John used to drive a motorcycle, which he loved, and I know he still misses quite a bit. His motorcycle career came to an end after a particularly nasty accident which could have killed him, but instead left him with a fractured elbow and abdominal surgery. After that he bought a car. And every time he brings up riding a motorcycle I give him a steely eyed glare and remind him of the four days he spent in the hospital, the pain, and the truly spectacular bruises which lingered for months. I then conclude with some sort of promise to march around the house banging a drum and chanting “no more motorcycles!” until he gives up the notion. I love him, and I don’t want him risking his life like that ever again. It’s not that he’s a bad driver, although he does like to go fast. It’s all the other people out there who don’t think to look for motorcycles and pull out right in front of them or change lanes into them. At least in a car you’ve got a metal box around you that provides some protection.
Still, I have to admit, when I see someone on a motorcycle going slow, like I did on the drive home tonight, I compare them to my husband, and call them “punk ass” in my head.
My husband had a motorcycle when we were first together. It got stolen right off the street and we've never replaced it. We think about it, but then I ask what he's going to do when it rains etc.