I Was Born to Be Tame
There’s a roar in the air. There are waiting lines at restaurants and there’s no place to park. Pandemic or not, there’s one big round-the-clock party going on. It can only mean one thing: my birthday!
Well that or the thousands of people in town for the annual Sturgis Motorcycle Rally, the granddaddy of all bike gatherings. (I know it’s sexist, but calling it the “grandmother” of all bike gatherings might get you killed.)
Throughout the weeklong event, there are two songs running through my head. The first is “Happy Birthday” since my birthday is August 9. (Make a note of it.)
The second is “Born to Be Wild.” Not that that describes me. There’s just something about the roar of thousands of motorcycles that inspires one to sing it right out loud—whether or not one can sing.
I don’t like to admit this, but “Born to Be Bland” might be more like it. Born to ride in air-conditioned comfort. Born to be in bed by 9 and up by 5. Frankly, I might be better-suited to the “grandma” of all bike gatherings.
“Wild” for me would be having my ears pierced a second time. Driving two miles over the speed limit. Putting sugar in my iced tea.
During most of the year, I’m wallpaper. But during the rally, I’m unique or, at the very least, peculiar. When I attend the rally, which I have a few times, I stand out among the thousands of rugged individualists there. I’m the one without any tattoos. I’m the one who arrived by car. I’m the one wearing all of my clothing—and none of it black leather. I’m not sure, but I don’t think my wallet is even real leather. (They don’t use Velcro on leather goods, do they?)
While I’m bemoaning my dullness, my husband is making noises about getting a motorcycle. This seems very selfish to me since I’m the one with the birthday.
But, actually he makes those noises all year long; they’re just louder during the Rally. They have to be, to be heard above the roar. To hear him talk, the only thing standing between him and a Harley Davidson is me. I gently remind him that there is also that little matter of many thousands of dollars, which is a much more formidable obstacle than I am, believe it or not.
He tells me he already has a motorcycle license. I tell him the first time I rode on a motorcycle, the driver nearly wrecked it. He had a license too.
He tells me we could see the country from the back of a bike. I tell him what I love about traveling with him is reading and napping while he drives. Neither seems prudent on a motorcycle.
He tells me that when you ride a motorcycle, you’re so much closer to the natural world around you. I tell him, yes, the wind is in your hair and the bugs are in your teeth.
He tells me he’s always, always wanted a Harley and if he had one, he’d never want another thing….except for maybe a Triumph TR6…and a PT Cruiser… and….
I tell him that’s great. But I’m the one with the birthday. Shouldn’t we be talking about what I want? “Of course,” he says. “How would you feel about a Harley 1200 Sportster?”
(Dorothy Rosby is the author of three books of humorous essays including Alexa’s a Spy and Other Things to Be Ticked off About, Humorous Essays on the Hassles of Our Time. Contact drosby@rushmore.com.)