gang names for a while. I immediately suggested The Moose Trackers. (Probably not fierce enough.) A family pal suggested the Rubber Knife Gang. Mom suggested We Brake for Blueberries, so she has a ways to go with her tough gal in leathers development. And acknowledging an inordinately tough season recently completed by the Bruins, I also offered Death to Don Sweeney (probably already taken).
For the early to bed set in the household the Honda CB300R is, mercifully, a quiet running machine. It’s actually pleasant for Kerry and me to be out on the back deck at home and follow the movements of the modest murmur of Garrett’s recreational pastime in our well-wooded and secluded enclave. The average price of a tranquility disrupting Harley Davidson, apparently, is around $25,000; one has to believe that Mr. Davidson had the the rest needs of the parents of adventure seeking teenagers in mind as he first went to market.
But back to the over-aged outlaw in training. Kerry caught me completely off guard Sunday, blindsiding me with the daring and bravado she articulated. This past winter, in ice skates for the first time, she acquitted herself rather well, but like most beginners on ice ever maintained a death-clutch upon the arms of her instructor. Now she sees herself, down the road a wee bit, dashing off to the local Shop ‘n Save for milk (wine) behind tinted visor, author of a vapor trail of engine revving reverie. And I like it.
I liked being introduced to a new side of her. And I liked the unexpected, daring ambition of this 50-something mother. Starting a new family necessarily means the start of new adventures, and suddenly my life in Maine with this special family holds a promise of them I never could have imagined just a few years ago.