So a few weeks ago, I had to pick up Grandma's mega-truck in the East Bay in order to move in our new fleet of couches. The upside to this journey was that I got to ride on the freeway on the back of Gene's motorcycle. As avid Zemblan readers might recall from my earlier treatise on motorcycling, riding a bike with another man is a wonderful experience. Now that I've been on Highway 24 on the back of Gene's bike, I feel I have a pretty good idea of what it's like to make love to him. He takes control. He's kind, but firmly in command. He tells you, "If it gets too scary, just tap me on the shoulder and we can stop." His buttocks twinge almost imperceptibly just before he's about to make a sudden move. Also, you're not allowed to use your feet.
There were a few moments where I was painfully reminded of the freakish size of my head. My helmet-encased head functioned like a ship's anchor, or one of those parachutes that drag racers deploy behind their cars. Anytime I raised my head to look left or right, we slowed noticeably, and I could feel the helmet wanting to soar free of my cumbersome noggin. Fat chance of that happening, since it fits so tightly that the chin strap is extraneous.
That helmet led to an embarrassing moment when we went to Triple Rock. We arrived, I hopped off the bike, and Gene went to park. As he was backing the bike into the space, I tried to take off the helmet. It didn't budge at first, so I ended up leaning forward, a hand on each side of the helmet, pushing it off. When it finally gave way, my momentum made me take three steps backwards, into an amused couple coming out of Spat's. Like an orange on a friggin' toothpick!
Finally, riding on the back of a motorcycle will put crazy thoughts in your head. There was a three-mile stretch near Lafayette where I considered just how I would try to land and roll, should I be thrown from the bike. I wasn't scared or worried at the time, just quietly thoughtful. I felt more aggressive. Gene gave the finger to a driver who honked at him, and I felt brave enough to release my white-knuckle grip momentarily and flip the guy off, too. Also, when we were cruising down Second Avenue towards stately Wood manor, I had a strong urge to yell to a female jogger, "We need more ass like that in this town!"
I don't know what that means either.