During the holiday shopping rush I found myself browsing cautiously through racks of leather chaps and hair tubes. I was in a motorcycle shop called Iron Pony. Had I wandered too far from the mall? Was I delirious? High on white chocolate latte? Yah, but that's beside the point. Why Iron Pony? I was on a mission to find leather fringe-the long, dangling kind that bikers string from their chopper handlebars.
Again you ask why? I was Christmas shopping for my mother. MY MOTHER! My 55-year old mother went and got herself a motorcycle. And not just a little scooter. A big, roaring, fluorescent blue, Hell's-Angels-type beast. We used to talk about children and shopping and what we might cook if either of us knew how to cook. She now speaks a sub-culture language, peppering her conversations with words like 'pipes,' 'ride' and 'ape hangars.'
I really didn't think she'd follow through with her threat to become a motorcycle mama. But now here she is, tooling around town, draped in black leather, flashing a temporary tattoo. I am proud of her for passing her bike test and getting the license and all, I just wonder how long before I have to go break up bar fights with rival biker gangs.
What's next? A guest spot on Happy Days as Pinky Tuscadero?
Perhaps a Biker Grandmother clothing line? I wasn't allowed to have so much as a moped, let alone a motorcycle. What's going on here? To top it off, some senior guys, who happened to see my mother at school one day, have designated my mother as a 'hottie.' Not disturbing. Not disturbing at all.What happened to all the grandmas? A grandma should be in the kitchen wearing an apron that sits just below a saggy bosom, smelling like baked cookies and old people. Of course, my mother has never made homemade cookies in her life, but there's a first time for everything, right, Pinky?
