Letter To My Husband's Mistress

Spring 2007

You’ve taken my husband from me, and I thank you for it. And it’s not because I don’t love him.

It happens every year: as soon as winter begins to fade and the snow and mud is no longer a risk, as soon as the weather warms enough to grip the handlebars without his hands freezing in that position, as soon as his work for the day is done (and often even before), my husband is strapping on his helmet, zipping up his coat, and hopping on his bike.

Occasionally, I’ll beg him to take me with him. At his insistence, I change into my long pants and put on an extra sweater, even if it’s eighty degrees outside. I’ll manage to stuff myself into a leather jacket, suspecting I look a little like the Michelin Man’s long-lost sister. I shove an old helmet with face guard over my head, feeling like a Storm Trooper. I wrap a scarf around my neck and squeeze sunglasses under the helmet, then struggle into gloves. By the time my routine is complete, I’m sweating and out of breath, and not even sure the thing I see reflected in the mirror is actually a person. My husband looks brightly at me and asks if I’m ready to go. By now, all I’m ready for is a nap.

I waddle outside like a pregnant walrus and wait anxiously as my husband wheels out the bike. I watch with mounting anxiety as he flips the foot pegs down, settles himself, and turns on the ignition. With dread, I see his head slowly swivel my way, then give a curt nod: the signal for me to climb on back. I’m not nervous about the ride, I’m nervous about this one moment: the moment whereby I attempt to swing gracefully onto the seat behind him, my moves constricted by an extra twenty pounds of clothing and my eyesight skewed by the combination of sunglasses and Storm Trooper helmet. 

 

Positioning myself next to the bike, I grasp my husband’s shoulders (lightly, don’t bring him down with you!), mentally focus on a feeling of Zen-like concentration, and, picturing a nimble ballerina and NOT the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man, I swing my leg over the bike rack and over the side bags (stopping just before I kick my husband in the back . . . usually) and simultaneously throw my body towards the center of the seat. As the bike bounces a foot off the ground from my harsh landing and my husband scrambles to stabilize all three of us, I sit up triumphantly behind him and congratulate myself on my flawless execution. 

 

He’s taken me to some pretty interesting places. I’ve seen a lush cemetery in the center of an arid desert. I’ve seen snow on the side of a mountain in June. I’ve discovered all the back roads you can take to get to the hardware store. 

 

I’ve traveled without air conditioning when it’s ninety degrees outside and have felt perfectly cool -- until we hit a stoplight. I’ve been whacked on the foot by a flying bird and managed to live and tell the tale. I’ve traveled an hour away just so I could go to lunch, and not felt guilty about the gas. I’ve practiced that cool wave-thing my husband does when we pass another motorcyclist: Ah, hello, Fellow Brother In A Privileged Club.

I’ve been able to go to work the next day and nonchalantly bring up the off-roading we did down into a field. I can consider myself a little hip because my husband owns a bike. But, when it’s all said and done, I must confess that I will never have the same passion for motorcycles that my husband has.

I suppose my biggest problem is simply that I’m not very coordinated: I tend to trip a lot, and I’ve managed to fall off my bicycle a few times . . . when I’m not even moving. I hate to think what I’d do to myself trying to balance on a heavy machine as I go forty up a dirt hill or fifty-five (or seventy, in my husband’s case) down a highway. My husband says it’s the thrill of it, but I doubt I’d feel thrilled: only panicked.

He says the biggest reason he loves to go for a bike ride is that it allows him to see places he normally wouldn’t. He can get far into the hills around our house in just minutes, and travel deep into the mountains for hours. Cars, even four-wheel-drive vehicles, can’t take him as far. Hiking and bicycling could, but he’d have to bring along a pack-horse to make it feasible; which really isn’t feasible at all. He argues that he can be so much closer to nature astride an open-air motorcycle than closed up inside a car. I argue that I love nature just as much as he does: just give it to me with air-conditioning and a radio, thank you very much.

I don’t have that need to get out the way he does: my home is my getaway, not my bike. When I’ve had a long, hard day, I need to lock myself in my house and not jump on my bike and leave. I don’t have the need to personally explore places like he does: I’m content getting my travel fix from TV or from the seat of an airplane or a tour bus. He views getting out into the wilderness as fun: I view it as exercise.

I find myself zoning out after an hour of discussion on fork travel, the merits of knobby versus street tires, and the difference between an F650GS and an 1150RT. At the video store, I try to rush him past The Motorcycle Diaries, The World’s Fastest Indian, Long Way Round and From Dust To Glory. I roll my eyes upon discovering it’s time to drop him off at the dealer’s again.

I just don’t “get” motorcycles the way he does. I don’t need them, but that’s not really the point: he does. Riding his bike confirms to my husband that there’s a whole world out there still to be seen, and he can do it. It reminds him that he is not just a man, but an explorer. It proves that, in this fast-paced and stressful world, he still has control over his day and how he spends it. Mostly, motorcycles remind him of the point to life: it’s about the ride, not the destination. I’m jealous of the peace and freedom he gets from his pastime. I have nothing that makes me feel that way; except him. 

 

You’ve taken my husband from me, and I thank you for it. Not because I don’t love him . . . but because I do.