(Editor's Note: Scott Anthony is subbing this week for publisher Jerry Robinson ,who is on vacation.)

Nearing the crossroads of a half-century on the planet, I am amazed. Most days, rolling out of bed, I feel closer to half of that trumped up numeral.

But I am reminded of the crush of days in a myriad of ways, such as the lightning fast maturation of my family and friends, the swaying of my interests toward things like Certificates of Deposit and away from things like all-night poker parties.

That said, I'm not immune to a mid-life “Chrysler” (though I'm more of a Ford man) and I am still attracted to some of the trappings of youth.

Driving down Highway 99 about a month ago, I spied a leather jacket-wrapped guy on a bright yellow, highly customized chopper. The rear tire was so oversized it looked like it belonged on a backhoe.

Next to me and Mrs. Anthony at the traffic light, the huge engine thumped like jungle drums and I guess I must have looked a little funny because Mrs. A. turned to me and said, "Are you OK? You look like you're in a trance."

That afternoon, I began “just looking” at motorcycles in the paper. A week later, I found one. Mrs. Anthony had no idea.

Driving over to see the thing in person, I didn't really think I would buy it. It was a rare, 1986 model called a Fazer 700. It needed significant work as it had been neglected for years. But when I got there and saw the owner push the machine out to the street, I got that funny feeling again, that trance-like state that told me that I would own it myself.

Four hundred dollars and five minutes later, we loaded it into my trailer and I brought it home. Mrs. A. was still asleep when I wheeled the project into the garage. I went to check the mailbox and when I got back she was standing in the garage with her arms folded. "What's this stinky thing doing in the garage?"

I am no stranger to motorcycling. I've had them, ridden them since I was a pre-teen. When we were first married 17 years ago, I still owned a beautiful, 1000cc street cruiser. Mrs. Anthony's teeth would be set on edge whenever she walked past it, gleaming in the corner of the garage. They were rivals then and they are rivals now.

She insisted that I sell that bike and I caved.

It was not entirely fair of me to buy another one without telling her. She has a right to worry about her husband, and though I pride myself as being an alert and attentive motorist, there is always “the other guy” out there.

Facing off in the garage, I held my ground, out of sheer stubbornness and the burn of experiencing middle age. No, it's not fair, and calling it middle-age crazy is not enough. I'm torn between my desire to keep her happy and my longing for some minor excitement.

I wheedled a little mentioning the bargain and the fun I'll have working on it and this time, she caved. So with the admonition, "...and you'll sell it as soon as you get it fixed up, right?" I began to tear into the work.

The motor was solid, transmission too, so the bulk of the restoration is cosmetic. And I'm sure that I am getting younger every time I enter the garage and pick up my tools. There is much satisfaction in seeing something turn from old to new in your hands.

I marvel at the foresight the designers and engineers had when they anticipated what a potential buyer would want in a motorcycle, and this machine (one of a series called “naked cruisers” for it's stripped down, minimal appearance) has a visceral, “ride me” feel to it.

Wet sanding oxidation off of the aluminum rims, I'm paring away the years of my own life, renewing and polishing my psyche along with the chrome and ebony painted tank and fenders.

I'm nearly on a first name basis with the guys down at the Yamaha shop next to the post office, strolling past the outstandingly gorgeous pieces of rolling sculpture in that showroom, wearing my ball cap backwards, I feel like I'm 20 again.

The project is nearing completion now and seeing the machine sitting under its nylon cover I can feel the tug of desire to ride. The weather is leveling out and whenever I see an ad or movie on the tube showing a happy couple roaring down a country highway on some impossibly loud and extravagant motorcycle, I feign that trance again until the wife pinches me or changes the channel

So if you see me at a stoplight astride an example of a lovingly restored vintage bike, you're allowed to go into your own trance. After all, you only turn 50 once, if you're lucky.