I have grown old enough that I have given up hope of owning a motorcycle.
I know it’s dumb. I know it’s dangerous. I know it’s wildly impractical in this climate (when it’s either sunny and hot, or snowy, or thunderstormy, none of which make for pleasant cycling).
I also know that Margie would break both my legs before she’d allow it. Even though I’d wear a helmet and jacket and pants and all the things necessary to avoid it becoming a “donorcycle,” as they so quaintly put it down at the ER.
My Nono (my Mom’s Dad) wanted a motorcycle when he was a youth. His mother disagreed. He went ahead and, when he had enough money, bought one. Hah! Take that, Mom.
The next morning, the tires were slashed.
Some lessons enter the genes. Natural selection at work, I suppose.