A GoldWing and a Bee

Bear introduced me to motorcycles. When I met him he owned a Honda 750, but he dreamed of having a GoldWing. His first bike was a Cushman Motor Scooter, before he was old enough to drive. It was followed by four progressively larger cycles before the 750. His first wife had a 400 Kawasaki. But, he never got me to even try to ride alone. I'd learned my lesson way back when my brother, S., had a Vespa Scooter. My equilibrium is effected by the A.V.M. At least that's my excuse. I knew if I couldn't handle a scooter when I was young, I'd better not try anything more powerful. I'm not a coward, but I'm not stupid either.

Why is it that the things we remember the longest and that get talked about the most are always embarrassing? (I seem to be typing that word a lot.)

Shortly after Bear finally realized his dream of owning his GoldWing, we were out for a Sunday ride. Just the two of us. He didn't have any goal in mind and several hours and many miles later, we found ourselves closer to my parents house then home. So we were going to stop there before returning home.

Now I need to describe my wardrobe, because this whole thing was the fault of what I was wearing. (It was also the last time I wore anything like that on the GoldWing.) I was in my mid thirties and still had that figure my sons said attracted their friends. It was a very hot day and I was wearing what I liked to wear best. One of those stretchy elastic tube tops, no bra, WITH a short sleeved cotton blouse over the top. I'd just button those lower buttons and let the top hang. It was cool and comfortable, but I still felt covered.

So we were on the way to Marion, going north on Rt. 23, which is a four lane highway. There was very little traffic till I got in trouble. Suddenly I felt a sting on my most forward parts. A bee had blown into my tube top and it was stuck in that stretchy material. And, it wasn't the kind that can only sting once. It got me again and this thing hurt. Desperate to find it and get it away from my tender hide, I was fumbling with my top when it stung me a third time. When you're in pain, modesty takes a hike. I jerked that top down exposing myself to the wide open country. And guess what. That's when Bear caught up with a convoy. He was passing truckers and the first one hit his air horn. He must have been on the CB, because when Bear caught up with the second truck, that guy was hanging out his window waiting for me. With all the commotion, Bear slowed down and asked what was going on. I shouted at him to just hurry up and get us away from there. Two more truckers got a free show before we were clear and I'd pulled pieces of a big shiny black hornet like bee out of my clothes and got myself covered.

When we got to Moms, I had three red welts and they still stung like crazy. Mom mixed a paste of baking soda and water and she had my top down again in her kitchen trying to ease my agony. While Bear was laughing and telling her his new favorite story. I made a comment to Bear to please just tell me we didn't know any of those truckers. Mom, who'd been trying to hide her chuckles, burst out laughing and told me, "Oh, I think they know you pretty well."

Bear still refers to this as the boob-bee story. (Why does everything always happen to me? Or, Mom always said I should write a book.)