The key word here, “ride.” I certainly did not learn to drive a moto, but with all the buzzing hornets and my waxing poetics about their constant zipping and cruising around the streets here, Lindsay and I finally said, “why not. Let’s join them.”
A lovely couple across the street from our hotel could see it in our faces when we walked outside . . . “you want to ride a moto, to the beach?”
They both snatched helmets for us from under the seats of their almost matching bikes and we placed the brain buckets snuggly on our heads. This was an added bonus to our $1.50 6 kilometer ride.
I was a bit uncomfortable at first, not sure whether or not to lean into the turns or put my foot down with the driver at a stop light (yes, we actually stopped!). The awkward moment also came when we picked up speed and I went for the “moto-hug.” My driver laughed and clearly didn’t think too much of this, so I fumbled around for a bit. And then I found the elusive handlebar at the backside of the backseat.
Bingo. My tension eased and I enjoyed a lovely ride to the beach, followed by a walk on the shore and a crab dinner.
Then the couple returned for us promptly at 6 as planned. . . happy parents ready to wisk their children home. We pulled onto the main road leading back to town greeted by the quintessential red and pink sunset light glowing over afternoon thunderheads and mountain tops and rice paddies.
The laughter of families gathering for the evening meal reminded me of my own parents who first met on a motorcycle. With the breeze blowing gently in my face and the typically stunning countryside passing by, I leaned back with complete comfort, smiling a zen-like grin, gazing off in a dream-like fashion.
For the first time in my life, I entirely understood my parent’s enjoyment of riding these sometimes menacing machines. So I thanked the world for these motos and scooter bikes and motorcycles and BMWs and Hondas and even Harleys, for without a ride such as this, I suppose I wouldn’t be around to tell this or any other story.