I am a skeptical person. When my safety is involved, I have a hard time trusting anyone I think might rip open my cocoon of comfort.
In our few months of marriage, Mr. B has graciously peeled back layer after layer of my security blanket. Each time I've distrusted him even a little and feared shedding even a square inch of comfort, I am amazed at the outcome.
Like the time Mr. B took me for my first motorcycle ride. He said it would be "epic." I was unconvinced.
"Anna, I'm riding for the first time today. Tell me it's gonna be okay," I impulsively texted a good friend who had been in my wedding a few weeks before.
I buckled my boots, zipped my jacket, and smooshed my helmet over my ears, successfully wiping all traces of makeup from my face.
No response from Anna.
Mr. B started the engine on his race bike.
Next time Anna writes to me, I thought, she'll be writing my eulogy.
Helmeted and leather clad, Mr. B walked the bike into the street and pulled out the foot pegs for me to climb on.
Here goes, I thought. Quickly, I confessed my sins and asked God to deploy as many guardian angels as He could spare.
Gingerly climbing aboard, I coiled my arms as far as they would go around Mr. B's middle.
He twisted the throttle and we powered down the street at a reasonable 5 mph.
Knowing that Mr. B's bike had more horsepower than my SUV, I tried to prepare.
If I could have tied myself into a double-clove-hitch around him, I would have done it in a split second. But before I knew it, I felt like a meager fly clinging for dear life to one of the 200 horses powering down the road. Gusts of wind pulled at my limbs. All I could do was press my legs against the seat, lean in, and hold on tighter.
Our destination was Emerald Downs, where a motorcycle magazinehad invited a select number of riders to come test drive the Ducati Diavel. The sleek bike had recently won the 2012 Best Cruiser title. I was more than a little scared. Not only was I riding a motorcycle for the first time, but I was about to ride a Ducati too.
I didn't know much about them, but they sounded intimidating. And besides Ducatis are Italian--fast by nature.
After surviving the ride down, I was ready to be done. I would have gladly hung up my motorcycle jacket and waited until my spine flattened out from the curvature it contracted en route.
But instead, I waddled on bowed legs over to the eventtent with Mr. B. Immediately, my eye caught a chrome espresso machine.
Ah, not everything made by Ducati elicited sheer terror then.
After signing our lives away and drinking a shot of espresso, we lined up for take-off.
My muscles tightened, ready to battle the elements again.
Before I knew it, we were on the open road, leaning into corners, accelerating on the long stretches.
The terror I expected melted away into delight at this sensation of flying down the road. Gone were the discomfort and the idea double-clove-hitching. My muscles relaxed and I watched the farmland pass by us like a piece of film in an old movie.
My tight jaw even unlatched to smile from ear-to-ear. As we wound through the woods, I lifted the visor on my helmet to feel the wind on my face. I hoped it wouldn't end.
When I got home, I read Anna's text.
"You're not only gonna be okay today, you are going to have a blast," she wrote matter-of-factly.
It wasn't a blast. It was epic. I'm going to trust Mr. B more often.
Catherine Baker is a graduate of Arizona State University and currently lives in Seattle, Washington. She got married in June and will share her experiences as a newlywed in a weekly column for WORLD on Campus.