When did you first want to be a writer?
I have wanted to write for as long as I can remember.
My first real attempt to write was for a friend, Paul Simpson. He is an accomplished writer and asked me what it was like to be a biker-babe. I told him I would write my story, and I did. It felt great. The whole process was so exciting, I had trouble sleeping. The words rolled around my head like loose cannon balls on a ship at sea. The result was three comedic pages not likely to be read by anyone other than me… and Paul. (...and now you because I will post it here.) That experience lit a fire under me. My kids were growing-up, so I began taking classes in communications/public relations at Salem State University. I had earned my associates degree earlier in life, but I wanted to learn more about writing well and that required a bachelor’s degree. The bug bit me for sure at college. I knew I would write a novel one day. After graduation, another friend, Mark Veilleux, complimented my book idea and encouraged me to write it. During our week long, very special friendship, he made me believe in myself, therefore, 20,000 words came falling out like water from a broken damn. I couldn’t stop writing. In five months the first 50,000 words of “Viva México” were sloppily arranged on paper. I was determined. Mark fell in love with a delightful woman, leaving me and my book idea in the dust. I didn’t know how to complete my mission and sought the help of another friend, Shelley Baglino. Shelley, a former teacher and an avid book reader, belongs to a real book club — not a drinking club with a book problem, real book club where they examine questions and chat intellectually. That lovely woman edited all 65,000 words of my writing. Literally, she edited each word. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. But, she put as much red ink on those pages as I had put black. She is an amazing woman. I am not certain “Viva México” would have been finished without her expertise. And, it definitely wouldn’t have been as good. So, there you have it. Short and sweet. Let’s hope there will be more to come, but if I get to leave you with one final thought it should be: dream big dreams!! Dream them and follow them. |
My Ride
Inspired by Paul Simpson
The first of four blessings arrived about nine months after I married. With my beautiful baby boy, came the need to replace my pretty, red Camaro. A big… old, brown hunk of something that looked more like the Queen Mary on wheels was affordable and therefore purchased. I accepted it as it had four doors and was supposed to be a safer choice than my sporty little pre-marriage selection.
After my second child was born, a minivan complete with wood paneling, became the only way to move all of the people and baby belongings to play dates and birthday parties. Two children became three, three became four and I moved from my 20's into my 40's without blinking an eye.
As grateful as I have always been for all of the blessings I have been given, some part of me never completely settled into the title of “Soccer Mom“. Some part of me still longed for tight turns and four-on-the-floor. When first grade took the last of my babies and I discovered some unscheduled time, I couldn't hold back the desire for an adventure. Knowing a minivan would lurk in my future for many years to come, the idea of a motorcycle played in my thoughts until it changed from an idea to a dream.
Finding a Motorcycle Driver Safety Course where I could earn an “M” classification was as easy as making a few simple phone calls. With a few hundred dollars and courage to show up, the adventure began.
When this idea was in its infancy, I assured my husband that an adventure was all I longed for. I had no real desire to own a bike. All of that changed once I earned my license and had a taste of what could be.
After 15 years of marriage, I felt confident that my insurance-agent husband was not going to react well to the thought his wife risking life and limb on a motorcycle. Typically, insurance people aren‘t real risk takers. Although he is an avid gambler, the biggest risk I have ever seen him take was going “all in” with a solid hand in a 20 dollar game of Texas Hold ‘em. He is accustom to using phases like, “wear beige and blend.” I, however, have never really appreciated beige.
After all these years, he knows me fairly well too. He knew that if the words, “No bike.” came out of his face, I would become willful like a child and buy a bike just to spite him. He also knew that if he didn’t say, “No bike”, I would, well, become willful like a child and buy a bike. It wasn’t a good spot for him and we both knew it. He did a quick calculation of the odds, (it’s just what insurance folks do) and decided I would want his help to make the purchase, so he would have another chance to talk some sense into me. So, he waited. We danced around the subject of owning a bike in several casual conversations and then, I just began shopping.
The first bike I found was a brilliant red Suzuki Intruder. To say that I was intimidated just standing next to it would be a serious under statement. It seemed huge. Way too big for me as I stand at a full height of 5 foot 3 inches. I was scared to the point of running. My heart jumped around like an indignant child in the throws of a fit. It may as well have been a red, fire-breathing dragon.
