Circumgere ex Fortuna | Humorous Family-Parenting Essays and Stories at Humor Is Relative

It's many males dream: to own a motorcycle and feel the wind whipping across their face while going down the highway. Part of you reminds you to be practical yet another part is quick to counter those thoughts with reminders of the past. Ever notice the other side, presenting those counter-arguments, fails mentioning about prices increasing over the years? How many men relate to Mark's humorous two-wheel plight?

Over a decade ago I convinced myself that I no longer needed a motorcycle. Not long after I sold it a darkness enveloped my comings and goings. Every Spring since, that two-wheeled, open road, wind-in-your-face fever ignites and beckons like a siren to my lusting soul.

Need and want are two different ideologies, however. What person in the good 'ol U.S. of A. really needs a motorcycle? Our roads are wide and abundant, not like all those narrow, twisty, overcrowded European and Asian streets. And having a bike doesn't negate the necessity of owning a car, does it? What with the prospect of inclement weather and the occasional need to tote a couple of passengers, having four-wheeledport makes good sense and bolsters the argument that a bike is, therefore, duplicitous. But on this warm Texas day I'm smiling because I've seen the light. Resolved the issue. Had an epiphany. The gods of two-wheeled delights have looked down upon this incomplete mortal and blessed me with a revelation: Need, schmeed. Bikes are fun and you want one. That's good enough. Go. Buy. Enjoy! And Shalom.

"Yes!" I cry, laying prostrate and partially blinded by the light of celestial illumination, "I want a motorcycle and that's okay." I rise enlightened and unburdened and head to the magazine stand at Barnes & Noble. Luck--or is it Fate?--is on my side. The 2004 Cycle World Buyer's Guide is on the shelf. The glossy cover is sporting six bikes and a headline promises color photos and specs of 495 more! Mouth agape, I swallow hard. With a trembling hand I wipe a small stream of drool from my chin. I open a copy and begin reading. My legs are wobbly so I sit on a bench next to a stiff-looking woman pouring over an article in O magazine. She mumbles something about clueless male pigs. An Oprahnaut, I'm thinking. Better take this symbol of male embellishment and move to safe ground. I pay and scuttle to the safe confines of our patio.

Reading aloud to my faithful hound, she pauses from licking her nethers. "Hear that?" I ask. "It's George Thorogood singing 'Bad to the Bone.' It's a biker's anthem and I must answer the call." The dog resumes licking and squeezes out a fart.

I waste no time getting to the shops, sizing up the prospects, trying out seats, gasping at sticker shock (Hey, it's been over ten years!), and rubbing suspension forks a little too intimately for a couple of salesmen. They're all good, Honda, Ducati, Aprilia, Suzuki, Kawasaki, Harley, and especially a little something at a certain country music legend's own BMW-Yamaha store: The Yamaha FZJR1300. The senior salesman here is a refined, amicable Brit, and the floor is well lit and filled with stock. And it doesn't hurt that one of the sales staff is a leather-wearing hottie of the female gender. And it's all for me, the feeling, the sitting, the dreaming, and a chicky-babe at the ready to stroke my, uh, er, ego.

As luck would have it, there's a slightly used FJR available for demo. Some poor slob couldn't handle the payments. I ask how much while settling in on the saddle. She replies and I remain stoic and nonplussed by the number. My plan is simple: To pay for the bike I'll have to sell my beloved dog and best bud to medical research and then ride happily ever after. The end.

Not really. But, damn! $11,600 is the lower end of mid-range? The first bike I ever owned cost $275 brand spanking new. I look at the bottle blonde and say, "Inflation: Scourge of the common man or bedfellow of the controlling corporate elite?" Not being privy to the inner dialogue that led to that question, she crinkles a smile and returns to inspecting her French pedicure. Her toenails appear to be ten tiny headlights shining the way.

As I prepare to poke the starter, I tell the man-bauble in a serious tone, "I don't think I can find enough kids in my apartment complex to sell to the circus to afford one of these, but I'll sure try." She squeaks out an "Oh my God!" and runs toward the jaunty Brit. "Was it the ethical issue or the compound, run-on sentence?" I ask as the bikes lights up. And it's off for a quick test ride.

The throttle response takes me by surprise. It's huge, quick, and has me gripping with white knuckles. No bike I've ever owned could run like this, not even if I was riding downhill and naked with my ass on fire. Turning a corner onto a long straight I open it up. There's no end to it. The acceleration pulls me backward and my eyes start watering. Before I can get calmed down I'm at the on-ramp for the freeway. Another twist of the wrist and suddenly I'm the guy I've been cussing at from my car for lo these many years, blowing into traffic and cutting across lanes as if on magnetic rails. Finally breathing, I realize it's only in third gear. And I'm doing 90. I shift up to fifth. It's not only fast, it's smooth, quiet, and vibration free. I ride toward the horizon. There's nothing left to do but laugh, and I do, like a maniac getting his feet tickled by a bunch of lubricious Amazons. Holy Moses on a triscuit wafer, this may be the best bike since the original V65 Magna!

And this is how I'm telling the story to my darling Corn Niblet while she works on a project in the work room. I finish by saying, "Gods can be cruel."

"How so?" she asks, while cutting a piece of glass for her latest stained glass project.

I know she isn't listening or giving a rat's ass, but it beats talking to the dog. "Yeah, they told me that wanting a bike was good enough, that I don't have to try and justify needing one. 'Go,' they said, 'Buy. Enjoy!' But they didn't tell me how to come up with the jack.

Snap! Nancy smiles as she makes a clean break in a panel of glass. "You'll figure it out."

You'll figure it out. Spousal-unit talk meaning, "I couldn't care less about what you're saying, but your jabber is keeping me company which is what good husbands are supposed to do."

I look down at the dog and rethink an earlier prospect. Nah, do that and it'll be me sleeping on the couch ad infinitum. I look over and see on the page next to the write up on the Yamaha is a Vespa ET4. $3,999 for the four stroke. It looks kind of cool in Alabaster. Hey, if it means the difference between any two wheels or no wheels at all . . .

That's how it goes with some of life's decisions. Chance steps up and fills in where fate leaves off. For a risk taker the rewards can be, well, rewarding. If you can afford the prize. Which is why it's called chance. And that's what the gods don't tell you. Silly gods.

About This Story's Author:

Mark Webber is a video production technician who recently discovered that creative writing is every bit as enjoyable as a can of vienna sausages. A PK, MK, former television weathercaster, reporter, and shooter, Mark's travels and experiences have earned him a world view education which has a direct effect on his unique writing style. For him writing is the be all and end all of creative pursuits. "I find nothing that lights my fire like telling stories."

Mark is trained in humor, essay, short story, screenplay, journalism, and technical writing. He lives in Houston with his amazing wife and pretty good dog.

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Circumgere ex Fortuna by Mark Webber

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