…but Pam deserves Sainthood (especially if I make it through this tale unscathed and unwrathed):
With company in for the weekend, we decided to travel down to Cambridge to go punting. Cambridge is about a 2-hour drive south for us and since it was a nice sunny day, I wanted to ride the mighty cruiser down and back. When we originally crafted this punting idea a week ago, Pam was all excited to have our company drive the kids in our car so she could hop on back with me. Alas, the time came and she was a little daunted… in her defense, it has been a while. So I rode down solo with two cars in tow, with the promise that she would make the return trip on back with me.
A Punt is a flat-bottomed boat the English like to travel around their rivers in, kinda like the Italian gondolas that populate Venice, except the English use poles that touch the bottom of the river to push the boat around. Apparently it’s all the rage in Cambridge; we got there around 1pm and couldn’t get a punt until around 4:30. To kill the time, we walked to the town center of Cambridge where Pam found a resupply depot for the voyage. With two newly acquired bottles of Port, we were ready for whatever the river had to throw at us (which was apparently a tame meandering tour of the shorelines of 31 colleges that make up Cambridge University). Ok, the architecture was cool along with the histories of the various colleges established by the royalty throughout the ages (like Henry the VIII and Queen Victoria). This is great and all, but let me get back to the story at hand.
After a few glasses of Port (for Pam, not me – I stuck to water for this one), we walked back to the cars, Pam grabbed her biker-chick get-up, and we saddled up for the 2-hour trip home. It, in itself, was quite enjoyable and as you can see, Pam was making the most of it:
I think Pam was surprisingly comfortable from the get-go, as evidenced at right. She went immediately from a hug on me, to resting her fingers on my hips, to updating her Facebook profile as we made our way back home. After a 6-year break, I think she was back into the groove of seeing the world from the backseat of a motorcycle. It really was quite uneventful… at least until we got to the last town prior to getting home…
So I pull up to a roundabout (aka traffic circle) and slow down to assess the traffic. Nothing coming my way, so I accelerate. Now I’m not talking pedal-to-the-medal, wheelie-type acceleration. I’m just talking your average acceleration from a stop. As I accelerated, I feel Pam’s fingers just kinda slide off. Unusual to say the least. But I also had this strange accompanying sensation of a slight weight being unloaded from the bike… so I stop in the roundabout to take accountability of what exactly it was that I had felt.
Lo and behold, about 5 feet behind the motorcycle, was Pam on the road, like a turtle turned over on its shell, with a complete look of shock on her face! This was very fleeting though, because before I could shut the bike off, do anything, or even worry, Pam was up on her feet scurrying back onto the seat of the bike. Since there were at least 3 cars behind us that witnessed the whole
thing^Pam go down, I figured I’d evacuate her from the crime scene as quickly as possible to save what was left of her self-pride… after all, if she moved that quickly to get back on the bike, I’m pretty sure it was a positive indication that the only bruises received were those to her ego. I pulled over in a parking lot a few minutes later to check her over; she validated my hypothesis… she was pretty embarrassed.
So now that we’ve joined the club, I’m in search of the obligatory t-shirt:
(Sorry Pam, this was too good to pass up! You’re still a Saint.)