The ride
When I was a
child, automobiles were a rare sight in my little town in Northern Italy, but
bicycles were everywhere. We rode our bikes to school, to work, to the movies. We
biked or we walked. My grandfather, an avid hunter, even walked to his hunting
grounds in the mountains.
My great-uncle, my
grandfather’s brother, convinced him they should split the cost and buy a
motorcycle, a used, reliable motorcycle.
The wives weren’t
too keen on the idea. The sly husbands asked some friends of theirs to come for
a visit, a young married couple who arrived on a motorcycle. The ploy worked. The
younger couple convinced my great aunt and my grandmother such transportation
could be a pleasure and a blessing. To understand this, you need to close your
eyes and picture my grandmother and great aunt, their grey hair in long braids twisted
into buns on top of their heads. Two women who never owned a pair of trousers, they
always carried rosaries in their purses. Yet, somehow they were convinced.
With their wives’ blessings,
my grandfather and my great uncle set out to find an affordable motorcycle. They
stored it in what had originally been a barn, converted to a large, clean
storage place.
Uncle had a friend
who taught him to ride. The bike was big. At least it looked that way because I
was only five years old. The plan was for Uncle to learn first then teach his
brother.
After a few
lessons, Uncle decided he was ready to show the family how great this metal steed
could be. We lined up outside and my great uncle brought out the shiny
motorcycle. When he started the engine we put our hands over our ears.
My cousin and I giggled
and jumped with excitement. The grown-ups took turns sitting behind Uncle then
taking short rides with him. My grandfather took a ride. So did my grandmother.
Uncle motioned to
us. “Come on, girls. Get on. Let’s go for a ride.”
We were scared but
excited. It took my great aunt bribing us with cookies before my cousin and I
climbed aboard. Of course my grandmother made sure our ruffled dresses properly
covered our chubby little legs. I was squeezed between my uncle and my little
cousin. The rumbling of the engine had us shaking, but when the spin was over
we clapped our hands and asked for more.
The next week my
uncle, now a self-declared expert rider, started teaching my grandfather. One
Sunday the family gathered at a relative’s house. My grandfather and
grandmother planned to come later on the motorcycle.
The day went on,
but my grandparents never showed up. There were no phones to call them, and
some grew worried. By three in the afternoon, we all went home but Nonna and Nonno weren’t there either.
It was later around
four-thirty they came walking home. My grandma kept mumbling to herself and looked
as mad as hell. My grandpa looked beat, flustered and somehow apologetic.
We found out
later, they left on the motorcycle dressed in their Sunday best to head to our
relatives’ place. It wasn’t long before Grandpa realized he never learned how
to stop the motorbike. Rather than admit it to my grandma, he just kept on
going.
“It’s such a nice,
sunny day, let me show you around a little.”
It didn’t take
long for grandma to figure out what the story was. After an hour or so of
aimless riding, she was so mad, tired and thirsty, she kept pummeling Grandpa’s
back. They drove around until they ran
out of gas. My grandpa pushed the bike to a friend’s house, and they walked
home. Grandpa never touched the motorcycle again.
