Editor’s note: In the January, 1914 issue of Gas Review magazine, a farm wife of a certain age tells of the first time her son persuaded her to ride on his motorcycle with him. The illustration (courtesy of Wikimedia Commons) doesn’t really fit as the lady is in a sidecar rather than on the bike behind her son, but it seemed to sort of show the passenger’s trepidation, and is pretty funny besides. — Sam
MY FIRST MOTORCYCLE TRIP
Mrs. T. B. Carpenter
I s’pose most folks will be surprised to learn that a woman as old as I, forty-five, should take a trip on the back of a motorcycle. Most of the neighbors were astonished beyond measure when they heard of it and it was the main topic of conversation after church the following Sunday. But I don’t care, because I had “the time of my life,” as the boys say.
One of my sons had a motorcycle nearly a year before he bought the second seat to carry tandem. He is rather a quiet boy and didn’t go with the girls much so he didn’t need it. But one day a happy idea struck him and he said, “Mother, I’m going to buy a second seat for my motorcycle and take you riding.”
“Mercy, Harry,” I replied, “you’re not getting me on one of those things!”
Well, the new seat came and Harry installed it, saying, “You’re going for a ride, Mother.”
Now I’d seen a few motorcycles carrying double, but I had made up my mind firmly that it was no place for a girl to ride, to say nothing of an older woman. I had pictured myself on the machine, back of Harry speeding down the road, but the picture always ended with me falling off or us crashing into the ditch.
Harry coaxed and teased and told me there was no danger, and to think of all the fun and pleasure and every other good thing he could think of. Finally he said that if I just rode out to the barn and back with him and if I didn’t like it, he’d never bother me again about it. That seemed a good way to settle the matter so I consented. In my old trunk was a riding habit that I’d worn when much younger, so I dug it out and, wonders of wonders, it still fit, although it was a little snug in places.
Harry started the engine, I climbed on behind him with my heart in my mouth, and we started off just as smoothly as a railroad train. I had thought that I’d fall off the first thing, but it wasn’t hard balancing at all. In fact, it was just as easy as riding a horse.
When we were nearly back to the house, Harry asked, “Do you want to go farther?”
“It isn’t bad,” I admitted, and he turned into the road.
He was driving very carefully and I must say that I was beginning to enjoy the ride. We went down to the corner and he asked me if I didn’t want to ride over to the Martin’s place.
“Oh, but Harry,” I objected, “Just look at my hair, and my dinner dishes aren’t washed yet.”
“You look fine, Mom, and I’ll help with the dishes when we get back.”
So we headed over to the Martins.
I noticed a little round clock-like thing on the handlebars and asked Harry what it was.
“That’s the speedometer, Mother. See we’re going twenty miles an hour.”
“Mercy me, Harry! I had no idea we were going so fast. Why, it isn’t so dangerous after all!”
Well, Mrs. Martin was thunderstruck when she saw me on that motorcycle, and said she’d walk ten miles before she ever got on one.
We then rode on into town and I had the best sight-seeing trip I’ve had in a long time. When we go in with the team it seems we never have time to drive around and see the new houses, but the motorcycle runs so fast and so easily that it’s fun to just ride around.
As long as we were there I did my shopping and we carried the things home in the pockets on the side of the mud guards.
When we got home I looked at the clock and couldn’t believe my eyes. We had been for all that ride, about fifteen miles in all, did some shopping, and had been gone just an hour!
Well that trip settled my mind. I ride with Harry everywhere now and we go every minute we can spare. I don’t know of anything more invigorating and more enjoyable than riding on the back seat of a motorcycle.
Well, Mrs. Carpenter seems to have been an adventurous lady. I’ve tried to picture my own mother, who was a very conservative and proper farm wife and it would have been three decades later, riding on the back of a motorcycle and for the life of me I can’t.
Sam Moore
