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Valley Village, California
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Published On: Oct 08, 2008 10:46 PM
Total entries in this category:
Published On: Oct 08, 2008 10:46 PM
Younger Son v. The Machine
Be careful what you ask
for...
Younger Son is 21. And until this month, he had no driver's license -- a fact that caused fellow residents of Los Angeles to look at me with open-mouthed astonishment. "He DOESN'T DRIVE? He wasn't pestering to get his license at 16?"
No, he wasn't pestering me for a license at 16. In fact, he didn't pester at all until last Christmas -- for a motorcycle license. And I was, fool that I am, grateful. "At last! He will be mobile enough to get a job and finish his degree at the same time!" The Hubby agreed to provide safety training tuition and a modest budget for bike acquisition.
It took Younger Son two tries to pass the safety course. This should have told me something.
The course having been passed three weeks ago and license acquired, The Hubby provided the promised check, and Younger Son went shopping. Yesterday, he had an appointment to look at a used Honda in Northridge (some twelve miles from our home.)
I got a call at work yesterday. "Mom... um... I dropped the bike."
In my ignorance, I imagined him clumsily letting it fall while trying to mount, but he continued, to my mounting horror, "I'm OK, just a little road rash, but the bike's in pretty bad shape..."
Road rash. And a damaged bike that wasn't -- or hadn't been -- his. "I just didn't want you upset when you came home and saw me in bandages and my clothes all torn up..."
He didn't want to upset me. How... endearing.
Today, I am bandaging his scrapes and trying to figure out how we're going to get his formerly pristine used Honda Rebel to a decent cycle shop to fix its handlebars and fuel tank. He's given it -- or rather, her -- a name: "Ursula." And he's laughing about his initiation into the fellowship of motorcycle riders.
I'm laughing, too. Otherwise, it would hurt too much. And I know better than to stand between a man and his obsession.
Younger Son is 21. And until this month, he had no driver's license -- a fact that caused fellow residents of Los Angeles to look at me with open-mouthed astonishment. "He DOESN'T DRIVE? He wasn't pestering to get his license at 16?"
No, he wasn't pestering me for a license at 16. In fact, he didn't pester at all until last Christmas -- for a motorcycle license. And I was, fool that I am, grateful. "At last! He will be mobile enough to get a job and finish his degree at the same time!" The Hubby agreed to provide safety training tuition and a modest budget for bike acquisition.
It took Younger Son two tries to pass the safety course. This should have told me something.
The course having been passed three weeks ago and license acquired, The Hubby provided the promised check, and Younger Son went shopping. Yesterday, he had an appointment to look at a used Honda in Northridge (some twelve miles from our home.)
I got a call at work yesterday. "Mom... um... I dropped the bike."
In my ignorance, I imagined him clumsily letting it fall while trying to mount, but he continued, to my mounting horror, "I'm OK, just a little road rash, but the bike's in pretty bad shape..."
Road rash. And a damaged bike that wasn't -- or hadn't been -- his. "I just didn't want you upset when you came home and saw me in bandages and my clothes all torn up..."
He didn't want to upset me. How... endearing.
Today, I am bandaging his scrapes and trying to figure out how we're going to get his formerly pristine used Honda Rebel to a decent cycle shop to fix its handlebars and fuel tank. He's given it -- or rather, her -- a name: "Ursula." And he's laughing about his initiation into the fellowship of motorcycle riders.
I'm laughing, too. Otherwise, it would hurt too much. And I know better than to stand between a man and his obsession.
Posted: Sat - June 9, 2007 at 05:43 AM | | | | |