Kurt R.A. Giambastiani

On Saturday, my wife asked the question a million spouses want to hear.

Honey, do you want a Harley?

We went to visit our friend, JZ Murdock, horror author and all-around nice guy, to take him out for a birthday lunch at ChocMo.

ChocMo, in Poulsbo over on Washington’s Kitsap Peninsula, is a great place. Appointed throughout with solid wood, wrought iron, and open ceilings, it had just the right blend of bright and dark, noise and quiet. We sat at the window and perused the menus.

The place has eight fine, local beers and ales on tap, a variety of bottled locals and not-so-locals, as well as a full bar. They’ll serve you thimble “tasters” of almost everything, including their selection of whiskies (I tried the Old Pulteney, which was delightfully smooth but still had enough peat to keep me happy).

We three ordered a burger, sliders, and a smoked salmon sandwich, all of which were excellent in taste, quality, and presentation. Drinks were an Italian soda, a diet cola, and a Hale’s Supergoose IPA. We followed up with ChocMo’s signature “drinking chocolate” (think ground/melted Hershey’s semisweet mixed with frothy half-and-half) and espressos.

We talked through the shift change, watching the clouds roll in from the west, build, threaten, then break apart to release more sunshine for our beautiful Puget Sound summer’s day.

On the way back to JZ’s we stopped by the Chief Seattle’s gravesite, on the reservation in Suquamish to pay our respects. It’s been renovated since this picture was taken. It’s now ringed by a circle of concrete in which words from the chief’s famous speech have been engraved. Gone are the wooden logs and dugouts, replaced with tall stele, faced with wood, carved with stylized totem images. The gravestone and cross have not been changed, of course, but it does not have the same intimacy it once did. You don’t feel as though you can walk up and sit down next to the old man. There is a barrier–you can step over the concrete ring easily, but it’s not something that one feels is allowed, anymore. And that’s too bad…

We returned to JZ’s, threw a stick for his dog, and returned home on the ferry, watching the jewels of water and sunset as we crossed to the mainland.

And that’s when my wife asked, “Honey, do you want a Harley?”

You see, JZ, having spent decades in the Honda doldrums, recently upgraded to a Harley, and was kind enough to give my wife a ride. And when I say “a ride” I mean that I spent all afternoon chauffeuring her purse in the car, following the Harley wherever we went, watching her red hair flutter out from under her helmet. She’d never ridden on a Harley before, and she had a blast. She had such a blast, it turned out, that she thought maybe it wouldn’t be so bad for us to have one, too. So, she asked if I had any interest.

The proper response to “Honey, do you want a Harley?” is “Frak yeah!” and this was indeed my initial response. Then my adult-brain kicked in–yeah, that wet-blanket overseer full of pragmatism and sense. It began annoying me by pointing out that we live in Washington State and–by JZ’s own metrics–there are only 3 months of dependable motorcycling weather in a given calendar year. Then it pointed out that JZ’s been riding motorcycles for decades, and the last bike I had ridden had ten speeds and pedals. It went on to point out other things, but by then the argument had been won. Or lost, depending on your point of view.

So, no Harley. Not for me, not at this point in my life.

However, I did manage to steer us around to something I truly had wanted all my life: a British roadster. The Morgans, the MG-TDs, the Triumphs. The curves, the sound, the smell. My wife was still in the flush of her post-Harley rumble, so if I can find a roadster for the same price as a Harley, I can get one.

At least, that’s what she said on Saturday…

k

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