Trust Me

For the first time in the history of our 20+-year marriage, my husband had planned a vacation. What was more shocking than that was the fact that even though I still held a grudge ten years after the first time he "surprised" me by trading his Harley for a '69 Camaro; he had worked up the courage to attempt a second, much longer surprise.

I went from asking politely to begging, cajoling, threatening, wheedling and whining to find out where we were going, but he was having too much fun not telling me.

"You've always said you wanted to do this," he told me.

But did I mean it? Or did I say, "Oh sure, I'd love to climb Mount Everest."

"I never, ever said I wanted to go white water rafting," I reminded him.

He just laughed. "We're not going white water rafting," he promised.

"Who else is going to be there?" I asked.

"People you like," he answered.

"But I don't like that many people," I pouted.

"You like these people. Trust me."

Even if I hated every minute of being "out of the loop," I knew how lucky I was to have a husband who wanted to make me happy. All my friends were berating their own lazy "plan for nothing" husbands. He was making men everywhere look bad but he didn't care. He smiled for three months.

"I won't know what to pack unless you tell me where we're going and what we're doing," I said, reasonably.

"Pack your jeans, but no dresses," he said. "Think casual."

Casual? What, exactly, did that mean? He couldn't really tell me. A man with assorted Budweiser and Was-Sup t-shirts and matching white fruit of the looms does not generally constitute a fashion guru.

I asked my 20-year old daughter. "Definitely don't bring the little black dress. You probably won't be able to wear it," she advised.

"You're going to love it," she grinned. "When you get there, call me and tell me how much you love it. Then, call me every night to tell me about your surprises and how much fun you're having."

Fun? What was my family thinking? Did they know me at all? Who had time for fun? I was a grown up now.

"What if I hate it?" I pushed.

"You won't hate it," they both said smugly, beaming at each other.

We were still married. We were still speaking. Sort of. We were packed and in the car on the way to somewhere.

He was humming to himself. I didn't smack him even though I really wanted to.

"Do you want me to tell you where we're going?" he asked.

"Very funny."

"Where do you want to go?"

"Hawaii." I snapped.

"Anywhere else?" he asked.

"Just tell me so if I hurt you before we get there, I won't get on the wrong plane," I grumped.

"I'll tell you where we're going. But I'm not going to tell you everything."

I think I showed great restraint by not giving in to the urge to pinch him.

"We're going to Milwaukee," he said.

"Wisconsin?"

I never drink beer. And I hardly ever eat cheese and only very occasionally get an urge to wear it on my head. What else was there in Milwaukee?

"Will we see Bridget and Ian?" I asked.

"Of course. We're staying with them."

Bridget is our niece and she and her husband, Ian, are two of my favorite people. So he was right about one thing. That was a good sign.

Five minutes from the airport, the DJ suddenly had to make an important announcement. And, for some reason, I happened to be listening: "For all you people going to Milwaukee this week, we'll see you there." That's weird, I thought. Why are people from an Albany radio station going to Milwaukee too? She then gleefully announced every event, in the greatest of detail, planned to celebrate the 100th anniversary of Harley Davidson. They were expecting 300,000 bikers to descend on the city.

"Is that what we're doing?" I shrieked. (Yes, I have to admit, I actually shrieked like a girl.)

He couldn't keep a straight face. "Is that what you want to do?" He laughed.

He'd kept the secret long enough. "I rented a bike for the week." I didn't even ask how much it cost. I didn't even care. Better than roses, better than diamonds, better than chocolate, better, even, than Hawaii. We were going to ride again.

Bridget picked us up at the airport. She gave us hugs, the weather report (in the 80's and sunny all week), and a message from her husband, Ian, that he'd be home from work early. "He's so happy you're here," she said, "He couldn't wait to have someone to ride with him."

Bikers from southern Australia surrounded us the first day we rode into downtown Milwaukee on Route 94. The one with the camcorder was doing a fine job riding one handed and recording the event with the other. "Say hello for the camera, all you American blokes," he bellowed, grinning like a kid on a sugar high. It took us an hour and a half to ride three miles. We yelled to each other over the roar of a thousand motors, to the guy with the gold, horned helmet and the couple who lived at the opposite end of our own state. No one got mad at the delays. No one minded sitting in traffic. No one cut anyone off. No one flipped anyone off. People from Japan, Scotland, Ireland, Canada, England, Mexico and every state in the U.S. sat and rolled, a few feet at a time, perfectly content.

