Cause and effect!! Six degrees of separation!! Synchronicity!!
“If a bullfrog had a hip pocket, he could carry an automatic.”
“If my aunt had wheels, she’d be a tea cart.”
(Don’t you just love how connected things are?!)
As a child, I was terrified of motorcycles. My main exposure to them at the time consisted of photos of Marlon Brando in the movie “The Wild One” and (the scary part) the earth-shaking rumble of the group of Harleys that throttled their way through the streets of the small town where my aunt and uncle lived, late at night when I would be trying to go to sleep while visiting there. I wasn’t quite sure what “motorcycles” looked like, but I knew they must be some kind of monsters judging by the roaring noise and the jarring of the house.
In a strange sequence of events, that all changed in my life. We’ll start with the sheep.
Many members of my family were (and are) farmers. I, however, was a city kid raised in an apartment building. When I would visit relatives in the summer, the county fair was one of the big events each August. I was the youngest cousin so would always be the tagalong; hence, to be able to get to the fair where they had displays, yummy fair food, and rides, I would go with my older cousins. They, of course, had responsibilities at the fair — for example, showing sheep. My cousin Dave’s sheep were Corriedales, large scruffy, woolly creatures that were not the most aesthetically pleasing of the crowd. They are sheep bred for wool. Interestingly, Merinos, sort of the “greasers” of the wool sheep world, are even larger and oilier than Corriedales…but are reputed to have superior wool. Being a city kid, enamored with cute baby animals, sweet faces, and all things pretty, I gravitated toward several other breeds when hanging out in the sheep barn. Suffolks had black faces and feet and beautiful thick beige wool. It seemed to me that their owners would shear them and primp them for their beauty in the ring. (Not so, really, as I later came to find out they apparently make a good lamp chop.) Dave’s fiance showed sheep, but hers were adorable Shropshires. In more recent times, Shrops have been crossbred to be bigger, but in those good old days they were adorable little curly-headed beings with black faces and black feet, and I came to love petting them and spending time in the sheep barn. And, in the process of watching days of sheep shows, I came to learn more than the average city kid about various breeds of sheep…and enjoyed boasting that knowledge.
How do we get to my husband and motorcycle racing? Read on….
In college, my friends and I would spend time hanging out in the student union where we could get snacks between classes and catch up on events. One day I was chatting with a friend about sheep (who knows why, except that it had become a sort of area of expertise in my life) and I could not remember the breed of sheep that were shortish, white, and whose rams had the big curly horns. First of all, I was trying to show off said “expertise” and, secondly, I absolutely hate it when I can’t remember something I know that I should know (and it will even keep me up at night). So…I was fairly frustrated, and this was in days long ago when one could not pull out (and had, in fact, never heard of) a cell phone and google for information. Long distance charges were expensive, so calling my cousin was cost-prohibitive. So, I went home without being able to name the breed, but the next day when meeting my friend in the student union, a guy sitting next to us (we’ll call him Jerry), tapped me on the arm and asked me if I had been trying to remember Dorsets. Which I was! Apparently, he had been eavesdropping on our conversation the day before and took it upon himself to obtain the information. Of course, I was thrilled. We made friends and even went out a few times, and I later learned he had a friend who was in some of my classes that had wanted to get to know me. To shorten this saga slightly, I made friends with Jerry’s friend and eventually met another friend of that friend…whom I subsequently married. These guys enjoyed going to the motorcycle races, and I would go along. (Even took Kong once, but only once as he was not fond of the noise level.) Ultimately, the fellow I married decided to try racing motorcycles and eventually started our son racing as well. So…motorcycles, from race bikes to the chopper that was being constructed in my living room (hey, it’s a culture of its own, okay?), became a part of my life.
Well, the marriage ended a number of years later, but the racing went on since my son (the human one, of course, as the monkey ones were, at a pound of a half of body weight, never quite physically able to pursue that career) continued racing. My second husband, who I met through theatre, had an interest in auto racing but not bikes. He married into the racing culture and ultimately became a proficient pit crew member (could change a tire in record time and tear down a transmission at the track, among other things). My son, when old enough, turned pro and raced the Grand National Dirt Track circuit for a number of years, then “retired” to build motors and mentor young racers.
So…if my cousin’s wife didn’t show Shropshire sheep, my husband never would have become involved in motorcycle racing…..
Of course!