Our motorcycle trip on Saturday started out well. We were headed to New York for a campout and we actually left early for once. The day was perfect, crisp and sunny, and I was back in my groove, back on the Buell. Everything was going right.
Until this happened:
(that would be my drive belt – a small, but unfortunately very necessary part of motorcycle-riding, BTW, it’s supposed to be shaped like an “O”)And then this happened:
(that would be my dad’s friend Pete’s truck with me, my dead bike and my helmet hair in it)And then this happened:
(that would be my bike in my dad’s basement [and me with more lovely helmet hair] – the Buell’s not going anywhere this weekend)So, rather than complain and whine about having my broken-down butt carried up to the campout on the back of Luke’s bike, I did this:Yes, that would be the divine miss Molly riding on the motorcycle with us. I was afraid of her riding on Luke’s bike alone in a basket, but curled up in my lap on the back of Luke’s bike, now that’s a different story. That I could go along with.
We bundled her up in her fleece coat, then her Old Navy parka, then her harness, which I attached to a rope that went around my body. I sat her on my lap and we were on our way. I thought she’d get sick of the wind in her face and tuck her head inside my jacket after a while. Boy was I wrong.Two and a half hours of riding, one short stop for lunch and she was still hanging her floppy ears out in the wind. In fact she kept leaning into Luke’s back, trying to squeeze herself in front of him. She perched on the end of my lap, stretching her little neck out to catch as much air as she possibly could.
Once we got to Sioux and Voyle’s place in NY, Molly hopped off the bike and had a grand time sitting by the bonfire and hanging out with the crowd. She got to sleep in a tent with me and Luke, she shared (hogged) my sleeping bag and woke up the next morning raring to go. When we packed up the gear and I grabbed her parka she started to wag her tail and when I put it on her she jumped up on the bike, ready to go. She amazed me. She’s one tough little cookie and she’s fearless.
So if you were in the souhwestern part of Connecticut/southeastern part of New York state this weekend and saw what looked like a fluffy white dog on a motorcycle, you weren’t going crazy, that was my biker-pup, Molly.