Within moments of my arrival, a woman about 5 feet in height, bounced out of the house and into the sunshine where I stood frozen and wordless. She introduced herself claiming ownership of the pretty red machine. (I couldn’t have been more pleased that the owner was not a large, hairy fellow with narrow black eyes who, I imagined, would dismiss me back to the kitchen declaring me a fool.) After a short test drive and a bit of negotiation, I was a proud, weak in the knees, biker-babe.
The short trip home was completed without ever removing the silliest of grins from my face. As I stood in the driveway sucking bugs from my teeth, my husband arrived home too. He shook his head in disbelief equally unable to remove his grin. He realized immediately that the subject was way past discussion. And that, to be honest, was exactly the effect I was planning.
There were many awkward moments while getting used to my new hobby. I learned not to nod my head either back or forth as a greeting. The weight of the helmet almost snapped my neck in a strong breeze. Unfortunately, I tried both back and forth before learning my lesson. I had to figure out how and when to drop my hand in salute of the brother/sisterhood of the H.O.G. world. So far, the rule as proved inconsistent at best.
Pumping gas for the first time was shear mortification. I thought I had asked enough questions before going out and it seemed easy enough but, I was wrong. When pumping gas for a car a seal is formed between the nozzle and the tank opening, triggering the gas to come out. With the bike, the nozzle hit the bottom of the gas tank so the seal couldn’t happen. A nice man recognized the problem and swaggered over to save me before too many people saw me struggling. He was polite enough not to laugh out loud but I could clearly see every tooth in his mouth.
I was quickly accepted into a male friend’s group and invited out for a ride. (Most men think “honeys-on-Harleys” is the sexiest thing ever.) That day I conquered grated bridges, up hill starts and toll booths. Though we did get wet, we ran from a rain storm 15 miles from our destination. There was a place on my head, just out of my reach and under my helmet, that itched like infestation the better part of the day. I learned the hard way not to mention things like that when riding with men.
My only accident has been a collision with a bug the size of a small bird. I thought I had been shot in the face. I almost crashed trying to brush the disgusting thing off my cheek while looking for my newest dimple in my side view mirror. To this day, the only thing my husband and I agree on when we discuss motorcycles is that the extra life insurance policy we bought for me was a good idea.
Finding and following a dream has been the single best way to satisfy my soul. Apart from an extremely sore bottom side at the end of a 300 mile trek, there has not been even a moments regret. I take two turns in most rotaries for the simple joy of leaning hard into the turn. I often neglect my chores when the day is sunny and 70 degrees. The urge to meander down my favorite shady lane is an unbeatable force. I am addicted to the sense of freedom cruising provides as well as a general feeling of both power and peace. When I hear the roar of a two-wheeler approaching, I instinctively turn my gaze. It has become a call to the wild for me and my heart responds without conscious effort.
To those of you ladies longing for adventure, I hope you find inspiration in my story and pursue whatever it is that you dare to dream. To the brave girls who already ride the steel horse, keep the shiny side up. I am proud to share the road with you.
After my second child was born, a minivan complete with wood paneling, became the only way to move all of the people and baby belongings to play dates and birthday parties. Two children became three, three became four and I moved from my 20's into my 40's without blinking an eye.
As grateful as I have always been for all of the blessings I have been given, some part of me never completely settled into the title of “Soccer Mom“. Some part of me still longed for tight turns and four-on-the-floor. When first grade took the last of my babies and I discovered some unscheduled time, I couldn't hold back the desire for an adventure. Knowing a minivan would lurk in my future for many years to come, the idea of a motorcycle played in my thoughts until it changed from an idea to a dream.
Finding a Motorcycle Driver Safety Course where I could earn an “M” classification was as easy as making a few simple phone calls. With a few hundred dollars and courage to show up, the adventure began.
When this idea was in its infancy, I assured my husband that an adventure was all I longed for. I had no real desire to own a bike. All of that changed once I earned my license and had a taste of what could be.
