Confessions of a Motorcycle Dawdler

Confessions of a Motorcycle Dawdler

You don’t notice the gradual change as it’s happening. It doesn’t pass you on the sidewalk each day and say good morning until you finally ask it’s name and become friends. No, it comes like the big reveal of what’s behind door number three – all at once. Tell her what she’s won, Johnny!  You… are… a dawdler! ::balloons fall from the ceiling::

Did you ever imagine that you would become the type who pulls over and spends five minutes making up voices for a buffalo you’ve been watching on the side of the road?

“Hello, Buffalo.”

::gravely voice:: “Oh, well now, g’mohnin’, Miss Fuzzy. Fine day. Fine day indeed. Mighty fine motorcycle you got there, too.”

“Aww, thanks Buffalo. I sure like it.”

Did you ever imagine that you’d become the type to pull over to look at flowers? In your youthful daydreams of dragging knees at a million miles an hour, did you ever leave space for pulling over to watch a swan in a pond doing swan things? Or looking at moss and rocks and trees? I didn’t. And yet here I am.

At this point, I don’t have enough room on the back of my car for stickers noting all the things I brake for. Animals, waterfalls, historical markers, post offices, scenic views, sunsets, sunrises, yard art, barns, farms, murals, old buildings, new buildings, tanks, trains, roadside attractions, weirdos, signs … geez, it’s amazing I get any riding done at all!

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