An Acquired Taste

As a child, I never liked mustard. 

I mean, I really, really didn’t like it. 

There was more than one occasion that I remember refusing to walk down the grocery store aisle with my mother because the rows and rows of French’s and Heinz would stare back at me.  The very thought of what was in those bottles made me want to retch into the pocket of my Member’s Only jacket.  I don’t know if it was the color, or the taste, or texture, or some combination thereof, but it made my head spin and feel nauseous and weak in the knees. 

I have honestly thought about this later in life and I don’t have a logical answer why I felt the way that I did.  I had liked to eat things that were far less palatable, and those things seem to be fine with me even today.  But that gooey, yellow condiment was my kryptonite. 

Ultimately, I think it was fear.  I think I was just afraid to acquire the taste. 

Eventually something changed.  Something in my mind (or my taste buds) clicked.  The day came when I clenched down, got ahold of my shit, grabbed my balls and started trying mustard.  And, ya know what? (of course you know), I genuinely liked it.  I mean, really liked it.  Now, at 51 years old, mustard is a staple in the house and a regular in my meals.  I challenge you to find someone else who must have it on their sausage, egg and cheese sandwiches, just to give you an idea.  Like I said already, it became an acquired taste. 

Motorcycles were the same way. 

Growing up in the rural farmlands of the Virginia Highlands in the 1980s, there wasn’t much to do.  We swam in the Rappahannock River when it was warm, and we walked across the Rappahannock River when it was cold enough to be frozen.  The other popular pastime typically resulted in underage pregnancies, and I at least had the sensibility to recognize that I wasn’t ready for those kind of adventures just yet.  But the other popular after-school activity revolved around all things dirt bikes and motorcycles (or, at the very least, a quality mo-ped).  Everybody wanted to ride something on two wheels with a motor.  Well, everyone but me. 

I saw some bad accidents in those early years, and that was enough for me.  I remember seeing Bruce Cumby flip his mo-ped on our caul-de-sac going at what seemed like100 mph (it was more like 20) and watching him sail over the handlebars when he hit the curb at the end of the road, thinking he could “pop it”.  It was a goddamn miracle Brucie didn’t shatter every bone in his spine, Christopher Reeve Style, when he landed head first on the sidewalk.  I can still hear the cheese-grater sound of his skin grind along the concrete and the instant shouts of pain and agony escape his mouth, even as he continued to slide along.  There weren’t “memes” or “gifs” at the time, but if there were and someone had caught my facial expression, it would have been a chubby 11-year-old boy instantly shaking his head back and forth and saying “Nope, Nope, Nope, Nope….”. Watching Bruce get cooked like a flame-broiled whopper a-la-cement was I all I needed to see.  Just like mustard, I was done with motorcycles. 

Well… I was done for a little while anyway. 

It wasn’t until I started to get older, fatter, and frankly, more insecure of myself (I think this usually happens around 40 or so.  At least it did for me) that I started to revisit “why” I felt the way I did about motorcycles.  I mean, it really made no sense.  Bikes were cool; they’re awesome, and in some ways, uniquely American.  It’s Marlon Brando, Steve McQueen and even Indiana Jones. 

Those guys were… are… bad asses.  By mid-life I had certainly had many, many friends who had found the joy of riding a motorcycle, or it had been a part of their whole life already.  There was no shortage of people wanting to get me involved in this venture, but it had become such a quick, automatic “no thank you” that I never really gave it a second thought until I got older.  I think what turned the switch was that I was looking for something to ignite some kind of excitement in me, or maybe just feel “cool” again.  So at the tender age of 40, I bought my first motorcycle. 

Ii was a Ducati.  It was a monster.  No, I mean literally:  It was a 2011 Ducati Monster 796.  This wasn’t a motorcycle; this was a missile.  There’s a line in a Tears For Fears song that goes “I shot to Heaven just like Moses on a motorbike”.  Moses was riding a Ducati when he did that. 

I had no business being on this thing.  I had no business riding it, or learning how to ride it, or even looking at it.  But in hindsight it changed my life and it changed it for the better.  When I have more time, and if my wife allows me to write another guest blog, I’ll write one about the long, arduous journey I took learning how to ride this thing but that is for another day.  In summary though I can say that when I finally did learn to ride that bike I had never been more excited when I was on it. I felt like I was a superhero, a rock star, a bad ass all rolled into one.  I was Brando, and McQueen and Indiana Jones.  I wasn’t 40 anymore.  I was a vampire.  I was young, and thin and beautiful.  I knew I belonged on a motorcycle. 

I’m proud to say that I never dropped my Ducati and I always was hyper-vigilant of my surroundings, and I always wore the right gear (remember:  Dress for the slide, not for the ride).  Like any rider I had my close calls, but I followed my training from class and I never pushed beyond my skills and abilities (other than buying a high-performance motorcycle as my first ride, of course).  After a few years though, the responsibilities of marriage and fatherhood took over though.  As much as I loved riding I knew that I was taking an immense risk every day I rode my “duke”, and potentially leaving my wife and young children to fend for themselves without me in their lives.  So I hung up the gear, heartbreakingly sold my bike, and thanked God for keeping me safe and giving me the great experience.  I was also thankful that I learned I could still push through the fear and doubts in my life and develop an acquired taste that wasn’t always there. 

It was almost a year ago that Blythe came to me and asked me about riding a motorcycle.  Unlike myself, she was always the one interest in doing it, even in our earliest years when we first got married.  I had always been the one to shoot it down until, ironically, I took it up myself while she was doing the “other things”.  No one would have ever blamed her if she had told me to “Eat Shit and Die” when I asked her if I could buy the Ducati back in the day, especially all the years she wanted to ride and I had said “no”.  But she never said it, she never gave me a problem and the truth is because she knew it brought me joy and she loved me.  So when she finally came to me and asked if she could learn to ride my first and only thought was “How can I say ‘no’”?

Ultimately things have worked out for the best.  I feel like I have been able to help her learn the ropes as a first-time rider in a way that I didn’t have, and she is a fast learner.  She rides a great bike, a Triumph, and one that rivals my own first Ducati.  I recently started riding again and I do my best to try to keep up with my lumbering, big boy Indian Chief (a far cry from the Ducati of yesteryear). 

If any thought of motorcycle riding gives you a gut-full of fear, or the very idea of it makes you queasy and weak in the knees, then you are probably doing the motorcycle thing right.  We all have our mustard in life and how you deal with that is a personal choice.  For me, I can only say that riding a motorcycle was an acquired taste, that I am now grateful to have added to my daily life.  There is no question that riding a motorcycle is dangerous  and terrifying, and offers a lot to lose if things go badly.  But in the words of the great sea explorer Ferdinand Magellan, “The sea is dangerous, and its storms terrible, but these obstacles have never been sufficient reason to remain ashore…” and I agree.  If that is the only reason you’re not throwing a leg over an engine and tearing down the road like a bat out of hell, then you’re not living; and you’re letting those taste buds of yours not experience what life truly has to offer. 

This blog is written by Jason Wells