After 15 years of marriage, I felt confident that my insurance-agent husband was not going to react well to the thought his wife risking life and limb on a motorcycle. Typically, insurance people aren‘t real risk takers. Although he is an avid gambler, the biggest risk I have ever seen him take was going “all in” with a solid hand in a 20 dollar game of Texas Hold ‘em. He is accustom to using phases like, “wear beige and blend.” I, however, have never really appreciated beige.
After all these years, he knows me fairly well too. He knew that if the words, “No bike.” came out of his face, I would become willful like a child and buy a bike just to spite him. He also knew that if he didn’t say, “No bike”, I would, well, become willful like a child and buy a bike. It wasn’t a good spot for him and we both knew it. He did a quick calculation of the odds, (it’s just what insurance folks do) and decided I would want his help to make the purchase, so he would have another chance to talk some sense into me. So, he waited. We danced around the subject of owning a bike in several casual conversations and then, I just began shopping.
The first bike I found was a brilliant red Suzuki Intruder. To say that I was intimidated just standing next to it would be a serious under statement. It seemed huge. Way too big for me as I stand at a full height of 5 foot 3 inches. I was scared to the point of running. My heart jumped around like an indignant child in the throws of a fit. It may as well have been a red, fire-breathing dragon.
Within moments of my arrival, a woman about 5 feet in height, bounced out of the house and into the sunshine where I stood frozen and wordless. She introduced herself claiming ownership of the pretty red machine. (I couldn’t have been more pleased that the owner was not a large, hairy fellow with narrow black eyes who, I imagined, would dismiss me back to the kitchen declaring me a fool.) After a short test drive and a bit of negotiation, I was a proud, weak in the knees, biker-babe.
The short trip home was completed without ever removing the silliest of grins from my face. As I stood in the driveway sucking bugs from my teeth, my husband arrived home too. He shook his head in disbelief equally unable to remove his grin. He realized immediately that the subject was way past discussion. And that, to be honest, was exactly the effect I was planning.
There were many awkward moments while getting used to my new hobby. I learned not to nod my head either back or forth as a greeting. The weight of the helmet almost snapped my neck in a strong breeze. Unfortunately, I tried both back and forth before learning my lesson. I had to figure out how and when to drop my hand in salute of the brother/sisterhood of the H.O.G. world. So far, the rule as proved inconsistent at best.
Pumping gas for the first time was shear mortification. I thought I had asked enough questions before going out and it seemed easy enough but, I was wrong. When pumping gas for a car a seal is formed between the nozzle and the tank opening, triggering the gas to come out. With the bike, the nozzle hit the bottom of the gas tank so the seal couldn’t happen. A nice man recognized the problem and swaggered over to save me before too many people saw me struggling. He was polite enough not to laugh out loud but I could clearly see every tooth in his mouth.
I was quickly accepted into a male friend’s group and invited out for a ride. (Most men think “honeys-on-Harleys” is the sexiest thing ever.) That day I conquered grated bridges, up hill starts and toll booths. Though we did get wet, we ran from a rain storm 15 miles from our destination. There was a place on my head, just out of my reach and under my helmet, that itched like infestation the better part of the day. I learned the hard way not to mention things like that when riding with men.
My only accident has been a collision with a bug the size of a small bird. I thought I had been shot in the face. I almost crashed trying to brush the disgusting thing off my cheek while looking for my newest dimple in my side view mirror. To this day, the only thing my husband and I agree on when we discuss motorcycles is that the extra life insurance policy we bought for me was a good idea.
Finding and following a dream has been the single best way to satisfy my soul. Apart from an extremely sore bottom side at the end of a 300 mile trek, there has not been even a moments regret. I take two turns in most rotaries for the simple joy of leaning hard into the turn. I often neglect my chores when the day is sunny and 70 degrees. The urge to meander down my favorite shady lane is an unbeatable force. I am addicted to the sense of freedom cruising provides as well as a general feeling of both power and peace. When I hear the roar of a two-wheeler approaching, I instinctively turn my gaze. It has become a call to the wild for me and my heart responds without conscious effort.
To those of you ladies longing for adventure, I hope you find inspiration in my story and pursue whatever it is that you dare to dream. To the brave girls who already ride the steel horse, keep the shiny side up. I am proud to share the road with you.
