Thursday, February 17, 2011
the size of my smile is directly correlated to my love for the moto.
caution parents: I may be getting one someday
I'd only been on a moto* once before, so possibly I should have been a bit more cautious. I remembered, as soon as I got on, that girls are supposed to put our arms around the guy driving the bike because 1) it's more secure and 2) we don't have any macho street cred to lose. Then I remembered how, back last time I rode on a moto (the same one, in fact), Ramón, the other dude in our pack of three, had made a big deal about NOT putting his arms around the driver. It was less secure, but he was a police sergeant and a dude. He had his macho street cred to think of.
And so there I was, four years later, on that same bike, flashing back to the "how girls vs. guys ride a moto" discussion, when I got a wild hair. I wasn't going to do this the girly way this time. I must seize this moment to be a badass, at least as badass as a Catalan police sergeant. I waited until we reached a stoplight, then I let go of my friend driving. I grasped the handles next to my seat, and we were off again.
It was less secure. It was also more exciting - the sense that I, holding on, was the only thing keeping myself from flying off the back of the machine into oncoming Barcelona traffic. The responsibility added a level of thrill to the ride.
Of course, this was my responsible friend driving. We went fast around exactly zero curves, and I doubt we ever exceeded more than about 30 miles an hour. But no matter: I may be incapable of consuming more than one alcoholic beverage in a sitting or facing down baddies in the streets or even living alone in a foreign country without calling my parents on a weekly basis, but when it comes to being a moto passenger, I know the truth. I am a certified badass.
*read: more scooter than motorcycle, designed and used especially for zipping around European cities.