Phill Andera
L Plate Member
http://defineproductive.com/a-letter-to-motorcycle-cynics/
Dear Overly Concerned Worry-Wart: Can you refrain from telling me horrific stories about dead people when I mention I ride a motorcycle?
Seriously, I just can’t take it anymore.
Anytime I mention I have a bike, the first thing I usually get from people isthe face. You know the one: It contains the pained expression only made by an elderly man who, in spite of being in week two of anal prolapse, ate the jalapeno burger anyway. Save the face, guys – a motorcycle isn’t a death sentence.
After the face, I have to listen as the speaker launches ass-first into the tale of some uncle’s neighbor’s gardener’s astrologer who got smeared across 285 when a 17-year-old drunk driver swerved into his lane back in 1993.
*sigh*
Way to go, Debbie Downer. Now I have to reach into my feigned emotion box and manage to return the face while offering some sort of apology for acompletely random incident I wish General Worry-Wart stop elaborating on.
Oh, he didn’t die immediately? His family rushed to the hospital only to get there seconds after he passed, never getting the chance to say goodbye? To top it off, he was on his way to get his five year old daughter a puppy to celebrate the birth of her brand-new baby brother? And he never learned to read? Bummer. Guess I better sell, huh? Hey, can we talk about something more upbeat, like the Holocaust or Sudden Infant Death Syndrome?
Look. Shit happens. I know. It’s tragic, and I’m sorry to hear it, but can you please stop playing the terror card for gory details and let me get back to what I was saying about all the construction in Midtown? And when I change the subject from the certain death of my soon-to-be future (so cheery, thank you) back to the tires I have to replace from all the nails strewn willy-nilly, can you please not accuse me of skirting the issue?
“But this is something you need to hear,” you insist?
OK, cool … for crying out loud, please go on. While you speak, however, I’m going to whip out my phone and Google pictures of fatal car crashes, so we can delve even further into what happens to people who like to “take risks” by using motors and wheels to move around the world.
Gah! Check, please!
But I’m not in denial, substitute mommy. The statistics are clear: Motorcycles can be dangerous and are (at times) fatal. However, what most of these people in love with doomsday tales fail to realize is that the number of fatalities is the direct results of things I won’t do, such as riding while intoxicated, declining proper riding gear or racing in the streets. It’s a fact that I won’t even test-taste a beer if I’m going to ride that day. It’s a superstition I made up, but I like knowing there’s not a drop of hooch in me while I lean into curves. Too, I find racing on the road to be selfish, dangerous, and strictly for imbeciles. (Take it to the track, chump.)
Consider also that it’s not the law in every state to wear a helmet. Ride to Florida, and you’ll see what I mean: Helmets are rare over there, which really bothers me. The largest percentage of motorcycle deaths is due to head-trauma. It’s because of these bare-headed showboats with an apparent need to let the wind blow through all four feet of their wiry, wispy hair (and don’t get me started on the women) that you feel the inclination to lecture me.
Save it. I always wear a helmet.
I’ve been riding ATVs, dirt bikes, and motorcycles since I was a wee lass. I’ve ridden cruisers, standards, and sport-bikes (my favorite) and have seen more interstate miles on two wheels than many people have seen on four. I’ve been nearly sucked into the underbelly of an 18-wheeler during Katrina’s runoff storms and have been badly burned by a pretty rough spill when I was younger. Trust me – I know these things can be tricky. However, I need you to stop treating me as if I’m some product of blind vanity hell-bent on flying by you at 140 miles per hour because I think I’m immortal and because I can.
While we’re here, can I tell you why I haul ass past you on the interstate? Because I want to get the hell away from you.
When you’re on a bike, you quickly notice that people travel in droves. You go from a nice half-mile stretch of you on a clean, open interstate … to you having to navigate the throng of people who are (for natural reasons like on-ramps and traffic-times) clumped together. Sweetcheeks, I’m not trying to show off, OK? I’m just trying to get away from you.
Pinky swear.
Now, can we talk like adults? Can I tell you why motorcycles rock? Apart from the fact that they make the most mundane errands — such as heading out for hotdog buns or taking movies back to the Redbox — a blast, they also get the most amazing gas mileage. I can put 12 bucks in my tank and peel around Atlanta for more than a week before returning to the station only to find I still have plenty in the tank! In terms of insurance, I have a premium plan with a mere $100 deductible and $250,000 in coverage for $188 per year. Per year!
I never (ever ever) have to worry about parking … I can ride in the HOV at any given time … I can squeeze through inexplicable clogs in traffic and never get too hampered by rush hour traffic.
My being a chick is gonna show here, but there’s also the warm fuzzy feeling I get when enormous, tattooed bikers nod hello and hold peace signs out for me as I pass them. (Do guys get that too? Lemme know in the comments, ’cause I really would like to know this.)
And, dude: Did I mention how bitchin’ some people think chicks on motorcycles are? Instant respect!
High five!
But enough silly.
I love that y’all care, ya worry-warts you. But seriously … stop.
I know I’m not immortal, and I know need to take a few extra precautions when I’m out there on my bike … but darling, I wish you’d refrain from warning me that I’m about to die for some perceived vehicular narcissism.
Holy shit, that’s not what riding a motorcycle is about for me.
Put it like this:
When you hear someone is about to eat lunch, you don’t rattle on about the number of choking fatalities our country deals with each year, right?
Well … likewise, when you find out someone rides a bike, please put down the jalapeno burger and instead offer something like:
“Oh, hey! You ride? I like to double-check for motorcycles when I’m out. More power to ya and I hope there are more people who give a shit like me out there.”
It’s really not that hard and it means so much to us that you acknowledge me (and the other ones who practice safe riding).