I inhaled the brewer's yeast from the beer factories, the underlying smell of exhaust, and the heat from the asphalt. It was far superior to fresh air, and my eyes watered from the intensity of not just the acrid smell, but the feeling of total happiness. My husband reached back and squeezed my leg. I hugged him with my knees. We took off our helmets. I knew my mother would be horrified if she could see me. But I also knew if I died at that moment, I'd die happy.

We waved up at the people on the overpasses while they took pictures of us. We rode to breakfast at dawn. We rode to the ice cream parlor by the lake at sunset. We got lost in farm country and the inner city, and we forgot the sunscreen and the maps, but we didn't care.

We packed away our hamburger rolls and beer after a visit to the grocery store. Three kids bounced up and down in the back of a pickup truck at the other end of the lot and shrieked, "Welcome to Milwaukee!" My husband is a scary looking guy, epitomizing the tattooed, bearded badass biker, but kids always sense what a cream puff he actually is, and want to be his best friend. He roared up to the truck, and the kids fell silent for a half a second, mouths open. Then, like puppies, they scrambled over each other to get to us; their high-pitched squeals and words tumbling out at warp speed "Is that your motorcycle? Where do you live? How many tattoos do you have?" He answered all their questions patiently and revved the motor when we said our goodbyes. Their mother mouthed "Thank you," waving as we rode away.

Mini vans pulled alongside us on the highway and people hung out the window with videocameras rolling, storeowners asked us to sign visitor's books, and no one failed to make us feel like celebrities. The natives held signs at the parade "Come as Visitors, Leave as Friends" and "Welcome Bikers."

A reporter stopped us on our way out of the Harley Davidson exhibit at the museum and asked where all the best parties were being held. I laughed, trying to figure out if we looked like hardcore bikers or if we just looked hung over, while we confessed we were staying with relatives and foregoing any heavy drinking binges and wet t-shirt contests.

We avidly people watched the whole week. My favorite couple was the dark haired biker babe on a black and gold Sportster, dressed head to toe in black leather and chains, waiting for her preppy, chubby, blond haired boyfriend, riding (gasp!) a lime green Suzuki.

Saturday's parade lasted four hours, 10,000 bikes and three hours longer than the feeling in my legs. Some of the bikers wore hog masks and a "just married" couple wore their tux and gown. There was a bike decorated with 100 American flags of all sizes in honor of the 100th anniversary, plenty of women on their own bikes or with a guy on the back, who looked not at all embarrassed, kids with Muscular Dystrophy strapped to the bikes in special seats, blissfully soaking up the cheers, Santa and a sexy Mrs. Claus on a coal black Harley, custom bikes, custom bikers and, of course, a contingent of Milwaukee's finest riding two by two.

Harley Davidson announced over $7,286,000 was raised for the Muscular Dystrophy Association at the concert on Sunday. We all sat on blankets or leather jackets to cover the hay on the ground. If you braved a trip to the concession stands or the facilities, you could depend on the kindness of strangers to help you find your way back to your "seat." All you had to do was stand amidst the sea of humanity and look confused, brow wrinkled and neck stretched. People would notice and start shouting directions. Even when they had no idea who you were or where you were going.

It was a full week of perfect weather, perpetually bad hair days and the bliss of utter freedom. Fortunately, I forgot to pack any stress, or maybe it blew off along with my blue bandanna somewhere between Milwaukee and Waukesha. I couldn't remember ever being so relaxed. The last ride of the last day was my last chance to take the picture I'd had in my head all week - myself on the back of that bike at 70mph. I'm not going to win any beauty pageants with it, but I know how it looked from the inside. You can see the couple on the bike behind us in that picture. As they passed, she laughed and they both waved. It's just good manners to acknowledge other bikers. But I'm sure they understood the feeling completely. It was the best vacation I ever had. And, as hard as it will be for people to believe I put this in writing, he was right. Trust me.