I Am a Shorty

I love the motorcycle, I do, but I will probably never own one. It is not the cost that is keeping me from the purchase, although considering the economy it certainly is not a big help. It is not the stigma of being a biker; I have certainly been thought of as much worse. Giving people the wrong impression seems to be my lot in life. My problem with not having a motorcycle is simple: I have been cursed with itty, bitty, stumpy, legs. Yes, you guessed it: I am a shorty.

I know, I know, there are bikes that are lower to the ground, but at the risk of getting stuck with a little 50 or something, I think I will respectfully defer. You see, when I think of motorcycles, I think of the big ol' honkin' ones-the thyroidal monsters that make your heart rattle in your chest when you pull up next to them at the stop light. Those are motorcycles to me, not the dainty little princess the last guy rolled toward me with an almost sympathetic smile on his rugged, handsome face. I had had it. I was going to buy a bike. I went to the bike shop and waited while the salesman finished up with the big, beefy guy who was waiting for his own special order. Mr. Sales went to the back, came out proudly astride the guy's bike and rolled it toward him, a look of envy clearly showing on his kisser. The guy and his bike left, looking like one single, graceful unit rather than bike and rider, and I was on the moon. Today was the day!

Mr. Salesman came over, took a quick peep down my top and then gave me his best smooth sales smile and asked if he could help me with something. I told him that I would like to buy a bike, lovingly stroking the bike beside me as I spoke. He looked at me. He looked at the bike. He laughed. Mr. Salesman literally laughed right at me. First of all, you have to understand, I did not mean the bike that I was petting at all, just a bike of some sort. I thought he could show me to something that would suit me. Getting himself back under control, he came from behind the counter and showed me that the bike I was standing beside was a monster, the seat was up around my chest area. Just getting on the thing would have required a step stool or an act of sheer will coupled with advanced yoga. He took me around to a few of the others and we started to see a pattern. He started talking about lowering some of the bikes when a sly smile started to stretch from ear to evil ear. I knew that look very well; someone was about to try to sell me a poodle. He went to the back, back there to where he got Mr. Beefy's honkin' Harley, and he wheels this thing out. The guy who just left could have dangled this bike from a chain as a necklace. He did not come out astride this thing; instead he was pushing it ahead of him like he was embarrassed to be seen with it.

I kind of felt the same way. It's not that it was not a good bike, just not the bike I had thought about. In my mind, most of the time I am 50 feet tall. Riding a bike that small would reinforce the fact that I am not. I am just not ready to give up my delusions, just yet.

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