Mother's common sense loses to motorcycle mania
Irene Haskins, Columbia Daily Tribune - Apr 3, 2007

No matter how hard I try, I can’t convince my son that I know what’s best for him.

 

"Who knows best" is a battle parents begin to wage in the delivery room and spend the rest of their lives losing.

 

"Don’t eat all that candy - you’ll get sick." They don’t.

 

"Don’t go in those woods - you’ll get poison ivy." They don’t.

 

"Don’t study with that loud music blaring - you’ll never pass that test tomorrow." They do.

 

Against my wishes and against all common sense, my son just bought a motorcycle. What really makes my blood curdle is that it’s not his first. All my preaching and lecturing since he was knee-high to a Big Wheel has evidently gone in one ear and out the other. To my way of thinking, riding

a motorcycle is the quickest way to the funeral home.

 

One of the happiest days of my life was when he left for school in Kansas City 22 years ago and had to sell his beloved Honda. He couldn’t afford to attend school, maintain a car, buy Big Macs and make payments on a motorcycle.

 

During the two years he had the infernal machine, I never drew an easy breath. I kept waiting for that phone call: "This is the police. Your son is in the emergency room."

 

As my son likes to gloat, that phone call never came; however, the fact that he never even had a close call didn’t lessen my dislike or fear of the things.

 

I gave him all the standard arguments: They’re noisy. They’re dangerous. They’re a traffic menace.

 

He countered with: "They’re economical. They’re fun. You can maneuver through traffic."

 

So his decision to sell it brought great sadness to him and great relief to me. I even paid for the ad, took all the phone calls and showed it to prospective buyers. I tried to hide my glee as I helped him polish it for the last time before he wiped away a tear and turned it over to the new owner.

 

"After I graduate and get a job, I’m going to buy another one," he said.

 

"Nah, he won’t," I told myself.

 

Well yeah, he did. As soon as he got a job in Kansas City, he called to break the news to me.

 

"Why, why, why, son? Why do you want another motorcycle?"

 

"I just want one. And now I can afford one."

 

"You have a nice car. What do you need with a motorcycle?"

 

"It’s just neat to relax by taking a spin on it after a hard day’s work."

 

Hard day’s work? He was a computer programmer, for crying out loud. My dad worked in a foundry, and when he came home he relaxed by sitting in the backyard in his undershirt watching his tomatoes grow.

 

"Mom, you just don’t realize how free it feels to be on a motorcycle with the breeze hitting your face."

 

"Along with rocks, beer cans, diesel fumes, dead animals …"

 

"And think how much I’ll save on gas."

 

"Think how much you’re shortening your odds of living long enough to collect your retirement from that nice new job."

 

Not even the threat of my impending nervous breakdown swayed him.

 

I made one last-ditch attempt. "Son, before you make the next payment on that motorcycle, promise me you’ll come home so we can go pick out your cemetery plot."

 

Circumstances - too much traffic in Kansas City, too many other expenses like rent, food and a car, too much wind in his dates’ hair - again forced a sorrowful parting between boy and bike.

 

Fast-forward to 2007. He’s now happily married with a wife, four children, three dogs, two cars, a mortgage and a plasma TV - a strain on anyone’s budget. Occasionally, he’s spoken longingly of wanting another motorcycle, and I give my standard rebuttal. After all this time, surely he’s gotten this motorcycle mania out of his system.

 

Wrong, wrong, WRONG! I dropped by his house for a little surprise visit last week, but unfortunately, I was the one who got the surprise. There he was in the driveway, perched proud as a peacock atop a "brand-new" used motorcycle he’d just bought! What could I do? He’s too big to spank.

 

I give up, I know when I’m beaten. I’m too old to be driven to an early grave, but one of these days I might take him up on his invitation to "hop on" so we can ride double to the cemetery to see what’s available for him.

 

Meanwhile, I’m having nightmares about him growing a bushy beard, getting a skull-and-crossbones tattoo and vrooming off to Sturgis, S.D., for the next rally.

 

At this point, I have to grit my teeth, shut my mouth and accept what every mother sooner or later learns is a fact of life: No matter how hard I try, I can’t convince my son that I know what’s best for him.

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