ON the second day of our cross-country motorcycle trip, a stranger at a Washington state gas station said to my husband, “That bike is way too small for a trip like that.” The man eyed the sagging saddlebags on the 750cc Yamaha and on my thighs. “With her helmet-n-boots-n-jacket-n-all, The Wife alone probably comes in at about a hunnerd-n-fifty. Figure in another fifty for the rest of the gear.”
At least he didn’t kick my shins like tires. But the appraisal he gave me would have been different if I’d been revving my own engine instead of riding on the back of a man’s bike, lumped in with the luggage.
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