Driving home last week I did a double take when a yuppie on a fine touring motorcycle passed me on the left. First I admired his bike, though with a smirk, being a fan of the recent spate of custom chopper shows on The Discovery Channel. Poser. (Like I should know? I’ve never been on a motorcycle of any flavor in my entire adult life. And my pimped out “ride” is a beat-up Toyota with 275,000 miles on it and profane epithets etched in the paint by friendly neighborhood boys.)
Then I saw a haggardly waving plasticine hand gesturing for my attention from behind the rider. (Click the thumbnail to see the whole blurry, shaky, awful pic.)
Oh, no. Woody’s been kidnapped!
I had to smile, and I thought of my 4–1/2–year-old son and the identical hand-made Woody he still likes to snuggle with once in a while.
Maybe Woody wasn’t kidnapped, after all. Maybe he was sent on a mission. I could so easily see a little boy strapping Woody on Daddy’s bike for no other reason than love. That’s exactly the kind of thing AJ would do.
But he would’ve forced Woody to wear a helmet. I’m sure.