OFF THE WIRE
BY: Berlin Sylvestre
US - Dear overly-concerned worry-wart: Can you refrain from telling me horrific stories about dead people when I mention I ride a motorcycle? Seriously, I just can't take it anymore.
Anytime I mention I have a bike, the first thing I usually get from people is the face. You know the one: It contains the hideous expression only made by an elderly man who, in spite of being in week two of debilitating constipation, ate the jalapeno burger anyway. Save the face, guys– a motorcycle isn't a death sentence.
After that look, I'm immediately privy to the tale of some uncle's neighbor's gardener's astrologer who got smeared across 285 when a teenaged drunk driver swerved into his lane back in 1993. Sigh. Way to go, Debbie Downer. Now I have to reach into my feigned emotion box, manage to return the face and offer some sort of apology for a completely random incident I wish you'd stop elaborating on. Oh, he didn't die immediately? His family rushed to the hospital only to get there seconds after he passed, never getting the chance to say goodbye? To top it off, he was on his way to get his five year old daughter a puppy to celebrate the birth of her brand-new baby brother? And he never learned to read? Bummer. Guess I better sell, huh? Hey, can we talk about something more upbeat, like the Holocaust or Sudden Infant Death Syndrome?
Shoot happens, yes I know. It's tragic, and I'm sorry to hear it, but can you please stop gnawing your torn, bloody fingernails between the gory details and let me get back to my rant on political bumper stickers? And when I change the subject from my imminent doom back to Sarah Palin, can you please not accuse me of skirting the issue because it makes me uncomfortable while insisting that this is something I "need to hear?" For crying out loud, please go on. While you speak, however, I'm going to Google pictures of fatal car crashes, so we can delve even further into what happens to stupid people who like to "take risks" by using motors and wheels to move around the world.
The statistics are clear: Motorcycles can be dangerous and are at times fatal. However, what most of these people in love with doomsday tales fail to realize is that the number of fatalities is the direct results of things I won't do, such as riding while intoxicated, declining proper riding gear or racing in the streets. It's a fact that I won't even test-taste a beer if I'm going to ride that day. It's a superstition I made up, but I like knowing there's not a drop of hooch in me while I lean into curves. Too, I find racing on the road to be selfish, dangerous and strictly for imbeciles. Take it to the track, chump-you're making us look bad.
Consider also that it's not the law in every state to wear a helmet. Ride to Florida, and you'll see what I mean: Helmets are rare over there, which really bothers me. The largest percentage of motorcycle deaths is due to head-trauma. It's because of these bare-headed showboats with an apparent need to let the wind blow through all four feet of their wispy hair (and don't get me started on the women) that you have the inclination to lecture me. Save it. I've always got a brain-bucket on.
I've been riding ATVs, dirt bikes and motorcycles since I was a wee lass. I've ridden cruisers, standards and sport-bikes (my favorite) and have seen more interstate miles on two wheels than many people have seen on four. I've been nearly sucked into the underbelly of an 18-wheeler during Katrina's runoff storms and have been badly burned by a pretty rough spill when I was younger. Trust me– I know these things can be tricky. However, I need you to stop treating me as if I'm some product of blind vanity hell-bent on flying by you at 140 miles per hour because I think I'm immortal and because I can.
Since we're on the subject, can I tell you why motorcycles rock? Apart from the fact that they make the most mundane errands, such as going to the bank or taking movies back to Blockbuster, a blast, they also get the most amazing gas mileage. I can put 12 bucks in my tank and peel around Kennesaw for two weeks before returning to the station only to find I still have half a tank. In terms of insurance, I have a premium plan with a mere $100 deductible and $250,000 in coverage for $188 per year. Per year! I never (ever ever) have to worry about parking; I can ride in the HOV at any given time, I can squeeze through inexplicable clogs in traffic and never get hampered by rush hour traffic. There's also the warm fuzzy feeling I get when enormous, tattooed bikers nod hello and smile as I pass them. By the way, did I mention how tough some people think girls on bikes are? Instant respect-it's lovely!
I know I'm not immortal, and I know need to take a few extra precautions when I'm out there on my bike. What I don't need is some nosy Parker warning me I'm about to die for my vehicular narcissism; that's not what riding a motorcycle is about for me.
When you hear someone is about to eat lunch, you probably don't rattle on about the number of choking fatalities per year. Likewise, when you find out someone rides a bike, please put down the jalapeno burger, and instead, say something like: "Hey, that's cool. Bikes get a bad rap, but be safe anyway-lots of idiots on the road these days."
