The Ride Not Taken

By Paul Clark (aka motomynd)

When I settled into a relationship and gave up traveling the country and the world as a writer and photographer, one of the first – and most miserable – gigs I tried was co-ownership and part-time operation of an antiques & collectibles shop in a quaint, pseudo-historic village in central North Carolina. I quickly learned the mindset of “antiques people” is…unusual. In any other realm I worked, if someone had offered to sell a multi-million-dollar, 1957 gull-wing Mercedes for $10,000, everyone would have jumped at the unbelievable opportunity. But an “antiques person” would instinctively say, “How about $9,000?” Yes, unusual.
    The gig had many dark months with very few bright spots. One exception was the day she rode to the front door on her motorcycle, pulled off her helmet and sent her long, flowing hair cascading over her shoulders, and walked in the front door.

Carmen Electra

    My first thought: “Now I know where Carmen Electra went when she left Baywatch.” My second thought: “Don’t act stupid, in case Dennis Rodman is with her.” I say this not only because of what I had read about their volatile relationship, but I had caught glimpses in person when I had the wonderful opportunity to spend some time around the Baywatch crowd. There I had a camera I could hide behind and a wide-open beach as an escape route; here I was trapped behind a sales counter: nowhere to hide, no place to run.
    She walked in – alone, thank goodness – nodded my way, and took a left toward the back of the shop. She was, as they say, hot – smoking hot – a near clone of Carmen. After looking around briefly, she walked over and asked who took the Africa wildlife photos in the back.
    “I did,” I said. “I’ve been to eight countries there.”
    “Oh. Who owns the bike out front?”
    “I do.”
    “Nice job on the mods,” she said. “I like it. Maybe we should ride some time.”
    “Sure,” I said, “love to.” I gave her a business card and hoped she would get in touch. She didn’t.

motomynd headed for a
motorcycle-based retirement

Months later, I was riding a favorite back road I often rode from my home in Carolina to a cluster of twisting roads I loved in Southside, Virginia, when I came up behind a Harley-Davidson. A Harley ridden by a woman in a very nice-fitting pair of jeans, I couldn’t help but notice. I throttled back a bit to enjoy the view, but after a couple of miles I got bored. She rode like most Harley riders: fast in the straight stretches, like someone’s grandmother when she came to a curve. As we neared my favorite set of twisties, I blinked my headlight to let her know I was coming by, dove into the corner, and flashed past. As I went by, I thought, “I know that bike.”
    About ten miles farther up the road is a store where I often stopped for gas and a bottle of water or a coffee, before heading back home. I was outside, checking over my bike, when she rode up. She stopped, took off her helmet, said, “Thought I knew that bike,” and went inside. In a couple of minutes she came back out, walked over to me, and chatted while she drank a beer.
    “Sorry I never got in touch,” she said. “Based on what I just saw, you would be a lot of fun to ride with.”
    “Based on what I just saw, would we see much of each other after the first curve?”
    To her credit, she actually laughed when I said that.
    “So,” I asked, “can I be really rude and ask why you never got in touch?” I also wanted to say, “other than you are young and hot and I’m not,” but to my credit I stopped short of that.
    “If I tell you why, you will think it’s silly.”
    “Try me.”
    Thus ensued a very entertaining 15-minute chat, until I headed for my favorite twisty backroads and she headed for the interstate. Why people ride motorcycles on the interstate is beyond me, but that’s just my personal opinion.
    Anyway, the gist of the chat, was that she had actually come into the antiques shop looking for me because her husband had been in a few weeks earlier, mentioned my Africa travels and motorcycle to her, and she thought I sounded interesting. After meeting me in person she decided I was indeed interesting – even though I was way too old for her. At least she laughed when she said that: how polite. Armed with my business card, she had gone online to check me out.
    “I liked your site,” she said, “and your writing, but then I found your writing on this other site – something ‘stotle’, ‘Aristotle’ maybe? – and it just turned me off.”
    “Turned you off?”
    “You sounded so anti-religious. I couldn’t take it.”
    “So, you’re religious?”
    “Strongly. Christians have it right.”
    After further chat, I said something to the effect, “So, since you are married, and strongly Christian, you really did come in just looking for someone to ride with. And you didn’t want to ride with me because I seemed anti-Christian?”
    And she said, “Well, truthfully, I wanted to dump my plastic surgeon for someone more exciting, and I thought you might be more exciting.”
    Very confused now, I said, “Dump your plastic surgeon?”
    And without hesitation she said, “Yes, end my affair with him and find a more exciting one. Thought you might be it.”
    “So, I’m too anti-religious to have an affair with?”
    “Told you it would sound silly.”
    And there I stood, speechless. “Bizarre” is about all I could come up with. Feeling like any discussion beyond that would be like trying to find the end of a circle, I put on my helmet, said, “Nice to see you again,” and rode away.
    So there you have it: a married, devoutly Christian, super-hot Carmen Electra look-alike might have ended her affair with her plastic surgeon and started one with me, if only she hadn’t seen my writing on Moristotle and deemed me too anti-religious for her principles. Thanks, Morris.

motomynd riding a mean slide with his son,
after young second wife talked him into a different type of retirement

Copyright © 2020 by Paul Clark