God Help the Confederates - Diann's Coming

Diann, before she discovered Harley Davidsons

This week my sister Diann is on a vacation. She and four other women have hopped on their motorcycles and are driving to South Carolina for sight seeing, reveling, relaxing, and bike riding. I might add here that my sister is over 50.

Ever since learning about her trip, I have found myself worrying like a mother hen. I didn't tell her of my concerns, but I noticed my level of anxiety increasing daily up to the morning she left. What's worse is she didn't even call to say goodbye! Oh all right, it is true her biker buddies rode in Friday night and she had a house full of company, but geez! I am her big sister and she could have called to reassure me she was well prepared and didn't forget anything like her toothbrush and hand gun.. But noooooo, she chose to hang out with them and ignore my worries.

Now, Diann has gone on vacations before, traveling to Brazil on numerous occasions, all by herself. But this time it is different. She is on a Harley. All kinds of things could happen. Why, a bug could fly in her mouth and she could choke to death! Or maybe she and her friends stop somewhere in the mountains to get a drink and take a rest. Banjo music flows out of the hills, a familiar tune.  Dada da da da da da da da. A guitar answers. Oh god.

Of course Diann researched the political climate and informed me how dangerous it will be for five liberal women on motorcycles. After all, everyone down there will know they are liberals just by looking at them. I have seen Diann on Facebook. I know how she gets when a conservative says something stupid. God help the Confederates.

Since being involved in a motorcycle accident when I was a teenager, I have only rode on a motorcycle once. I will never ride one again. There are too many things that can go wrong, none of them under my control. And the consequences can be very bad. I know what it feels like to have asphalt cut out of my skin. I know what road rash feels like. I know what body trauma feels like. No thanks. If I need to feel the wind in my hair and the exhilaration of speed, I will take my six year old Jeep Liberty out on I-96 and put the pedal to the metal. I will role down my window and stick my head out. Need filled. And I will live to tell about it.

I remember Diann's driving habits when she was a teenager and they haven't changed much. She likes to go fast. Blame it on my Dad, who got us into hydroplane races when we were wee ones, graduated us to snowmobile racing in our teen years. Blame it on my Mom's beautiful, sleek Firebird, which ran like the wind. Or the very fast mini-bike we used to race up and down the street. The need for speed is in our blood. A dangerous thing when you are on a Harley.

I have tried calling Diann several times and her phone goes directly to voice mail. Is she in jail already, having punched a white ultra conservative Baptist with a southern drawl in some greasy diner because he made a disparaging comment about President Obama?

My hunch is Diann is having the time of her life, being with friends and motorcycles, exploring a brand new land and learning all she can about the people there, particularly those less fortunate. That is how my sister is. She used to tell me that her family would drive to Chicago and go to the slums, so that they could see for themselves the poverty they had heard about. She did the same thing in Brazil. She has a big heart.

I think I am worried about my sister this time because we have become so close over the past few years. She is my biggest fan, always has my back, keeps me entertained, and is one of the greatest inspirations in my life. We didn't always get along, but today we are the best of friends. I hope she is laughing with her buddies, bitching about the conservatives, eating southern cooking (the best!), absorbing the beauty of the Smokey Mountains, and learning many new things so she can come home and share her stories with us.

But until then, I will keep dialing.