I have this strange propensity to trust people with my personal safety. I say it’s strange because my mother is probably the most paranoid person I’ve ever met in my entire life. Which means I was raised in a house of
For the Love of God, Don’t Get on an Airplane, Keep the Door Deadbolted if You Don’t Recognize the Face in the Peephole, and You Can’t Go Hiking Alone—a Mountain Lion Will Eat You! (Okay now that I read those, I realize each scenario involves me doing something solo, so maybe it’s not such a surprise that I blindly follow others and just believe they’re going to lay down their lives to save me from danger.)
Yesterday, Mr. Wonderful and I were browsing through the newspaper over breakfast burritos when he said, “Do you want to go for a ride up to Lake Hollywood today?” I nodded lazily, picturing a relaxing drive with the sunroof open.
But Mr. W wasn’t talking about a car trip. He was talking motorcycle.
I grew up in a family that rode ATVs, and my college boyfriend had a dirt bike. But I had never been on a street bike in my life. And although the thought of passengering one scared me a bit, I didn’t hesitate in the slightest to hop on the back of Mr. W’s Suzuki DRZ 400. I had absolute faith that he would do everything in his power to keep me from becoming helmet-clad roadkill.
It was about eleven o’clock when we accelerated down his street, winding through the Hollywood hills. The sky was baby blue, people in convertibles were taking Sunday cruises, walkers and joggers were out in their spandexy finest. I couldn’t help but smile at it all.
I had never seen Lake Hollywood before—heck, until a few years ago, I didn’t even know Hollywood had a lake—so it was quite a treat to look out over the deep blue-green water with sagebrush and eucalyptus scents wafting into my helmet and Mr. W’s abs clenched tightly under my palms.
We passed a grassy dog park filled with prancing people and smiling canines, then Mr. W took me down to a secluded little spot where the deer tend to hang out. We did not see any…I think they’re all in his backyard eating his strawberry bushes.
When Batman, err Mr. W, asked if I was up for going the long way home through Griffith Park, I said, “of course!” Because even though I was wearing only a tank top and jeans, and my giant helmet was knocking against my tiny pea head, I had no doubt that Mr. W would keep the pristine beauty of the day intact and return me unscathed to his garage. And he did. And I’ll probably ride with him again. Even if my mom tells me not to.