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Backseat - From Where I SitFebruary 2002 By: Michelle Love Hurts Since February is filled with valentines and love, I can't help but reminisce about my first crush, which was also responsible for my first motorcycling experience. Unfortunately, I have to say the whole fiasco was anything but love. Ron was a bad-boy. Though I was only 12 years old at the time, I, like countless women in history, thought I could tame him. (I may have been young, but I was ambitious.) Ron was the only 13-year-old around that had his own mini-bike. Even at my tender age, I had figured out the way to win over an older rogue like him was to make a big fuss over his "bike". One day I mustered up enough courage to walk over to him and ask if I could have a ride. He eyed me coolly trying to determine my worthiness and finally said, "hop on" in a voice creaking from the masculinity that I just knew was bursting forth inside him. I couldn't wait for my ride to paradise. Paradise turned to hell within the first few seconds. I learned two very valuable lessons that day: The first one is that even with a 12 year old body, there isn't much room for a woman's backside on a mini-bike seat and trying to look cool just can't happen when parts of you are hanging off everywhere. The second lesson was the world's fastest education in the obvious regarding the mechanics of a mini-bike. I learned that mufflers are hot - really, really hot! In an effort to look alluring, I had foolishly worn shorts. Given the size of the bike vs. the length of my long gangly legs, my calf had no where to rest but precisely on the exhaust pipe. Not wanting to appear ignorant or a sissy, I said nothing as my leg roasted on the muffler. I am sure he was filled with pride as he mistook my death grip on his waist as true love instead of the grip of agony. I did manage to make it to the end of the ride, which I think only was for about a mile or so but it felt like eternity as my leg was thoroughly bar-be-queued. I did however manage to keep my dignity long enough to give him a quick "thank you" and wait until he got out of sight before I limped home. There was no way I could go home and confess that I had been out gallivanting with the riff-raff, so I had to tend to my wounds myself, keeping the evidence of my sins painfully hidden under long pant legs in the hot Georgia summer. It took weeks for the raging red circle to heal. The scar stayed with me for more than 20 years as I swore I would never, ever, never ride one of those dangerous machines again. And then along came Kent. He spent hours trying to convince me of the joys of riding but I was not going to fall for that trick again. Ron may have lured me over in the past, but I had the scar to remind me of the evils of riding. Now all I had to do was figure out how to convince Kent of the perils of riding and lure him away from this terrible habit. Just when I thought I had it all figured out - along came a trip to Skyline Drive. It was a beautiful spring morning. The air was so crisp and clean. He asked me very gently one more time if I would like short ride just down to the bottom of the hill. I looked down toward the scar on my leg and then I made the mistake of looking up into his smiling face. His was so eager and happy at the thought of me possibly saying "yes", there was no way I could resist him. I sighed and hopped on the back of Sportster. Kent was careful to barely go beyond coasting speed. But as the wind started to rush past my cheeks and I had this incredible inexplicable sense of freedom. Something unlike anything I had ever felt before in my life. Much to his surprise I leaned forward and said in his ear, "Can we go a little further?" - and we haven't stopped since. One of our readers responded with her own story. I thought you would like to read it as well.
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