Hotrod and I just celebrated our 30th wedding anniversary. He was and is the one that I want. And he sold me on our very first date.
I was 19 and Hotrod was 26. We met in Park City, Utah, while I was on summer break from college. I was working as a hostess at a restaurant and he came in for breakfast. I thought he was dining-and-dashing but that turned out to be a misunderstanding (and another story.) In spite of that, he asked me if I wanted to go with him to see a movie.
I heard him pull up to my house …brmmmBRRMMMbrrmmm as he downshifted. (BTW, HR wants me to add that it was 650 Yamaha named Shadowfax. ☺) I’d never been on a motorcycle before and I was pretty intrigued. I watched through the window curtains as he made his way to the front door. Black leather pants, a purple paisley shirt and a bandana tied around his long hair. I ran out to get on the bike before my mom had a chance to meet him or weigh in. I’d been on a horse before so I use the same basic approach to mount up. And off we went. No helmets. Just HR gunning down the road, natural as can be on that machine. And me hanging on and watching over his shoulder as the speedometer crept up and up and up.
We were flying along 7th East in downtown Salt Lake City when Hotrod’s bandana flew off. Hmm, I thought, that’s goodbye to that. Then, Hotrod braked, and took a sharp left hand turn. Bu bumpbump. Left, over the median. Full throttle for about a mile in the other direction. Brake. Bu bumbump. Left over the median. Then, at over 100 mph, Hotrod reached down with his boot, snagged his bandana from the asphalt, grabbed it with his hand and put it back on.
Swoon. That was it for me. No one else could ever, or will ever, compare. I remember thinking if not saying out loud, “We don’t need to bother with the movie.”
We took off in different directions that fall. But I knew he was the one. I bided my time – and dated a few other guys. Hotrod was also involved with other women and neither of us were ready to settle down. We would connect every few months and go for a ride. We did at long last get married.
And we became parents. Max is our perfect son. And he also rides motorcycles. Hotrod took Max for his first motorcycle ride when he 18 months old. Hotrod mounted itty bitty footpegs on the side of the gas tank. He put Max on the tank and had him clamp his itty bitty hands on the cross bar. As a glance to some kind of safety, he put a helmet on his head. Hotrod laid himself over Max’s body and took to the highway. Responsible people were shocked. “How could you let him DO that?” they challenged me. “I don’t. I forbid it!” I responded. HR and 
Max would ride anyway.
Recently, Max and Hotrod and I went for a ride together in Alaska. I rode with HR, and Max led the way on perfectly engineered highway curves. Max gets it. He gets the arc of a turn, the pursuit of a perfect one, and the sweet swing into the next one. I imagine he will soon have someone to ride with him. Yes, it’s risky. Yes, you could die. Still, it’s worth it. Because when you are riding you are so deliciously and wonderfully alive.
So, mamma, let ‘em ride.
Xo$, Ellen
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