The Motorcycle Guy: A Dating Story

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I've only dated one dude who owned a motorcycle, and that dude was cute Nicholas.

I was in my early 20's and Nicholas had a beautiful smile.  Nicholas also had a big truck and that really, really really fast motorcycle.

Now, you can take the girl out the 909, but you can't take the 909 out the girl.  What can I say, while I find most big truck drivers objectionable, I find a very rare few to be really intoxicating.

Because let's be honest, the stigma that guys who drive big trucks are over-compensating for something in their persona didn't just come from nowhere.  We've all met the dudes that pull into a parking lot WAY too fast, leave their ridiculous swivel skid marks all over the road, wear those dark black sunglasses and WAY too much hair gel.  I mean, could you BE more of a douche?

Whatever, I'm not judging, I'm just sayn'.

But Nicholas drove one of those legit big trucks.  The kind that always has mud on the sides and has those big bars on the side that help you heave yourself into the seat.  There was no Stars and Straps sticker, no band sticker from whoever guys think is the coolest punk band ever. 

I'm certain I looked completely ridiculous trying to heave myself into that truck- grabbing the bars with my little arms and using all of my upper body strength to pull my Shakira "Hips Don't Lie" into that muddy, fun truck. 

But nothing was as fun as the 'cycle.

On occasion he would put the big, fun truck to bed and out came his motorcyle.

If I'm honest I just about peed my pants every time.  I'm kind of a baby like that.

It's because Nicholas drove way too fast, swerved way too wide and I was way too enamored to say anything.  I thought I was so Top Gun back then.  So sue me.

It was a wreckless thrill that I would ground my own daughter for if I saw her on some dudes motorcycle.

But I'm kind of a hypocrite like that.

Nicholas had a cute smile, a big, muddy truck and a fast, fast motorcycle. 

If only he could have been just a little more interesting to talk to.

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