Cool Rider

One of two things is going to happen after my mom reads this post:  I am going to hell in a handbasket or I am going to be grounded for the rest of my life.  Please sit still while I lecture my mom on the importance of safe motorcycling.  And emergency dimes.

This is my mom.  Yes.  MY mom.  My LITTLE mom.  The non-existent-size, Talbots-wearing, Pendleton-loving, I-tailor-my-own-clothes Mom.  On the back of a MOTORCYCLE.  This is something I didn't think I would ever see.  And the whole thing was so sudden, so alarming.  There we were, running her garage sale on a beautiful Wyo-Braska Saturday morning, the smell of money thick in the air, when this tall guy pulls up on this motorcycle thingy a la Maxwell Caulfield coming to whisk Michelle Pfeiffer away from Adrian Zmed in Grease 2.   (Don't ask why I remember this)  It was so Pink-Ladies- and-T-Birds.  Figuring she would be introducing us to this "cool rider", we put on our fine western Nebraska manners and started to make our way down the driveway to meet the Mystery Gentleman.

And then, without as much as a word, she took off!  We couldn't even tell the guy to take good care of her "or else."  We didn't know his name.  Did she remember her emergency dime?  She wasn't even wearing steel-toed boots!  Or Kevlar pants!  Or gloves!  Didn't she remember the story Dad used to tell us about his State Patrol days, happening upon a motorcyle accident where an ill-clothed teenage boy was dragged for miles when his motorcycle was sucked under a semi tractor-trailer?  That story is the reason my husband no longer owns a motorcycle.  "Be safe with our MOM, Cool Rider!"



All dressed up with somewhere to go, and riding off with an unknown man. 

The ensemble she put over her everyday mom clothes didn't exactly "go" with what she was wearing or, for that matter, anything she has in her closet. Clearly, she has a totally different side to her than the one she lets us see. There's a Biker Chick inside that Talbot-wearing, size -nothing frame!  Who knew?  We were completely taken off-guard.  Here we were, expecting to spend the morning collecting a windfall of cash from the Saturday morning garage sale, when Maxwell Caulfield Cool Rider whisked our Mom off (going south on "N" toward the Platte River and maybe obeying the posted speed limit -- our dad taught us well to notice such details) to places unknown!  We were all more than a little alarmed by the whole thing.



Mom, Keens are not exactly appropriate riding shoes.



And she left us standing there, hanging there, out alarm heightening from mild to not-so-mild, for at least 20 minutes!  All of sudden, from the north, appeared the red motorcyle, and it pulled up in front of the house as "quietly" as it had arrived. 



Thank God.  She's back.

 Cool Rider helped Mom off the bike.  And then he revealed his identity:  Mr. Kelley!  I used to babysit for Mr. Kelley!  Mr. Kelley used to pick me up and drive me to his house on Avenue K, where his crazy little boys would proceed to torture me with their excess energy and make me work hard to earn my $20 of babysitting cash!  And now, here he was, driving my mom around on his cool, red hog.  And he told me to call him Phil instead of Mr. Kelley.

Mom cannot lie.  She never could.  She's too honest.  And the look on her face when Phil removed that Spaceball helmet from her head confirmed it.  This was a planned attack!  Mom spilled the beans pretty quickly:  the two of the them had hatched this whole plan after their Bible study  -- yes, Bible study -- a week or two before.  Just to thrill us.  And it did.  What began as a completely mind-blowing, totally unexpected happening, ended with all of us being fooled.  We were punked.  By MOM!  Who knew she had it in her?!  Dad would have really liked that joke. 

But he STILL would have scolded her, and since he's not here to do it, I will.  Let me take this opportunity to hound you about forgetting to take your emergency dime and wear, umm...more appropriate protective footwear!  If there is going to be a next time, at least wear your steel toes and Kevlar, Mom, before you go crusin' around the south side of the monument and head north on 71 with Cool Rider.  'Cuz it only takes one bad choice on a motorcyle to ruin your mani/pedi. Or your life.  And next time just tell us where you're going and who you're gonna be with so we don't worry!  And don't give us a reason to give you a curfew.  You've never needed one before, so there's no reason to start.



At least he treated her like a gentleman should!

Am I grounded yet, Mom? :) 

Ha!  You can play poker AND joke! 

 XOXO