The Reckless Chicken

I have, in the past, referred to myself as a “Reckless Chicken”. Can I be reckless at times? For sure. Am I a total chicken when it comes to what seems to be silly everyday things? Absolutely.

For instance:.

• I will take on the 6 foot Amazon woman in the bar who just called my friend at bitch; but become paralyzed with fear, shrieking for Mr. Tot to rescue me at the site of a spider in the bathtub.
• I drive my ATV at dangerous speeds, up steep, rocky hills without a second thought (I’ve only been in one semi-serious crash); but blubbered like a baby the last time a “friend” talked me into riding a rollercoaster (yes, I literally cried as the coaster left the station).
• In elevators, I tend to be the jerk who thinks it’s funny to jump up and down, rocking the entire box as everyone else turns white and tells me I’m not being funny; but have come close to actually amputating Mr. Tot’s hand with my death-grip as our plane takes off or lands.

Why is that? I do know that I have an issue with heights which explains my dislike for roller coasters, bungee jumping, flying, etc. Sometimes I think it’s a control issue. If I’m in what I perceive to be control, I’m more at ease with whatever it is I’m doing. I love speed, as long as I get to control the gas and the brakes; but am also conscious of the severity of consequences and do practice safety precautions most of the time. I don’t get drunk and ride an ATV, my kids are helmet required, I’ve been known to stop my bike mid-hill and slowly roll down when I’ve gotten in over my head or misjudged the bikes ability to make it up without flipping up over my head.

I enjoy driving motorcycles very much, though I don’t have a bike or Class M license so I don’t indulge often. There a few people I will ride on the back of a motorcycle with. Boyfriend Brian is one of them and I had the opportunity for my first pony ride with him on the Harley this weekend. Since I hadn’t preplanned my ride, I was not prepared. I had no helmet, was wearing flip-flops, and huge gold fishing-lure-looking earrings. The ride starts off nice; we’re in my parent’s Tiny Town for a family graduation gathering and are slowly navigating from block to block. Then we take a turn for the highway. Brian tells me to hold as tight as I need to and I take this as forewarning and interlock my fingers. I had forgotten how quickly a Harley can go from 30 to 65 mph. My earrings are slapping the side of my head so violently they must be leaving marks, but I decide not to worry about it. I don’t dare let go of my pilot and I’m sure the earrings will rip from my earlobes in a moment anyway (at least they were cheap). He asks if I’m enjoying the ride and I have trouble talking with the wind filling my entire mouth and spit flying with each syllable. “YEAH ~spit~….IT’S GREAT ~saliva~!” (I’m lying; I’m too full of pride to admit I’m scared to death). He asks me if I want to go fast. Fast? I look at the speedometer and we’re going 65mph. “NO ~spit~….THIS IS ~saliva~ FAST ENOUGH FOR ME…~spit~ THANKS ~spit~.” We, of course, made it back to the gathering safely intact. I do trust Brian (and his skill/experience) wholeheartedly, and would be comfortable with him taking my girls for a pony ride in town, with their helmets on.

So, is it my age/maturity that made me painfully aware the entire time we were on that highway that if there was some unexpected gravel in the road or an idiot pulled out in front of us we will be organ donors? Have I lost my reckless edge? Is it possible to be “smartly reckless” or would that be considered an oxymoron?