The glorious part of living with the Maharishi is that he's full of surprises. He is for all intents and purposes the gift that keeps on giving. Even after nearly twenty three years of marriage, he keeps me guessing. He does nothing by halves. He lives large. I still stare at him open-mouthed wondering if I actually know him. Can you really know anyone? Who was it that said that people marry in order to have a witness to their lives? This is what I witness: He's been, in his spare time, a carpenter, a letter press man, a photographer, a handgun and shotgun enthusiast, a serious road cyclist, a filmmaker, a cook, a smoker of meats, a barbecue genius, a policeman (we barely dodged that bullet) and now, a biker. Yes, a biker. This Ducati rolled into our driveway a week ago, and he has spent the weekend on it, visiting friends in far-flung places, honing his road skills. As a child he road dirt bikes in Calico with his father and brother, and being a perfectionist, enrolled in a Very Serious motorcycle training course before the Big Purchase. Friends ask with sincere concern "Aren't you worried?" "Does he have enough insurance?" The smile on the face that returns home after each jaunt is enough to convince me that this is A Good Thing. My husband is a Very Happy Man who smells deliciously of new leather. I've never been on a motorbike, which is, I know, hard to believe. I wanted to go on Charlie Runham's bike when I was thirteen, but it never happened. Yesterday, however, I hopped on the back, strapped my arms around him Bruce Springsteen-style, and he roared up the driveway with such acceleration that I nearly flew off the back, and found myself giggling like Stacey from Dagenham on X Factor.