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So that happened...

So that happened…

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Uneasy Rider

Next weekend we finally fit George’s Harley with a sissy bar. For me. The sissy.

So George is already planning our open road getaways. One option he’s suggested is the Easy Riders Rodeo.

We went several years ago, and I don’t recall that it went well enough to recommend a return visit.

Back when George was on a country station (in that time I now blissfully call the past), a listener learned that George was a licensed rider without a bike. This generous soul offered to lend George his own motorcycle, but there were strings.

George sprung their idea on me, saying Easy Riders was a big biker holiday kind of thing, and that the listener thought we might drive to his house, borrow his bike for the weekend, head out to Easy Riders on Saturday, and camp with him and his.

I adore strangers, country music and camping. I was totally in.

I said no.

If there is one thing I will not do for love or money, it is camp.

Eventually we compromised. We decided to borrow this generously offered loan, get the chance to ride a motorcycle on a beautiful late summer weekend, meet this man and his family, hang out for a few hours, try not to get killed, and then go home.

George mentioned our plans to attend the Easy Rider festival to our friend Richard, who responded with terror.

“You’re going there?” he queried, his face drained of color. “I’ve heard it gets pretty rough.”

My mind immediately flashed to that scene in the cinematic classic Pee-wee’s Big Adventure, with Harley dudes shouting, “I say we stomp him, then we tattoo him, then we hang him, and then we kill him!”

George was sure it wouldn’t be so bad. He could protect us with the Big Shoe Dance, if need be.

We got a little lost finding the event, somewhere in the Chillicothe area of southern OH, so we pulled into a gas station where several very hard looking couples on motorcycles were fueling up.

Thinking we were all headed in the same direction, George asked.

“Oh, no,” one grizzled, scary man answered, eyeballing me with a smirk. “That place gets a little wild for us.”

Oh, this sounded promising.

He wasn’t going, but he did direct us to the fairgrounds that would be scene to a sea of campsites and a midway with food, tattoo artists, vendors of assless leather goods – that kind of thing. Outstanding people watching.

We lined up with other incoming traffic, and as we moved slowly between the chain link fences outlining the fairgrounds, my eyes wandered to some of the officially posted signs.

They said things like

  • no in and out on a single ticket
  • no firearms
  • no below the waist nudity

I’m sorry, what?

That last sign was reposted about ever 50 feet or so.

Below the waist – should that level of specificity be necessary? And how comfortable are we with above the waist nudity?

Apparently, quite comfortable.

As my mind pondered what it could possibly mean that this crowd would need so many reminders to keep their junk covered, I saw the day’s first visual encounter with out-in-the-open intercourse, just the other side of the chain link fence.

Perhaps they’d forgotten about the holes in that specific type of fencing?

The balance of the afternoon went far more mildly. We enjoyed fun carny food, looked at some nice bikes, shared the company of the very friendly family and the man who’d lent us his ride, and basked in the beautiful weather.

Everyone was very polite. I wouldn’t quite call this my crowd, but who is, really? I must admit I was on the receiving end of an awful lot of weird smirks, but still, every person there was exceptionally nice, chatting pleasantly and passing out beers.

Then, at about 7pm, a parade of sorts hit the midway, and those interested in showing off their wares hopped on a bike and made the circuit.

By wares I mean breasts.

Every single female – young, old, matronly, overweight, mild mannered – every last one took her shirt off. Boobs ahoy.

Mardi Gras has nothing on Easy Riders.

You have never seen me run for an exit so fast.

So, I have found the one thing that freaks me out more than camping.

And the point is, we are not going back.

So that happened...

Price of Dignity < Price of Shampoo

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The Reluctant Volunteer

by Hope Madden

Years ago, we took the family tour of Orlando theme parks. Much to the chagrin of my son and me, my husband, George, declared this the vacation to volunteer. Every attraction in need of a villain to shoot Indiana Jones or a handsome prince to dance with the princess, George was their man.

I’m not a volunteer by nature. I like to mind my business in the stands and enjoy the show. Not that it actually matters to George. You see, at Nickelodeon Studios, when the emcee announced he was looking for “some brave soul to volunteer,” George’s hand shot up.

Then the emcee finished his sentence with the words “their spouse.”

Wait a minute, what?

I’d been volunteered.

They dressed us like giant beavers, or more specifically, like the “Angry Beavers” in the Nick cartoon. I swear to God. I wore a beaver head and tail and my team battled a squad led by a similarly, ridiculously clad George in building a dam using giant Lincoln Logs.

My team won. George remembers it differently.

What brings this memory back? George volunteered me again.

This time it was during a Columbus Clippers baseball game.

Barely into the first inning, as George and I were trying to tune out the annoying banter from the teenage date going on behind us, a representative from the Clippers’ promotion team approached me to enter a contest.

They needed three participants with long hair.

Move along, sir. This is not for me.

But George was so excited!

“What would she do?” he asked.

“She’d just need to pull her hair up into a hat, and then take the hat off,” he explained.

“You could do that!” George encouraged.

“I don’t want to do that.” I thought I’d been clear.

He pursued the issue. “What would she win?”

“A bottle of Pert,” explained the Clippers guy.

A bottle of Pert.

“Come on!” George urged. “We’re low on shampoo!”

George often persuades me to do things I don’t want to do just because of his giddy enthusiasm. But I also felt a little sorry for the Clippers guy who had to try to lure contestants to look like idiots, all for a $4 toiletry item.

Plus, George was right. We were low on shampoo.

I caved.

The staff was lovely. They even moved us to seats directly behind the dugout – despite the fact that George had just finished directing his loudness at the chatterbox teens, “I’ll buy you the damn lemonade if you’ll just stop talking!”

As we waited for the fourth inning, when the Clippers rep would return to lead me and two other contestants to the field, George coached me on how to make the most of my time in the spotlight.

He urged me to do my impersonation of Cousin It.

Sometimes, I’ll pull all my hair in front of my face and put a pair of sunglasses on top, transforming into the old “Addams Family” character. It’s a big hit with kids. It’s nothing I’m willing to do in front of several thousand people, however.

Eventually, the time came and I headed onto the field to face my fate. As they fetched me from our new seats, George shouted: “Do the Cousin It!”

And then he said, “Show no mercy! Don’t stop with shampoo. Hold out for the creme rinse!”

“It’s called conditioner, George,” I shot back. “We’ve talked about this!”

“C’mon, stay focused! Eye of the tiger!”

I ignored him, fearing a complete medley of 1980s “jock jams” was next.

As I walked to the holding area, I met the other contestants: Barbara, a cute blonde with her wee grandson in tow, and Mark, a sweet mountain of a man. Mark had more beard than I have hair, and on his head was a glorious mane: long, thick, shining, dense, gray and spectacular. I had no chance.

Clippers fans would vote by applause for their favorite contestant: Grizzly Adams, an adorable grandma with a cute kid or some lady who did not do the Cousin It.

I went home without the coveted bottle of Pert.

But at least no one dressed me like a beaver.