On the way to school this morning, with the windows down and the cool autumn air blowing our hair around, the talk turned to motorcycles. Specifically, whether The Quartet thought I should get one or not (my wife is shaking her head as she reads, my mother has already dialed my area code). C, ever the cautious one gave a firm vote of No. JP & S both thought I should. GK abstained from voting until we actually went to a dealership and she was allowed to sit on a few models, kick some tires and discuss financing. JP even went so far as to suggest I get one with two seats so he could also ride. That's my boy. I could see the two of us on a Sunday ride through the country, or wherever it is motorcyclists ride around here, in search of that perfect peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He said, too, that I should get a motorcycle with tattoos on it. A helmet with tattoos as well. At least he's safety conscious.
But that's as far as the talk went. I know I won't get one, not because I don't want one or can't afford one - both factors - but because I have to haul these kids around all the time. I've come to terms with the family vehicle, but that doesn't mean all our dreams have to end. So if you see us cruising through Midtown in a Volvo wagon, all wearing tattooed helmets, be sure and hoot at us.