THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, August 2, 1996 TAG: 9608010155
SECTION: VIRGINIA BEACH BEACON PAGE: 07 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: Over Easy
SOURCE: Jo-Ann Clegg
LENGTH: 82 lines
Today is my 38th wedding anniversary.
That's nearly four decades of sharing bed, board and relatives with the same man.
During those years, Bill has taken me to the Stork Club in New York, the Top of the Mark in San Francisco, the Hotel Del Coronado across the bay from Sand Diego and the most elegant officer's club on earth.
The one within walking distance of the Champs Elysees in Paris.
Last Saturday morning, he took me somewhere else.
To the parking lot of Southside Harley-Davidson on Witchduck Road.
To see the world's largest motorcycle: a 17-foot-long, 3,280-pound flame-throwing, smoke-belching, ear-splitting monster with a four-cylinder 152 Chevy engine, a Powerglide transmission, disc brakes and four hydraulic jacks to keep it upright when it's parked and get it back on its wheels when (heaven forbid) it topples.
Our marriage hasn't been under that much strain since the day the baby came down with chicken pox, the 2-year-old split the 4-year-old's head open with a Tonka truck, the mortgage check bounced and a wood boring beetle chewed its way through the main beam over the garage door.
That was 33 years, three houses and 15,000 checks ago.
I remember it as if it were yesterday.
If I live another 33 years, I'll remember Saturday in the same way.
Not fondly.
It's not that I have anything against Harleys or those who ride them.
It's just that at this stage in my life I'd rather spend Saturday mornings at antique shows or china painting exhibitions than in a hot parking lot with a bunch of people comparing tattoos, horsepower, cruising speeds and watering holes.
And those were just the women.
The guys' conversations were even less interesting. To me.
To Bill and the hundred or so other short-haired, neatly dressed, middle-aged men who gathered to gawk and reminisce, they were the tales that dreams are made of.
It's a well-known fact that inside every man of a certain age is a guy in a black leather jacket and motorcycle boots waiting to hit the open road.
Last Saturday morning, some of them handed the cameras to their wives, climbed onto the monster hog's seat, pasted ferocious grins on their faces and instructed their wives to shoot.
It was a bad choice of words.
``Glad to,'' snarled one polyester-clad, Reebok-wearing, 60-something bottle blonde through clenched teeth.
I double-checked to make sure it was a camera she was pointing.
``I suppose you'll want to send this one out with the Christmas cards,'' she said sarcastically.
``Boy, will I!'' her spouse answered, missing the sarcasm entirely.
``How long have you two been married?'' I asked her.
``Forty years,'' she answered. ``And if he drags me out to something like this again, we may not make 41.''
I nodded agreement and looked for Bill. He was on his knees examining the steel plate that encircled the bike's front fork.
``That stuff's as thick as a submarine hull,'' he said with awe.
From it were suspended a quartet of coiled springs. Judging by their size, I figured they either came from the suspension system of an 18-wheeler owned by a concrete and steel company or were government surplus from the overhead door of a Navy blimp hangar.
Eventually, I dragged Bill away from the giant hog, but not before he loaded up on publicity photos and newspaper clips of the monster's exploits.
``Hey,'' Bill said, as he glanced at one of the stories, ``this thing was built by a guy named Wild Bill Gelbke back in the 1960s. He used to hit the road at 3 a.m., looking for a good beer in another bar. Four states away.
``Oh, oh,'' he continued, ``he died in a shootout in 1979.''
``With an irate wife?'' I asked.
``No, with the cops,'' Bill responded.
``What a way to start a weekend,'' he said as we started home. ``What do you want to do next Saturday?''
``Go to an antique show,'' I said.
``OK,'' he agreed with something less than enthusiasm.
There's nothing wrong with that. If we've learned anything over the past 38 years, married life is a series of compromises. I spend half a day eyeballing the Harley from a very warm climate, he spends one examining tea cups and pie safes.
The two of us don't have to be equally enthusiastic about the activity.
It's just a lot more fun if we have each other to share it with. by CNB