'Jump on," my friend Melanie tells me, gesturing towards her big, black and chrome motorcycle sitting on the driveway. But I can't move.
I'm fussing too much. I write for newspapers. I'm paid to fuss. But my fussing about the motorcycle is a record even for me. I'm having a fussy fit.
For one thing, I like hurtling along highways encased in steel, even if the metal may not protect me in an accident and may only give me a false sense of security.
For another, I'm prejudiced against motorcycles. I keep thinking of dirty, fat guys, who loll about on bikes and sell drugs to people who have trouble looking after themselves. Or guys who gun their bikes down residential streets, making them sound like a cannon volley.
Melanie is not part of this scene. She's an assistant professor at the University of Winnipeg. She, her friends and thousands of Canadians just like riding bikes for recreation.
My worries about safety are also not founded. Melanie was born into a house with a motorcycle in the living room. One of her first memories is her father taking her on short rides on his bike. A successful commercial pilot, her father taught her to ride and to respect machinery and to respect others.
I've followed behind her in a truck on a highway ride, watching her move in and out of traffic with military precision and all the appropriate hand signals.
No, really I'm fussing because I think I will look like a doofus. Men with women usually look as though they are in charge. They may not be. They may be simply doing what the women want, but the women are cool enough not to look bossy and strut around like Gen. Douglas MacArthur.
But if I get on that bike it will be abundantly clear that Melanie is in charge and that I'm about as useful as a saddlebag. She gets to move all the levers and whatever else makes a motorcycle roar.
More than that, she's dressed in panther-sleek, black leather. I'm wearing baggy shorts. She's wearing boots; I'm wearing scampers.
My fear is that two minutes after we start, we'll pass a pack of experienced bike riders. I can feel their stares as I stand in the driveway.
Another concern (I've had 30 years practise at fussing): Do I grab her chest, if I feel I'm falling off the bike? That would be comforting, but the move might be misconstrued.
When I was a kid, my mother enrolled me in a mixed group that went tobogganing down big runs. She was worried that unless she got me going out with women, I'd stay with her forever and she'd never have grandchildren.
We were told to sit boy-girl, boy-girl on the toboggan. I panicked. Dare I touch the women in front of me? I clutched the toboggan. My gloves were shredded as we whistled down the slide.
The girl in front of me, noticing my bleeding fingers, told me in no uncertain terms, "You should grab my waist."
"You should grab my waist," Melanie told me, when I asked her about emergency procedures.
Obviously, I haven't learned much in 30 years.
I finally clambered on the bike -- and the young woman took the fussing old woman for a ride to a city park.
As I watched Melanie expertly squeeze, hit, kick and chop the bike -- all to a certain rhythm -- it dawned on me I was lucky to have a friend as competent as she is.
I enjoyed the ride -- almost as much as I enjoyed fussing about it.
Tom Ford is managing editor of The Issues Network
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