Midlife crisis: A meeting en route

Midlife crisis
ER Classics Desktop 2022

We, we are a motorcycle club of about three people. Our club is doing well. With the 'Ride Outs' we are at least on a turnout percentage of more than 65%. We make our trips at irregular times and they are largely unplanned. With a vague picture of our environment, the approach is usually something like "Let's go that way today".

If you are racing on dead reckoning and avoid highways like the plague, then you are just fooling around for a long weekend. The trip to Raalte, where the AMM, the American Motor Museum '. it easily takes half a day. That is an average speed of about 25 kilometers per hour, but we then drove through the narrowest roads and for the rest it was also fine terraced weather. In the evening, after some inquiries, we ended up at a camping site where some kind of sleeping huts were rented. A handy idea. The restaurant on the campsite served good food and a fairly local beer. Not bad. In the falling dusk we sat in front of our cabin, lit another glass and drank a cigar… It was such an evening.

Two people passed by. A mother with a daughter estimated to be - no matter how difficult that is today - of a year or 12-14. The daughter looked at us thoughtfully and asked if we were bikers or if we were also midlife crisis riders. We are well attuned to each other. The answers were respectively: "No, because we are afraid of tattoos", "No, because we have only done things where we regret "and" Are you just curious or are you going to write a book? "

The mother reacted somewhat hesitantly, but dear daughter started the discussion: “My father had a midlife crisis. He then started riding a very shiny Harley-Davidson and got a girlfriend that was way too young. ” My comrade asked "In addition or instead of?" The girl sat on the edge of our camping table and studied us. “Instead of, of course. A relationship with the three of them doesn't work, does it? ” We are a bit older. We have seen it tried. But we had to agree with her.

Because we are now also men of a certain age, but of the right kind, the conversation quickly lost its sharp edges. Mother Anouk appeared to have dealt with her suffering. Daughter Karin- she was twelve by the way- turned out to be smart and could put things into perspective for her age. Mother and daughter were in a tent on a quality weekend, and Karin's quick-witted remark had been more just adolescent curiosity than testifying to Unprocessed Sadness.

The ladies were pleasant company and the convincing proof of the similarity between classic motorcycles and women: If you only treat them with attention and respect, you will always be pleased. It just became a nice conversation there at dusk. And with the open-mindedness of strangers who know that they only see each other once and then never again that conversation went quietly into the depths.

According to cynics, communication with women is a matter of talking and listening. The women are talking. The men are listening. With us the conversation that evening was about the generations and the sexes. The ladies had wine and fruit juice with them. We are a cheap whiskas. With our old buckknife we ​​cut slices of dry sausage. Anouk and Karin had chips with them. Fine. When it was late enough we thanked each other and went to our respective baskets.

The next morning we met again at the camping restaurant for breakfast. Half an hour later we were waved goodbye. In silence we thought what a foolish person must be to leave such a couple for a new motorcycle and a younger woman.

Well, that he wanted a motorcycle, we could understand that ...




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  1. Great story. By the way, a loyal buyer of your magazine since the 1990s and a subscriber for a number of years now. Keep up the good work!

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