I got my first motorcycle when I was eight years old. It was a minibike and my ticket to freedom. I might as well have become an adult that very same day. I do not remember my prom, graduation, wedding day or any other day, sorry kids, like I remember my first day on a bike. In my defense, the bike did not come out of my body or make me throw up for three months, so don't look at me like I'm a bad mom. I'm a great mom.

When my husband said, "all you care about is that motorcycle!" I understood his concern, but it wasn't true. I care about other motorcycles too, but I only have access to the one, so naturally it gets more consideration.

I realize people are important and whatever, but people have a tendency to make you feel, you know, obligated to make them dinner and wash their clothes and other more disgusting things.

The bike? No such issues. Any maintenance is quickly delegated to less destructive people than myself and the bike is returned to me, guilt free for a fee, as a means to channel my restless spirit. I can crank open the throttle, or putter around. And wheelies...oh, the wheelies. If anyone ever wanted to throw an accurate, "all you care about" accusation at me, it would start with the front wheel coming off the ground.

I would say the only way to know if a motorcyle is right for you is to get on one and ride. If you crash, it's probably not for you. If your helmet fills with the sound of your laughter, your heart races in your chest, and you smile until it hurts, welcome home.

Learn more about this author, Rebecca Pennock.
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