When I was in grade school, we would connect whatever wheeled contraptions we could with ropes and ride around our driveway, which was like a cul-de-sac.  One time we had my bike, my tricycle, and my wagon hooked up together.  It was a big tricycle, and I believe I rode on that, or perhaps my bicycle.  I like(d) having handles to hold on to and a seat to sit on.  It worked out well if one of my friends was on the bike and one on the trike with the empty wagon and whatever we tied to the back of that banging along behind us (probably my old key skates).  The wagon tended to tip over on its side as we went around “corners,” and we would have to stop and adjust.  One time Tam was riding the bike and I was holding a rope while wearing my roller skates.  I let go of the rope pretty quickly because those old steel wheels didn’t roll as smooth (or as fast) as the bike.  Steep hills were never too far away.  We probably tried a few times, but I was too big of a chicken to hold on to the rope for long.

So, when I look at this picture from 1931 in Paris, France: I imagine I am the person riding the motorcycle and Tam is the one on the skis.  When I used to waterski, I sometimes forgot that I could let go of the rope which never ended well.  The phrase water enema comes to mind.  I worry that the man on the skis might forget to let go of the rope, as his feet heat up from friction, leading to disastrous consequences.  Equally disastrous if he pitches forward and skis on his knees, I still have scars.  When he finally lets go, I wonder how far the motorcycle rider will go before realizing he has lost his friend.