Gotta Be Your Own Hero

Da da da! Dee dee dee…Look what I went and got for me. Nope! Not a rhyming book. A motorcycle license, yo. And I can’t wait to show off down the streets of yore[text threads], letting everyone know that I don’t need to pretend my two wheeler is a motorcycle anymore. I’d scream from my bike (which I can now refer to as a motorcycle and not my two-wheeler because of a white piece of paper with a stamp) but I don’t actually have a bike. Just the license that allows me to ride one. Yada, yada, I don’t care…my new license will look like a sugar cookie made by the troublemaker at a 1st grade party next to your teacher’s pet, gingersnap-style licenses (aka…very decorated).

Here’s the deal. Getting my motorcycle license wasn’t even a dream I’ve maintained ever since I can remember. I got it as a necessity for another dream, idea…unreasonable romanticization. Getting a ride on a motorcycle was the original manifestation. I don’t know exactly how it came about. But, booyyy, did I want one.

Life, however, had a lesson for me. It taught me that getting one ride on a motorcycle is a lot harder than you’d think. Well, actually, it taught me that it’s probably not hard if you aren’t delusional about the amount of charm you possess. Apparently, my charm is not good enough to earn me a ride on a motorcycle. It got me as far as a moped. I know! You’re surprised?? I had plans to charm the pants right off of Miles Teller someday but now the world is chalking my charm up to a measly moped ride… I’d rather have that gross, aforementioned, first grader cookie. I thought the moped ride was simply a stepping stone, you know, part of the process for bigger and better things. But, not realizing until years later…the moped was the end. That was it. Ta-da! No more. That was my hurrah. [Part of me wants to make a comparison about sex and how sometimes it ends but you didn’t know that was the end and then you feel dumb for not knowing that was the finale even though later you realize you aren’t the one who should feel dumb. But, I would only be making the comparison to show you guys that I know about those jokes. And this side step acknowledges my knowing of the joke’s existence anyway. And Lucy will probably want me to mention that I did grow up Catholic. But I think it’s her nice way of telling me that getting away with talking about sex publicly is not for everyone].
News flash: It’s not for me.
News flash: No motorcycles would be whisking me away. News flash: I’m moped ride charming. After whining Not one to complain, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Which is exactly what I shared when we were asked to explain the reason for our attendance at Basic Riders Course. Actually, I said, ‘I’m looking to be my own hero.’ And with relief, no one inquired further.

$200 later; I was my own hero and fulfilled my life long dream of getting a ride on a motorcycle. Certainly not how I imagined it. Running circles in a parking lot. A retired cop with nothing better to do than to holler at me to “MORE GAS. SLOW CLUTCH.” As if the stalled engine didn’t convey that for me. I didn’t think I’d have to pay for a ride. Nor drive myself. But it’s an understandable reality that life is more expensive and more laborious for the less charming.

This has nothing and everything to do with the river. It all depends on how you look at it. I don’t feel like explaining. I’m glad I followed through. I’m also glad I’m dead set on following through with this river trip or I’d take all the money I’ve saved, buy myself a dirt bike, and fancy that whim for a good two weeks.

Being my own hero.

You want a ride? Can't have one.  Doesn't feel good, does it?

You want a ride? Can’t have one.
Doesn’t feel good, does it?

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