Just call me heck on wheels

Although I am happy with my Suzuki, I have never forgotten my first motorcycle. It was a rusty Norton Commando I bought for 50 pounds in the early 1980s, when attending college in the UK.

I could never make the kick starter work, always skinning my ankle instead, so I resorted to starting it by rolling it down a hill. But the Norton got me as far as the 3/4 mile to the town of Egham, and back to my chilly dorm room, fairly reliably. I sold it at year's end and didn't start regretting it until recently, when I saw how much a 70s-vintage Norton sells for these days.

I was reminded of this two days ago when I joined in the annual Mods and Rockers event. It's not much more than drinking and tire-kicking, but still a lot of fun. Ryan decided to join his Triumph-owning friends, showing up on his BMW K1200 so I could ride as passenger. He came to my house to pick me up, not able to come inside for more than 30 seconds because of his severe allergy to cats.

We headed off to the first event on his bike, which consisted of tire-kicking, photographing other bikes, and complimenting those with rare, vintage bikes like Vincents and Royal Enfields. There were plenty of Vespas and similar scooters. One female Vespa owner even brought her Pomeranian in a large handbag, who seemed to enjoy the ride.

I lusted after a Norton Commando 850 on sale at the bike shop. But since 100% of my tax refund went to pay Estranged Husband's* tax bill, there are no second motorcycles on my immediate horizon.

Next, we departed on what turned out to be the most fun of all - a mass ride down Harry Hines to downtown Dallas. I counted well over 100 bikes and scooters in the pack. As we went by Strokers, the Harley shop/bar, the bikers loitering outside actually waved at us. I'd have expected them to sneer at the un-American Triumphs and Vespas.

Here's a slideshow of the event. One of Ryan's friends made it into the first photo - he's at far left, wearing a black jacket with a red/white stripe.

We eventually ended up at the Belmont Hotel, a former motor court-type motel that has been beautifully redone in boutique retro style. Of course, after looking through the brochure, I began to fantasize about meeting Obscure Object of Desire* in one of the Belmont's suites.

The evening ended with my parking Ryan at a nearby La Quinta. He was very well behaved all day. He seems to accept my rejection of a Relationship and can cope with being friends. Unless his whispered comment as he hugged me goodbye - "You are so cool" - is something more than the vague statement I thought it was.

A four-minute video of last year's event can be found here.

* See Key to Characters at right.

North Shore nostalgia

A couple of nights ago I dreamed I was back in Australia.  (No, not Manderley.) Specifically I dreamed about the last house I shared with my first husband before we broke up. From this place, I moved to a crumbly Victorian terrace in Surry Hills.

Although this house offered some nice bird-watching opportunities, especially rainbow lorikeets, I remember feeling lost in it. The place was just too big for two people. But David always spent his entire housing allowance, saying that if he didn't spend it all, the company would lower it the next time we had to move.

I couldn't remember the exact address, but Castle Cove isn't a large neighborhood. After some satellite map searching I found it:  5 Willis Road. 

I then decided to see if I could find any occupants. I nosed around some real estate Web sites, and found that the house was sold about a year ago. But the price almost made me faint:

The house itself wasn't that special. Sort of like a two-story shoebox. But it had one featured I really liked - a balcony that went all around the house. And since the winter weather was mild, my bouganvillea never froze. I managed to grow it up to the roof.

Here's a view of the front of the house. The garage (to the right) is where I parked my spiffy little white Miata. My cat Gomez would wait for me in front of the garage every evening.

Estranged Husband strikes the first blow

Last night, I noticed he had defriended me on Facebook.

PMK strikes

Even though I am not totally immune to monthly crankiness and weight gain - sometimes I feel like the Michelin Man - a bad case of clumsiness is the only fool-proof indicator that I am suffering from PMS. It shows no sign of letting up as I slump toward the age of 50.

My first husband found it amusing. If he heard clattering sounds, breaking glass, and swearing emanating from the kitchen while I was cooking dinner (I used to be quite the housewife, renowned for her steak and kidney pie), he knew what was going on.

The latest pre-menstrual klutziness hit me this weekend. While I spent a good part of Saturday editing a white paper for my exe from 11 years ago, I took the Suzuki out for a ride later in the day. But after 20 minutes of nearly splatting myself in 20 different ways, I decided to return home. It was like every car on the road was determined to either hit me or play chicken. And then I almost dropped the bike while coming up my driveway. It was like my balance and coordination was on holiday.

uncharted post-marital territory

Ever since I found out that my tax refund would probably be entirely swallowed up by Estranged Husband's* unpaid taxes, I have been receiving unhelpful advice from anyone who found out about it. The general concensus is that I'm "too nice". The only dissenter was Ian*, who like me, realizes the dangers inherent in losing one's temper.

Ryan* even offered to intervene in my behalf - he found out when I called his friend and reneged on the Speed Triple. While I don't think Ryan was going to get medieval on the E.H. or anything like that - he promised to stick to phone calls - I found myself being slightly offended by his offer. I think he was trying to be helpful/supportive but it didn't come across that way. Perhaps I am a bit too touchy about the men vs women factor.

This is probably due to the fact that I've never wanted to be one of those typical harridan wives. One of the nicest things David (first husband) ever said to me was, "In 13 years, you've never nagged me". It's too bad I was getting on a plane to leave Sydney when he said this, but one can't have it all.

However, this doesn't mean I've decided to bite the bullet. I thought about how long E.H. has known about his tax bill, and how he chose to do nothing about it even though he certainly knew what the IRS would do. E.H. has been an accountant/controller for decades.

I dusted off the power of attorney he gave me in late 2007, when he packed his bag and left. And I realized that I could get pretty freakin' mean if I wanted to.

So I decided to give him a couple of weeks to a) contact the IRS, and b) come back with a repayment plan. If he doesn't do a) and b), I will move on to c), which is to whip out the power of attorney and start visiting people. I've never been to Nederland.

Guess it's about time to finalize a divorce, eh?

* See Key to Characters at right.