How my motorcycle helped me find my lifelong Valentine

I recently read an AITA discussion that those of us in the motorcycle world have heard about indirectly, even if it’s never entered our homes. A woman was asking if she was wrong because she was asking her husband to give up riding motorcycles now that they are having their first child.

She worried about him when he was riding and the fear factor was rising more, even before the baby was born, as she thought about being a widowed, single mother. What makes this situation more complicated is that the husband is not the typical “motorcyclist” in the United States who just rides occasionally, on nice weekends, as recreation. She said he always uses his motorcycle for his personal transportation (like me). It sounds like riding is part of who he is (like me). The motorcycle is not just a hobby, a passing interest, a “lifestyle” fashion accessory or Instagram prop. I sympathize with the woman’s fear, but I fear more for the future of the couple.

I didn’t even read the responses she got; didn’t even want to know. This is not about that case.

This is the happier story of how my motorcycle helped me avoid just such a difficult, nobody-wins situation.

I moved to Puerto Rico just days away from my 32nd birthday. One of the things I was most excited about, even more than learning a whole new place, culture, and geography, was that I was going to start riding a motorcycle again, after more than a year away from riding due to my time working as a volunteer in Costa Rica. Moving to San Juan, I never had a thought about buying a car, and once there the traffic and narrow streets and scarce parking would have quickly killed that thought anyway. Within days, I’d acquired a motorcycle and was exploring the island and slicing through San Juan’s traffic tapones on a Suzuki GS500, getting everywhere in half the time it would have taken in a car. Life was pretty fun.

A few months later, I began dating Ivonne. Before she met me, she had never even sat on a motorcycle. They were practically irrelevant in her world, her only distant involvement being general admonishments from her parents to avoid them, when she was young, and knowing that her brother, who had ridden a small motorcycle while in the Peace Corps in Africa, had banged himself up a few times.

I learned some really important lessons about this woman because of my motorcycle. The kind of things you really need to know about a person before you consider committing yourself until death do you part.

Despite no prior interest, she joined me on rides, proving she was curious and open-minded. Despite being more inclined (especially at that younger age) to high heels than boots, more inclined to fashionable clothes and a nice restaurant than protective gear and the outdoor activities that require it, she embraced the things I enjoyed. She didn’t change who she was. She just opened up to make room for me and the things I loved.

Since I had no car, fancier outings meant using hers. While we were dating, I came across a used Harley-Davidson Sportster that caught my eye and I bought it. I didn’t tell her I’d bought it until I pulled up in front of her to take her to one of our favorite local pizza joints. She could have questioned whether I should have spent that money on a more comfortable car to take her on dates instead of a second motorcycle, but instead she was immediately happy for me. I learned she cared more about my happiness than about me following conventions.

Most weekends while we were dating, and in the early days after our wedding, we would pick a new destination and go for a ride. She was a self-proclaimed “city girl” and I took her to scattered corners of her own native island she’d never seen, just because I wanted to see it all. She was my guide, explaining the meaning around every corner, introducing me to the culture and people in a way I’d never have learned on my own. I wasn’t just riding through scenery, I was learning a new world.

There was a time, early in our marriage, when an old illness returned and it was too painful for her to ride with me. She’d shoo me out anyway, but along the way I’d see something I wanted to point out to her, reach back to tap her knee, and she wasn’t there. That was another kind of lesson learned.

Over these past 30 years, we’ve taken many rides, from forgotten 20-mile casual weekend rides to lunch to more ambitious and memorable ones, like the Going-to-the-Sun Road in Glacier National Park. One of our more successful outings was when I picked up a Kawasaki Versys 1000 in California, met her at the airport in Las Vegas, and we went to a spa in Utah that she’d been dreaming of visiting ever since she saw it on a TV travel program back when she was in grad school and we had neither the time nor money for that kind of luxury. She finally got not only her spa visit, but also a ride to Zion National Park and her first trip through the southwest deserts.

For her birthday in 2015, Ivonne and I went to a spa in Utah she had long dreamed of visiting.

The very reason we have those memories now is because of what I learned about her at the very beginning, in large part through her reaction to my motorcycle(s). Yes, she worries when I’m on a trip, but I do what I can to diminish that worry. And I, in turn, never have to worry she’ll be the woman asking her husband to give up riding.

Sometimes, when she’s struggling to put on her riding gear as we’re leaving on the motorcycle (usually the earplugs; she fights with earplugs), I say only half-jokingly that she should have married a man who was really into something more appropriate and comfortable for her, like restoring old Mercedes-Benz SL convertibles, instead of a man whose personal transportation, entertainment, passions, and job duties all put him on an uncomfortable motorcycle. To her credit, she waves off such comments of mine with impatience.

We are Valentines for life.