*hat tip
Dear Overly Concerned Worry-Wart: Can you refrain from telling me horrific stories about dead people when I mention I ride a motorcycle?
Seriously, I just can’t take it anymore.
Anytime I mention I have a bike, the first thing I usually get from people isthe face. You know the one: It contains the pained expression only made by an elderly man who, in spite of being in week two of anal prolapse, ate the jalapeno burger anyway. Save the face, guys – a motorcycle isn’t a death sentence.
After the face, I have to listen as the speaker launches ass-first into the tale of some uncle’s neighbor’s gardener’s astrologer who got smeared across 285 when a 17-year-old drunk driver swerved into his lane back in 1993.
*sigh*
Way to go, Debbie Downer. Now I have to reach into my feigned emotion box and manage to return the face while offering some sort of apology for acompletely random incident I wish General Worry-Wart stop elaborating on.
Oh, he didn’t die immediately? His family rushed to the hospital only to get there seconds after he passed, never getting the chance to say goodbye? To top it off, he was on his way to get his five year old daughter a puppy to celebrate the birth of her brand-new baby brother? And he never learned to read? Bummer. Guess I better sell, huh? Hey, can we talk about something more upbeat, like the Holocaust or Sudden Infant Death Syndrome?
Look. Shit happens. I know. It’s tragic, and I’m sorry to hear it, but can you please stop playing the terror card for gory details and let me get back to what I was saying about all the construction in Midtown? And when I change the subject from the certain death of my soon-to-be future (so cheery, thank you) back to the tires I have to replace from all the nails strewn willy-nilly, can you please not accuse me of skirting the issue?
“But this is something you need to hear,” you insist?
OK, cool … for crying out loud, please go on. While you speak, however, I’m going to whip out my phone and Google pictures of fatal car crashes, so we can delve even further into what happens to people who like to “take risks” by using motors and wheels to move around the world.
Gah! Check, please!
But I’m not in denial, substitute mommy. The statistics are clear: Motorcycles can be dangerous and are (at times) fatal. However, what most of these people in love with doomsday tales fail to realize is that the number of fatalities is the direct results of things I won’t do, such as riding while intoxicated, declining proper riding gear or racing in the streets. It’s a fact that I won’t even test-taste a beer if I’m going to ride that day. It’s a superstition I made up, but I like knowing there’s not a drop of hooch in me while I lean into curves. Too, I find racing on the road to be selfish, dangerous, and strictly for imbeciles. (Take it to the track, chump.)
Consider also that it’s not the law in every state to wear a helmet. Ride to Florida, and you’ll see what I mean: Helmets are rare over there, which really bothers me. The largest percentage of motorcycle deaths is due to head-trauma. It’s because of these bare-headed showboats with an apparent need to let the wind blow through all four feet of their wiry, wispy hair (and don’t get me started on the women) that you feel the inclination to lecture me.
Save it. I always wear a helmet.
I’ve been riding ATVs, dirt bikes, and motorcycles since I was a wee lass. I’ve ridden cruisers, standards, and sport-bikes (my favorite) and have seen more interstate miles on two wheels than many people have seen on four. I’ve been nearly sucked into the underbelly of an 18-wheeler during Katrina’s runoff storms and have been badly burned by a pretty rough spill when I was younger. Trust me – I know these things can be tricky. However, I need you to stop treating me as if I’m some product of blind vanity hell-bent on flying by you at 140 miles per hour because I think I’m immortal and because I can.
While we’re here, can I tell you why I haul ass past you on the interstate? Because I want to get the hell away from you.
When you’re on a bike, you quickly notice that people travel in droves. You go from a nice half-mile stretch of you on a clean, open interstate … to you having to navigate the throng of people who are (for natural reasons like on-ramps and traffic-times) clumped together. Sweetcheeks, I’m not trying to show off, OK? I’m just trying to get away from you.
Pinky swear.
Now, can we talk like adults? Can I tell you why motorcycles rock? Apart from the fact that they make the most mundane errands — such as heading out for hotdog buns or taking movies back to the Redbox — a blast, they also get the most amazing gas mileage. I can put 12 bucks in my tank and peel around Atlanta for more than a week before returning to the station only to find I still have plenty in the tank! In terms of insurance, I have a premium plan with a mere $100 deductible and $250,000 in coverage for $188 per year. Per year!
I never (ever ever) have to worry about parking … I can ride in the HOV at any given time … I can squeeze through inexplicable clogs in traffic and never get too hampered by rush hour traffic.
My being a chick is gonna show here, but there’s also the warm fuzzy feeling I get when enormous, tattooed bikers nod hello and hold peace signs out for me as I pass them. (Do guys get that too? Lemme know in the comments, ’cause I really would like to know this.)
And, dude: Did I mention how bitchin’ some people think chicks on motorcycles are? Instant respect!
High five!
But enough silly.
I love that y’all care, ya worry-warts you. But seriously … stop.
I know I’m not immortal, and I know need to take a few extra precautions when I’m out there on my bike … but darling, I wish you’d refrain from warning me that I’m about to die for some perceived vehicular narcissism.
Holy shit, that’s not what riding a motorcycle is about for me.
Put it like this:
When you hear someone is about to eat lunch, you don’t rattle on about the number of choking fatalities our country deals with each year, right?
Well … likewise, when you find out someone rides a bike, please put down the jalapeno burger and instead offer something like:
“Oh, hey! You ride? I like to double-check for motorcycles when I’m out. More power to ya and I hope there are more people who give a shit like me out there.”
It’s really not that hard and it means so much to us that you acknowledge me (and the other ones who practice safe riding).
*hat tip
