one more week

I bought a motorcycle this week. That motorcycle, the one in the picture.

I bought it because I have been evaluating myself and have discovered that a lot of the things I do, I do because I am a chicken - a living, breathing, cackling, grain-grubbing chicken. I went into that before, I know, when I told you all about how I lied to that cop at the border to avoid getting probed with a rubber glove.

In the jungle town of Pucallpa, Peru, where I (nominally) grew up, motorcycles weren't about "cool" or "danger", they were the way to get around. Cars were much more expensive and not worth the hassle, what with the condition of the roads most of the time. Time went by, though, and they started paving more roads. My dad got older, saw more accidents, and decided to start counselling his kidren against the two-wheeled death-beasts. I absorbed this cautioning and translated it into a vague fear.

I am tired of that. It's getting harder and harder to get by in this (rat-son-of-a) suburban milieu with only one modicum transportatum between the wife and I, so instead of picking up another gas guzzler I can not afford, I bought a bike. An old bike. A nineteen-eighty-two Yamaha XS 400 "project" bike.

See, I am also scared of "projects", and mechanicking. I have bought into the lie that I am a certain kind of person - the sort who does not know how to fix stuff. No more! Installing gas fireplaces has taught me that I can be crafty, too. I have played with power tools and problem-solved with the perverse machinations of putting in fireplaces and I have prevailed!

Move over, Hell's Angels! I am getting a motorcycle license, rolling up my sleeves, and diving in.