drizzle

Raised by wolves, it is in me to ride in the rain, to ride, no matter what. To endure. To get on the back and shut up. And now, with my own vehicle.... You bought it, you ride it. You made your bed, you sleep in it. What a crock of shit. Bikers.

I'm not a biker anyway. I'm a scooter-er. I'm a nearly legal, nearly adept, nearly safe, scooter rider.

I don't even like to be cold. I got up yesterday morning to a weather report of possible drizzle and I was taking no chances. I drove. Don't get me wrong... I love my scooter. A woman at work asked me if I'd named it yet. I haven't. I hadn't considered it. It has Milano stamped on the side, so why would I give it another name? I think that is a teenage girl thing. Name your vehicle. I remember Billie Bohannon who named her olive green Pinto "The green Burrito." No.

The advantages of driving, so far: NPR, heat, metal surrounding me, and a clock. I'm surprised at the number of times I want to know what time it is. It doesn't matter. I don't need to be at work at any certain time. I can do whatever I want whenever I want to. But seems I like to keep track of things like the passing of minutes from home to coffee shop. Oh, and coffee. It is hard to get coffee on a scooter, and impossible to drink it. I can eat CrackerJacks while riding, but that's as good as I've got so far. And I can't talk on my cell phone, but not for lack of trying. The helmet gets in the way. But I know I know I know, I don't need distractions. I need to keep my eye on the side streets and parked cars.

I'm getting better at the scooter. I can almost release my deathgrip to wave at other scooters. There is, apparently, a sisterhood: Hell's Bell's. I won't join, but its nice to know they're out there. Actual motorcycles don't wave at scooters, and scooters don't wave at cyclists. We have our standards.

So according to Gwen, I don't have to tough it out and ride in the rain. I don't have to do anything I don't want to do except work, and truth be told, I like my job. I like working. I'd have little to complain about otherwise. They give me money and I need money, so it works out.

About twenty years ago, a little more, I made my first counseling appointment. (Yes, this will be a tiny little peek into my psyche. Hold on. It'll be great, really.) She asked me a bunch of questions. I can't remember what I was twisted up about at that time, but based on my answers, she asked me to write down the higher moral code I (apparently) was thinking I lived by. It went something like: (drumroll)

Blood is thicker than water
Don't cop to nothin'
There is honor among thieves
Walk tall
Don't blink

And this crock of shit included things like riding in the rain and wearing dead men's clothes.

Why do I mention all of this? Because it bothers me when I feel like a big baby for driving my truck in the rain, which is what any normal person would do. Right? Any normal people out there???? Hmmmm?? Higher moral code my ass. It was a man's list that women were supposed to live by that included learning to take a punch without flinching.

Remember flinching?

Well I do.