My Motorcycle Diaries *revised

I had heard the story probably, oh, a million times.
"I was comin' around that big curve right there before you get to the church. You know the one right there where that old run down store sits. Well I was comin' around there and I was going fast. Too fast." Dad always pauses here, hands suspended in the air from making extravagant gestures, and meets my eyes, letting the words "too fast" sink in so I get it.
"Mike was in front of me and he stopped. Well I couldn't stop in time and ran straight into him," his hands SMACK together, recreating the impact. "My foot hit his tailpipe. Luckily I was wearin' a helmet." In his stories, my dad is somehow always doing the right thing like making A's or wearing his seatbelt, even when he is screwing up.
"I got up and Mike asked if I was OK. I told him 'yeah but my foot stung.' When I took my shoe off I had burned a hole in my foot THIS big," his fingers make a quarter size loop "You could look in it and see bone." He kind of whispered the word bone in an ominous way staring deep into my eyes.
"Nope, motorcycles aren't safe. They just aren't safe. Too dangerous. You don't want a motorcycle."
So I knew what to expect when I told him on Sunday that I had been on my first motorcycle ride this weekend.
"Hey dad, guess what? Adam and Jimmy's dad took me for a ride on his motorcycle when I was there this weekend. It was awesome. He's selling it. You know we haven't had luck with caaaaaaars ..."
I trailed off in a sing-song voice, knowing my joke would be lost on his motorcycle-buying-excluded sense of humor.
"We're not getting a motorcycle. They're too dangerous. You know I had a motorcycle once --"
"I know Dad. You've told me before." I cut him off before he even got to start describing the curve.
The thing is, I know motorcycles are dangerous with the no doors, tipsy, two-wheel crap, but they make me feel cool.
I told Mr. Butts while we were riding that I felt cooler than everyone else around me. He said it was because I was. And I believed him for a minute as we jetted forward, my arms going tingly numb again from the cool rush of air, slivers of hairs whipping around the edges of the helmet. I was cool on this motorcycle. The only way I could have been cooler was if the motorcycle was pink.
"After a hard day or if I'm in a bad mood, sometimes I just ride for a little while." Mr. Butts had to call back to me because the light had turned green and we picking up speed as we leaned into a right turn.
I thought about what it would be like to get home and hop on my motorcycle and just ride. I liked the sense of freedom I felt on the bike, nothing around me or holding me in, just freedom to enjoy the air or even swallow a bug. So I know motorcycles aren't safe, but sometimes you just gotta take a risk on something that seems unsafe to get freedom. An opportunity to taste a little freedom is just too good to pass up. It's like the motorcycle gospel. That's why I've decided to buy a motorcycle.

*So apparently I hadn't heard the motorcycle wreck story enough times b/c I got some of it wrong and after having my dad tell me one more time, I had to get the facts straight. sorry for those of you who read the "wrong version" already. Now we're straight.