Putting the "Bike" in "BikerMomma"

My introduction mentions that I ride a motorcycle, and the description of my blog says that I might talk about bikes once in a while, so I thought I'd finally introduce you all to my ride.

Presenting my 1986 Suzuki Intruder 750. Sorry for the funny-looking, obstructed picture. It was taken while I was attending a 35MM photography class eight years ago. I was apparently going for an "artsy" shot.

I bought this baby as a used bike some ten-or-so years ago. Her seat was a little torn up, but other than that, she was in pretty good shape. We had the seat re-upholstered, and away I went. She was an upgrade in displacement from a 1982 Yamaha Seca 400. I decided that I needed a new ride when I had my first brush with death.

I was riding with hubby and a group of friends down a small country highway, one lane in each direction. The rest of the group passed a truck without issue, and then it was my turn. Mr. Truck Driver decided to play some very dangerous games with me. He would speed up when I got up next to him, then slow down when I ducked back in behind him because of on-coming traffic. I know he saw me; he looked right at me. The bike just didn't have the power to motor past him quickly enough. The last time I tried, I was almost past him when another truck was coming in the opposite direction. My throttle was completely maxed out. Mr. Truck Driver wouldn't let me get in ahead of him, so I had to slam on the brakes, struggle to keep control of the handlebars (which were objecting to the sudden drop in forward momentum - bikes are all about physics, you know) and then scoot back in behind him. I almost bought it big time that day. So hubby and I decided it was time for me to get something with more power, more pick-up.

I tried a few bikes on for size. The super sport-bikes didn't exactly fit my short-legged frame (but Oh! how I wanted that Ducati Monster Dark!). Besides, I had taken a spin on hubby's old Kawasaki Ninja 600 once. Heading down yet another, slightly larger, highway, I wondered why my riding companions were lagging behind. Then I checked my speedo. Oh, my! Honestly, Officer, I had no idea I was going that fast. I always thought that was just a line those sport-bike riders used when they were caught red-handed, but now I know they really meant it. Those bikes are very smooth, very comfortable and built for extreme speed. When you put those qualities together, you get a bike that goes really fast without you noticing it.

We moved on to cruisers. Sorry, but I'm not a Harley kinda gal. I can appreciate them for what they have to offer, but they're just not for me. So we checked out the Japanese cruisers. Most of them were very wide, which made them a little uncomfortable for women, who are not used to sitting spread eagle very often. Oddly enough, at this point in my life, I was spending a lot of time horseback riding as well. You'd think that would make it easier for me to ride the "wider" bikes. Not so much.

In rolls the Intruder. Low to the ground, so my wee legs can reach the ground comfortably at stop lights. Narrow in the saddle, so I don't feel like I'm straddling a Clydesdale. Plenty of get-up-and-go so I can , well, go when I need to. And a nice, throaty little rumble that announces my presence to the oblivious automobile drivers around me.

Other than repairing the seat, we haven't done much in the way of customizing her ... yet. Right now, she's on loan to a friend while my children are young and I can't get out to ride as much as I'd like. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement. He needs the riding experience for when he buys - and insures - a bike of his own. In return, he keeps her running, limber and lubricated, something that would definitely not happen if she were stagnating in my garage. I believe he and my husband have installed a set of flat bars, and there's talk of a new set of pipes.

Oh, but one day ... one day ... you'll just have to tune back in to see what I have in store for my baby. The paint scheme, the chrome, the Corbin Gun Slinger seat ... *sigh!* Time to drag out the ol' sketch book and get dreamin'!

Technorati tags: Motorcycles ; Suzuki Intruder

I'm SO Not Ready For This!

So I'm having breakfast with my six-and-a-half-year-old this morning before sending him off to school.

Between spoonfuls of Cheerios, he looks over at me and asks, "Mommy, why did God only give girls special parts?"

After spewing coffee all over the kitchen walls, I replied in what I thought was a nonchalant manner, "Honey, God gave everyone special parts."

"No, I mean why did He decide that only girls can have babies?"

I choked down some more coffee. "I don't know, hon, that's just what He thought was best."

Then he starts yammering on and on in what apparently was complete awe, "Like, you could be pregnant right now, and your uterus would keep getting bigger and bigger and the baby would keep growing and growing..." while making expansive growing actions with his arms.

As I make a mental note to order my funeral flowers at this point because I can feel my heart preparing to keel over in shock, I calmly ask, "Sweetie, could you please stop talking about my uterus? I promise you I'm not pregnant right now."

After a few calming breaths and another swig of the completely unsatisfying decaf I was drinking, I managed to get the full story from him. Turns out the class is learning about the whole cycle of life in preparation for Easter (you know, when Jesus died & rose again). So their teacher had started telling them how babies begin as little eggs that grow inside their mother's uterus, are born, grow into toddlers, who grow into children, who grow into teenagers, yadda, yadda, yadda...

I'm just wondering why she had to start so far back, ya know? Why couldn't she start with "babies are born"? At the very least, I think she should have sent home some sort of warning note to prepare parents for the discussions that may ensue.

"Dear Parents, Please note that we are discussing the cycle of life in this month's lesson plan. Please do not be alarmed if your children are suddenly displaying a very intense interest in your bodily functions or wish to discuss your reproductive systems..."

Nope, I'm so not ready for this just yet.

Sponge On The Brain

I admit it. I'm a SpongeBob-aholic. Yes, it's a mildly amusing show. It has a few laugh out loud moments. But this is getting rediculous.

