Like eighty-four percent of all husbands everywhere since the late 19th century invention of the motorcycle, I am engaged in a constant battle to win my wife over in regards to riding. I imagine the first Germans to buy the motorcycles were arguing in dry, Teutonic ways about how they wouldn't kill themselves and would always wear helmets. I'm not winning the battle, of course. I hung up the Mission Accomplished banner over the house, still. But I know I'm at a stalemate.
I'm at a severe disadvantage for two reasons. One, Jaime is a doctor, and knows numbers and statistics about head trauma. Two, I am basically a stay at home papa, and I'm needed to watch children. They are difficult enough with working limbs, in traction I think they would be walking on me and laughing. Both are reasonable enough, though I have a perfect and concise argument that would win over any reasonable person: motorcycles are awesome. Seriously, they are really, really great. You totally would not believe how great until you ride one for a bit. Trust me.
This argument is failing. I will succeed, I have no doubt. I will succeed because I have very little to do but hang out with the kids and send J emails about how great motorcycles are, and eventually she will want to focus on her patients and get me to shut up. This has stereotypically been a female effort, but guys, don't be slighted. We can whine too. If it makes you feel better, come up with a manly term for it. (I tried. Unfortunately I couldn't get 'teabagging' out of my head, which is something else entirely.)
I will also succeed because, honestly, once the kids are in school I'm expendable. She'll take out an insurance policy then give me the keys. If I hear, "Oh don't worry about the helmet, honey. It isn't that rainy. Are you sure you don't want to take up drinking now?" I'll know that she's out to get me.
But, I'll have a motorcycle, and I won't care.