Ride to Eat/Eat to Ride
I rode on the back of a motorcycle. Once. I was wearing a skirt and no helmet. When my friend turned a corner too sharply, we went over. The nurse at the college infimary did her best, but I've still got some dirt embedded in my knee all these years later. Naturally our guest poster, Shallow Thought Wednesday guru and motorcycle enthusiast John Lindner would never treat his friends so rudely. EL
Sunday lived up to, for a change, its eponymous moniker. And though it was not warm (72 degrees farenheit is the nadir of warmth in my estimation), it was uncold enough to break out the two-wheeler and ride -- straight to a restaurant. ...
Bikers tend to be melodramatic regarding their pastime. We like to play on the mystique of danger, rebellion and death. For some, riding a motorcycle is as close as they will come to what they’d recognize as a spiritual experience.
Ironically, we are almost all annoyingly religious about what one ought to ride -- like Mac owners but with leather and skull jewelry. We adopt canonical habits (in both senses of the word). We have our cowhide vestments. We have a sacred salute. We chant broody, mantric slogans like “Live to Ride/Ride to Live."
Come the 90s, Boomers groping for hip grasped at motorcycling, found it conferred cool, and bought in en masse. They created a new class: the bourgeois biker. Bike shops went from grimy, dimly lit quonset huts that smelled reassuringly of testosterone and 90 weight gear oil to prissy boutiques that sell more designer clothes than motorcycles. (In some of them, the floors are actually clean.)
While the change left much to be mourned, some good came of it. While packs of us still thunder off to bars of a Saturday afternoon, when we arrive, we get more carbs from fries than beer. Many of us drink nothing more mind-altering than cola and iced tea.
The trick is to find places that tolerate windblown, tattoo-bearing, slightly deaf gray hairs that reek of 50 SPF sunblock but that also serve food worthy of our discerning palates. The former is surprisingly easy. The latter, not so much.
Sure, it’s still fun to strike terror into the hearts of the populace, rattle windows with our preposterous exhaust pipes (all bow and repeat after me: “Loud Pipes Save Lives”), and soak in the envy of the earthbound. But now we are rebels with a cause. Mine happens to be medium rare.