My children (you remember Trouble and Mini-Me, don't you?) just adore The Sponge. I had bought, a very long time ago, the Christmas DVD. We watch this DVD every day, sometimes several times a day, regardless of the season. Then, around the dinner hour when SpongeBob makes his daily appearance on TV, we watch it again ... and again ... and again ... (thanks to the magic of satellite TV and the various time zones).

My love affair with SpongeBob et al is beginning to wear thin, though. This insidious sponge is starting to affect my sleep patterns. You know how, sometimes, you'll wake up in the middle of the night with a song running 'round in your head that just won't go away? Usually, it's an old Beatles' tune, or some obscure '80s hit from a one-hit-wonder the world has long since forgotten. Sadly, those days are gone for me. I now wake up with SpongeBob's "Striped Sweater" song permeating my subconscious.

"The best time to wear a striped sweater,
is all the tiiiiiiime...
One with a collar, turtle neck.
That's the kiiiiiind..."

Groan! Quick, turn on the TV. Even that annoying, and somewhat disturbing, commercial jingle about the bank's "Hand In My Pocket" would be preferable to this.

If I'm especially unlucky, it'll be the Christmas tune that's invaded my sleep-deprived brain.

"It's shaping up to be a wonderful holiday,
not your normal, av-er-age every day."
"Sounds like someone felled my old coral tree.
SpongeBob, Patrick, why'd you do this to me?"
"This Christmas feels like
the very first Christmas to meeeeee....."

Oh, God, please, make it STOP!

Unfortunately, it doesn't look like there's any relief in sight. The kids are addicted. So am I, for that matter. Inane musical score aside, he's a funny little guy. Therefore, until the kiddies outgrow the Sponge and his antics, it wouldn't appear that a SpongeBob Intervention is forthcoming. Guess I'll just have to grin and bear it.

"The Krusty Krab Pizza,
is the pizza,
for you and me.
The Krusty Krab Pizza,
is the pizza,
abslutive-a-ly!"

(*author slinks off to sob quietly in a large glass of chocolate milk*)

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year?

Ah, the first day of spring. When the western & central provinces are being throttled by snow storms, Australia is being buffetted by Cyclone Larry, and everyone in my family has been sick for weeks with the cold from hades.

Does anyone else get the feeling that Mother Nature is more than a little annoyed with all of us? Sure, March has always been a little unstable, weather-wise. The meteoroligical equivalent of Jeckyll & Hyde, if you will. But I don't recall ever having such extreme swings in temperatures as we've had lately. Just over a week ago, the neighbourhood kids were out riding their bicycles in t-shirts & running shoes, and today they're all bundled up in snow pants, hats & boots. The so-called common cold is lasting an uncommonly long time. The geese are flying around in circles because they don't know if they should be coming or going. And if that whole "in like a lamb" thing can be counted on, we're in for one heck of a month-end beating.

Kind of makes you wish it was good ol' predictable winter again, doesn't it?

Kudos to Canadian Oscar Winner

I didn't watch the Oscar's last night. Sorry. I was in bed, sick as the proverbial pooch. However, I was pleased as punch upon waking this morning to hear that Canadian Paul Haggis won the Best Picture Oscar for his film, 'Crash'. Kudos to you, Paul, for bringing a little red 'n' white to the gold 'n' glam.

Not having seen the film, it's a little difficult to say whether or not I agree with the nomination and win. However, I did catch a few scenes when the cast appeared on the Oprah show. The premise definitely peaked my interest. I like the way the different stories intertwine with one-another. Oprah's show and the ensuing debate about racism and sterotypes were certainly food for thought, whichever side of the fence you sat on.

So, I'll save my official review until after I've actually seen the movie. In the mean time, though, I'll give Mr. Haggis another pat on the back, from one Canuck to another. Good job, eh?

When Does Mess Equal Marvel?

When there's a toddler in the equation, that's when.

My two year old (you all know him as Trouble) was playing quietly by himself the other day. Yes, I know, that's the first sign that Trouble is brewing. Nonetheless, I ignored the warning signs because I was especially busy at that particular moment. Besides, his older brother was with him, and it was only for a minute or two, so how bad could it be?

Turns out that Trouble was investigating the stand-up shower stall. This shower stall is in the ensuite bathroom in my bedroom - mere feet from where I was sitting at the moment. So he was being especially quiet for me not to hear what he was up to. I was soon smelling a lovely scent emanating from the bathroom. I'm not being sarcastic here, it really did smell nice. I couldn't quite place the scent for a moment or two ... and then it hit me.

Shampoo. My shampoo. Oh, dear. Now what?

Upon investigating, I find Trouble standing barefoot (thankfully) in the shower stall in a large puddle of my best "for colour-treated hair" shampoo. Sigh! Why couldn't he use hubby's bargain brand? I pull Trouble out of the shower and start wiping him down. A few minutes later I returned to the shower to deal with the spilled shampoo.

But Lo! And Behold! When I rinsed away that slimy goo, the shower stall beneath it was sparkling clean! Cleaner than any other commercial, bathroom-specific cleaner has been able to make it. And I didn't even have to scrub! This is quite the feat, since hubby dearest is a machinist by trade and a week-end warrior to boot, which means my shower is regularly subjected to varying sorts of grease and grime and paintball scum.

So ... um ... thanks, Trouble, for spilling my shampoo all over the shower stall and then smooshing it around with your toes (there's one of the strangest sentences I've ever uttered, let alone put down in writing). I wonder, if I get him to do that once a week, would it qualify as "child labour"?