Mom! Don’t read this!
I’ve ridden on a motorcycle only once in my life. I’m lucky I lived.
Ginger, Lisa and I had driven from Boulder to Estes Park, a small town at the edge of Rocky Mountain National Park, to go to a country-western bar where a band we liked was playing. This was in the days before roofies and other twisted bad acts that make women so vulnerable. But still …
During the early part of the evening, a guy kept pestering me to dance with him. I didn’t want to; just had a bad feeling about him. So I politely (I thought) brushed him off and spent the next few hours dancing with a man I was interested in. He and his buddies had ridden into town on their motorcycles from Iowa. They had set up tents at a campground outside of town and were staying for a few days.
At last call, my friends and I returned to our table to retrieve our jackets. I reached in my pocket, and my keys were gone. Everything else was in my pockets, but my keys were missing. So was the guy who’d been pestering me!
Stranded 30 miles from home at 2am, the bar clearing out and not knowing anyone to call at that late hour, I prevailed on my dancing partner from Iowa for help. We verified that my car was parked where we had left it, and my friends got a room for the night at a motel down the street.
I strapped on a borrowed helmut and climbed on the back of this stranger’s motorcycle, intent on getting to Boulder to retrieve a duplicate key for my car. That 30-mile ride, under the starlit summer sky in the crisp mountain air, was as close to a magic carpet ride as I’ll ever come. Crazy afraid I’d set out with a mad rapist; awestruck by the sheer solitude on that dark stretch of mountain road.
I’m positive I used all my motorcycle karma that night. I dare not ride one again!