Born to be wild and have a really flat ass

There have been some "discussions" about Dave's new motorcycle. When he first was talking about buying a used donor-cycle I had an opinion. I know, hard to believe, me having an opinion.

"Get a big one," I said. "Like a Goldwing. Something we can both sit on comfortably." I know he thinks of me as being a slender young tart with a narrow derriere so I had to remind him that I am old and creaky with a rather enormous butt that doesn't sit well on crotch rockets and in other smallish spaces.

He did not listen to me, obviously still believing I have the butt of a small boy, and bought a mid-sized bike. A Kawasaki Vulcan, 750, I think. I mention this in case you know something about bikes and only to help you imagine the seat on which our butts sit.

I was nervous about the bike. Well, maybe nervous isn't strong enough a word. I was actually scared out of my cheesely mind. Every time I climbed aboard all I could think was how violently my melon was going to explode when I hit the pavement. Dave is a good driver though and it wasn't long before I relaxed and started to LOVE going on the bike. That is precisely the moment that Dave decided the bike wasn't big enough to take us on long rides. I was like, what the heck? I TOLD you to get a big bike! Instead of arguing with me further, because he has learned there is no point, we decided to hit the open road on Saturday.

The first half hour was pure bliss. I raised my arms in the air proclaiming I'M KING OF THE WORLD and hugging my baby and clinking helmets and singing "like a true nature child, I was born, born to be wild" on a loop because those are the only words I know.

The second half hour my butt started to go a wee bit numb. Just a wee bit. Dave started squiggling in his own seat and it wasn't long before he pulled over for a break. "How's your bum?" he asked. "A little numb," I replied. Because I am a poet.

A while later it wasn't Steppenwolf I was singing, it was Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb."

We took lots of breaks but the bike ass we were experiencing was cumulative and by the end of the day my butt was as flat as a proverbial pancake. There was no more singing. There was screaming. From my ass. My ass was screaming, "GET ME OFF THIS STUPID BIKE RIGHT NOW," and when it wasn't screaming at me it was asking, "Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we almost there? How bout now? Are we there yet? Huh? Are we there? Are we there?"

The pain was exquisite. Who knew a butt could hurt so much just from sitting on a motorcycle for a day? Oh, and my knees hurt just as much as my arse. When I finally got off I was walking like a greenhorn who just got off a horse, all bow-legged and saddle sore.

Other than that, it was a good day.

Oh, wait a minute. That's not true. We did have a rather horrifying moment when the bike broke down halfway between Dwight and Huntsville in the middle of fecking nowhere.

Not having a cell phone, because we are the only two people in the universe who don't have one, apparently, Dave said, "We're going to have to push the bike into town." Town was about 15 km away. A rather long jaunt for two out of shape old people walking bow-legged, pushing a broken flat-ass-inducing motorcycle.

Dave being a mechanic and all, he was able to wiggle some wires and check the spark and even though he didn't think he could do it, he fixed the problem and we were on our way again. You know how he checked the spark? He stuck a screwdriver in the cap-thingey where the spark plug goes and then he yelped and said, "yup, lots of spark there." As if that wasn't bad enough, he had to do the same thing with the other plug. I was like, "seriously? You're gonna do that again?" When he was done his ears were smoking and his hair was curly.

Dave's new-to-him toy. This ass-break photo was taken
at a roadside parkette between Algonquin Park and Dwight,
before the breakdown. Thus, he still likes the bike.

Boat launch at Dwight. It was a fine day, a real beauty.

This bear is one of the roadside attractions at The Dwight
Trading Post, a gift shop and snack stand that sells all kinds
of tacky knick-knacks, tremendously comfortable moccasins
and really tasty fudge.

Dave-the-mechanic goes to work fixing the bike. Thank goodness he did.
I just could not imagine walking for 15 km.

Money woes

Dave spent 20 minutes this morning venting about money worries and then another five minutes at the front door trying to get me to cheer up before he went to work.

"I'm not going until you cheer up," he said. I smiled crookedly, fuming on the inside. Really? Let's get all depressed and then be cheery on the way out? He feels guilty, I think. He just bought a used motorcycle, using his credit line. Nah, we couldn't afford it. We were stupid to do it. Then again, life is short. If it's at all possible to do something you love, do it. Another one of my acquaintances is in hospice with terminal cancer, came right out of the blue. She was fine, she found a lump, two months later she's in hospice.

Dave grew up with motorcycles but he hasn't had one for 20 years. When my brother-in-law Don got one, when our friend Richard got one, Dave got all itchy to get one, too. Peer pressure, I guess. Next thing I know he was cruising the online classifieds and before you can say Bob's your uncle (thanks Susan), there was a motorcycle in our garage.

Last night we went for a ride. It was fantastic. Cool evening air blowing in my face. Watching clouds scud across the setting sun. As miles ticked by my frustrations of the day slid behind us like our lengthening shadow. Last night it was worth every penny.

This morning reality has set in yet again. Dave wants to talk about budgeting. Just the word budget makes my teeth ache.

We have our own money, Dave and I, although it's not like he hoards it or anything. We share. But he has his bills, I have mine. Because he makes twice as much money as I do, at least twice, he pays the mortgage, the taxes, the trailer payment and the utilities. (Fecking hydro is enough to choke a goat.) I pay the Jeep payment, groceries, internet and my own credit card. I also give my ex-husband, Doug, a little money here and there for child support. Not a lot – because I don't have a lot – but what I can. He's good that way. We have an agreeable relationship, not like some who only see each other in court as they either demand more money or refuse to give more. Anyway, times are hard for Doug, too. He has asked me for more money and I honestly don't have more money to give. My pay cheque disappears as soon as it lands in my bank account.

I haven't had a substantial raise in pay since I started working there (yes, there has been an occasional cost of living increase, which is so barely noticeable that I'm not 100% sure if I got them or not) and I have just found out I won't be getting one. Ever. Period. I am at the top of my pay scale so it doesn't matter how hard I work, or what I contribute to the company, I will not be compensated for that extra effort financially. I must be content with what I bring home right now. This, in spite of the fact that my responsibilities have increased substantially. Sometimes I think, "why bother?" Just do what you have to do, try and keep your nose clean, and forget about the rest. But that's not who I am. I have to do my best, all the time – that's just the way I roll, baby.

I'm not alone there, that's for sure. There are a lot of other people in the same boat. We're all lucky to even have jobs, I know. But being lucky doesn't help put food on the table.

Meanwhile, the cost of groceries has pretty much doubled in the last six years. Back then $130 paid for food for a family of four for a week. It's rare that I spend less than $230 these days. Gasoline has also jumped. So has hydro. Everything keeps going up and up – everything except my pay cheque.

I'm beginning to think I'm going to have to look around for another job. Or perhaps take a second job. Maybe delivering pizzas or working at Wal-mart. Every time I drive by Domino's and see the sign in the window that says "Now Hiring Drivers" I want to run in there and apply. Maybe me and Dave could do it on Friday nights, together, like a date. Maybe we could do it on his motorcycle, tomato sauce in the saddle bags, the smell of pepperoni in the wind in our hair ...

Dave takes Angus for his first ever motorcycle ride. Gus loved it!