When I was a kid, and Evel Knievel was a hero, I rather liked the idea of owning a motorcycle. I could picture myself cruising the highways of America, going where I wanted and answering to no one. I also pictured me sitting on top of a couple of books so I could reach the handlebars because I was about 9 years old the last time I had the urge.
But as I've gotten older, I've grown to prefer quieter and more peaceful pursuits. Bicycles over motorcycles. Kayaks over Jet Skis. Norah Jones over 2 Live Crew.
But, hey, to each his own ... or her own ... or its own. Unfortunately, a lot of folks who prefer loud over quiet like to thrust their preference upon you, especially with motorcycles these days. And Columbus is a motorcycle mecca. Most motorcyclists are decent folks, including friends and co-workers who might shove a kickstand in my eye if I said otherwise. But many others actually alter their bikes to make them louder, loud enough to rattle windows.
That's fine, too, but do that around the windows of your house on your 100 acres of private property so that it bothers no one else. In fact, save your 110-mph driving and wheelies for there instead of the J.R. Allen Parkway and my neighborhood ... even though it seems to be permitted behavior in this city. In 10 years, I've never seen a sincle motorcyclist pulled over. I guess they get the same free pass that cigarette butt litterers get.
But doing this stuff and rattling windows away from everyone is not what it's about, is it? It's about getting attention and rattling nerves. Like teens with booming car radios, you're desperate for attention. You're desperate to be noticed. Even my son has taken my lead and calls loud motorcycles "notice me bikes." These bikers should get bumper stickers that read "My mother didn't give me enough attention as a child; please give it to me now."
Consider yourself noticed by me, so please steer clear of me with your noise-cycles. I don't care if your mama didn't give you enough hugs as a child. But I do care about hearing myself think. It happens so rarely, I'd hate to miss it.
But as I've gotten older, I've grown to prefer quieter and more peaceful pursuits. Bicycles over motorcycles. Kayaks over Jet Skis. Norah Jones over 2 Live Crew.
But, hey, to each his own ... or her own ... or its own. Unfortunately, a lot of folks who prefer loud over quiet like to thrust their preference upon you, especially with motorcycles these days. And Columbus is a motorcycle mecca. Most motorcyclists are decent folks, including friends and co-workers who might shove a kickstand in my eye if I said otherwise. But many others actually alter their bikes to make them louder, loud enough to rattle windows.
That's fine, too, but do that around the windows of your house on your 100 acres of private property so that it bothers no one else. In fact, save your 110-mph driving and wheelies for there instead of the J.R. Allen Parkway and my neighborhood ... even though it seems to be permitted behavior in this city. In 10 years, I've never seen a sincle motorcyclist pulled over. I guess they get the same free pass that cigarette butt litterers get.
But doing this stuff and rattling windows away from everyone is not what it's about, is it? It's about getting attention and rattling nerves. Like teens with booming car radios, you're desperate for attention. You're desperate to be noticed. Even my son has taken my lead and calls loud motorcycles "notice me bikes." These bikers should get bumper stickers that read "My mother didn't give me enough attention as a child; please give it to me now."
Consider yourself noticed by me, so please steer clear of me with your noise-cycles. I don't care if your mama didn't give you enough hugs as a child. But I do care about hearing myself think. It happens so rarely, I'd hate to miss it.
2 comments:
every time some hormonal male revs their engine in my general direction, i say very loudly, "OH yes, i definitely want to bang you now! your car turns me on! toolbag!"
or something like that.
anyway.
Hmm, I hope you never catch me driving my 2000 Saturn then. It sounds a little that. Although, when I drive it, I'm not craving attention. In fact, I'm thinking, "Oh, God, please, no one notice me in this hunk of junk."
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