I Got the Fever but Don’t Need No Doctor--a Boulevard Will Do Just Fine Thank You Very Much

Off and on, I’ve been afflicted with the fever for the better part of my life. But it’d been years since I was plagued by it, so naturally I thought I was cured. I was so wrong.

Now, the fever never really goes away, not even if you expose yourself to its cause in hopes that your immune system will build a resistance to it. No, it just lays dormant, plays possum with you, waiting for something to stir it back to life.

It was just a couple of years ago when that aforementioned something happened to me. Younger brother phoned me, seeking my help with an important task. I declined. He’d caught the fever too and I was afraid any contact with him would awaken that sleeping giant of a fever within me.

But that night younger brother showed up at my place and I stepped outside to greet him. In retrospect, I should’ve locked the doors, pulled the blinds, and acted like I wasn’t home.

You see, as soon as I saw that brand new motorcycle strapped to the bed of younger brother’s truck, well, as the saying goes, “that was all she wrote.” Bike fever reared its ugly head and I just had to take his bike out for a spin.

“I’ll just take it down the block and back,” I assured him. Forty-five minutes and 35 miles later I pulled into the driveway and parked the bike next to brother’s truck.

Over the next few months, while brother was learning how to operate his new toy (the irony of it all, that I was an experienced motorcyclist without a bike and brother, who had no experience yet owned one, was not lost on this boy), I broke in his bike exploring the highways and byways of the greater Orlando area, intensifying my desire to once again own a motorcycle.

There’s just something about riding motorcycles that makes driving a pleasure, not a chore. Perhaps it’s the raw power underneath you, or a sense of freedom, a feeling of being unencumbered by doors, dashboards, and bumpers that makes riding so fun. It’s hard to explain to those who don’t understand.

There’s also a brotherhood among bikers. It’s an unwritten rule that when passing on the highway you wave to each other (not a typical “Howdy” wave, that would be what the kids now-a-days call gay, but a “cool” wave—stick your arm straight out and low, hand closed except for a pointing index finger).

It’s also an unwritten rule that when you see another biker to the side of the road you stop to make sure all is OK and offer any assistance that you can. It felt great to renew my membership in the brotherhood.

Anyway, if there was any chance to totally squelch my fever for a bike that chance itself was quashed when six months after brother bought his motorcycle eldest son went out and bought him one. And like younger brother, eldest son also had no experience operating a bike, so pops (that would be me) continued to get a lot of riding in as he broke in son’s bike too.

Often, I’d take day trips, exploring the back roads of Florida with youngest brother or with a date, preferably the latter of the two. Hey, I love my brother and all but come on, riding along side of him as apposed to having a nice lady sitting behind me, legs squeezing me, arms wrapped tightly around my waist--well, it’s a no brainer, folks.

I even owe it to eldest son’s bike for helping me know that Sweetie and I could possibly make a beautiful life together. It was only our second date when she hopped on the back of the bike and we rode 90 some odd miles through the Ocala National Forrest and back. Any woman who’d do that is a keeper as they say.

Well, all that bike riding was more than I could stand and the fever for a motorcycle finally overcame me. Just before Thanksgiving of ‘07 I bought a new bike, a black Suzuki Boulevard, one beautiful cruiser.

Oh but this bike is not for pleasure you see. Oh no, with gas upwards to $3.00 a gallon, I bought it strictly for economic reasons. At least, that’s how I explain it to everybody who asks why I went into debt for a bike just after paying off my car. It works for me.