The Varoominati

Early in my life I remember be fascinated with the concept of a secret society. People that knew each other through secret handshakes, nondescript lodges and meeting rooms where they met to create and follow rituals, discuss the present and plot the future.

I feel like I've been drafted into a couple of secret societies. At least the secret handshake part. Driving a Jeep Wrangler comes with a undocumented membership. The qualification is that you know the sign. It's a sign you flash at another oncoming Wrangler. I never remember to flash it until the brother or sister has passed. It's gotten to the point that Bonnie calls each approaching Wrangler. My challenge is that I haven't quite figured out how to wave with three fingers shaped in a W -  the secret Wrangler handshake. Palm facing forward, which makes my ring and pinky fingers cramp and my wrist ache, or facing backward, which can easily be interpreted as a disguised gesture signaling displeasure through the suggestion of a vulgar sex act upon the target.

Then the question is whether to flash or not. What if the oncoming driver fails to acknowledge me? Should I then feel like a cult victim, unable to differentiate members from non-members? Same challenge on a motorcycle, my second society.

The gesture when meeting an oncoming biker is fingers pointing in the direction of the highway centerline, to the left of and down from the normal position on the handle bar. It means I need to let go of the hand grip and move away from my clutch. What if I have to suddenly downshift? What if my front wheel slips into a crack and starts to wobble? But most importantly, what if the brother or sister doesn't return the gesture? So I've become quite adept at resting my wrist on the end of the grip, ready to throw my fingers to the side in a half wave should the oncoming rider give me the sign. I figure they'll understand since I'm riding a dual-sport bike of small stature rather than a Harley or Indian or BMW.  In the Twin Cities, most bikers are Harley riders that glance down at the centerline rather than point, saying, in effect, "you're not worthy." In the country, however, they realize they may need assistance, should they breakdown, and that they don't have quite so many brethren around them for support, so to be on the safe side they treat me like any other motorcyclist. Which is a pain, because once again I have to bend my wrist in an unnatural way.

My riding buddy Randy has solved the problem by simply waving the Queen's wave, with a slow back and forth twisting motion of the upheld hand. This throws the Harley rider into a state of confusion, causing them to withdraw their fingers, pointing a fist at the centerline. Randy never did have much time for Harley riders.

I suppose I should just be glad I'm a member of some club at all, with or without my participation in the decision. I just need to remember not to hold three fingers up when I'm driving our GMC pickup.