Oh says Red Molly to James, “That’s a fine motorbike. A girl could feel special on any such like.” – Richard Thompson, “Vincent Black Lightning 1952” There’s nothing worse than riding bitch. You don’t need to ride a motorbike or even watch Sons of Anarchy or Easy Rider to appreciate that fact either. On its face, it just sucks ~ riding bitch ~ You cede control to the driver’s competence and the whim of every other driver and stray dog on the street. Your legs are bent and cocked beneath you; the balls of your feet press down on slender pegs. It’s almost a sprinter’s starting stance, only your feet aren’t staggered and you’re sitting upright. When the engine roars to life every muscle major and micro tenses; knees grip the shaking frame, knuckles whiten around the backhand grip, the torso tightens to protect vital organs, and the eyes strain to anticipate the intentions of every driver on the road, including the one between your legs. It just sucks. The full impact is felt most intensely when two grown men climb onto a bike and ride off together, each trying to give the other enough space on the seat.
Not even the rain that struck us half way to Nonthaburi could diminish them, or the traffic that we hit and were forced to weave slowly through. When we arrived my ass ached, my left shoulder felt as if it had suffered serious trauma, and my knees and ankles panged agonizingly, but I was one major step closer to securing wheels. There was still one more day we needed to spend canvassing the whole of Bangkok to obtain necessary legal documents and affidavits to push forward the immigration process, but that was of little consequence. The day after that I met the bike seller. He was a twenty-five year old software developer living in the heart of Bangkok in his parent’s apartment building, who wanted to sell off his 2015 Benelli TNT25 to help pay for the Triumph 675 Street Triple RX he’d just bought. K.C. who had the knowledge and experience that I needed was nowhere to be seen. As I was inspecting a vehicle that I was woefully ignorant of, he was blindly navigating the fifteenth-largest city in the world, trying to find my location. He wouldn’t show up until the negotiations were all but over and I had already committed to paying my original (but not terribly ambitious) counteroffer. When he did finally arrive I let him inspect the bike. She passed. I put the money down.
Still, I tried to enjoy my mocha frappe. It took only half of that frappe to realize I was ready to be sick. Within my chest the great muscly engine was threatening arrest, as if to warn the guy upstairs to reconsider this venture that put them both at risk. Meanwhile, my fidgety hands groped at nothing. The clamminess that had overtaken them made it unpleasant to hold anything, particularly the sugary, caffeinated shake that sweated for me on the table. “I’m done,” I said and stood, hurling the drink into the bin. “Give me a second and we’ll go.”
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Collier ConnellA traveler gone to teach English in Thailand who is far less interested in himself than the fascinating people, places, and things I'm ready to encounter. Archives
December 2016
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