Becoming a man.....in a yellow helmet

There are many tests on the road to becoming a man; faking that your voice is lower than it actually is until you hit puberty, lying about kissing a girl, disrespecting your elders, etc, etc.

If you take time to read the map to manhood, there are optional offshoots that ultimately will place you back on the path but are not completely necessary. These include things like; lifting weights, rock climbing, getting arrested and buying a motorcycle.

Yes, buying a motorcycle. I remember it like it was just a week and a half ago.

I spotted my victim about a year ago. A 1979 Yamaha 400 XS. It was parked on the roadside with a for sale sign on it. At the time I was having to refinance my house every time I put gas in the car, so I thought, I should buy that. Saving money on gas sounded nice, and a motorcycle was manly. (Insert Tim Allen home improvement sound effect here) I called the guy up and he wanted $500. I could have easily saved that much on gas in a couple months, but the Brown in me took over and I asked if he would take $250. No dice. That was fine with me. When I really thought about it, I wasn't sure I wanted to purposely hurl myself down the highway with nothing between the road and I except for an antique motorcycle and.....well, and nothing.

Time has passed. The seasons have changed. The motorcycle has stayed in its place. I called motorcycle-man again this year and inquired about the bike. He still said $500, more or less. That conversation lasted an hour, about the way an older person explains anything. Wouldn't have been bad if my wife and angry children hadn't been waiting in the car. Note: they weren't angry before they sat in a stationary vehicle for an hour. I told motorcycle-man that I would think about it and call him the next week.

I offered him $300. He took it. Now I just had to get the dang thing home. My wife, forever compassionate and kind to her not-so-bright hubby, offered to take me to pick it up. After another hour long visit, the bike was mine.

Triumphant I was about to ride off into the sunset when motorcycle-man asked, "don't you want a helmet?"

I insisted that I would be fine, but he went to get the helmet anyway. He told me I could borrow it until I got my own. When he emerged from his garage he was carrying a giant, yellow golf ball. That's what it looked like anyways. Not only did it resemble the helmets off of space balls, it was three sizes to small. My hopes of riding home with any pride were dashed. My wife tried to suppress her laughter, but it was impossible. My own face reddened. I was tempted to put the helmet in the car, and ride without it but any helmet, even one that looks like your dog's favorite toy is better than none. So I wore it.

There I was, racing down the road, OK not really. In fact, my wife commented that she almost turned on her hazard lights while she followed me. That would have been bad, but it gets worse. For some odd reason, the battery on the bike won't hold a charge, so you have to jump it to get it running, and when you do anything that requires battery power, like using the brakes for instance, the bike dies. So there I was, puttering down the highway, line of cars stacking up behind me and the bike dies. I could have crawled inside that tiny helmet to disappear. I was still three or four blocks from home, and without a jump to the battery, the bike wouldn't start again. Now it was time for me to show my real manliness. I carted that thing all the way home. Lots of people stare at you when you are pushing a motorcycle on the sidewalk, but it was definitely less than were staring when I was wearing that amazing helmet.