The Motorcycle Ride

The Motorcycle Ride



I don't want a pickle

Just want to ride on my motorsickle

And I don't want a tickle

'Cause I'd rather ride on my motorsickle

And I don't want to die

Just want to ride on my motorcy...cle



Arlo Guthrie



         It seemed to Daveed that Stan was smiling a little too much.  The bike was an obscene leather and chrome machine as wide as a horse. Stan handed Daveed a helmet, swung his leg over the bike and sat forward in the double seat. “Hop on!” he said, and Daveed did as he was told. “Now, when I turn, you lean with me, OK? Not against me. It’s like on a bicycle--you lean when you turn. If you lean the other way, we could spin out.” Daveed nodded, suppressing a shudder. He had wiped out on a bicycle as a child, permanently scarring his face. Almost 17 years old, Daveed was trying to grow a bit of facial hair to cover the ugly gouges, but his youthful beard was not quite full enough. His mustache was soft and thin, and his sideburns were still wispy. People he had known for years would suddenly wet a finger and attempt to wipe off some dirt on his face, and then he would have to show them that the marks would not wipe off. They were scars. Stan, on the other hand, a handsome young man of 19, had a dark hair, blue eyes, and a thick black beard that showed a five-o’clock shadow at three-o’clock. He could hide any scars under that, but Stan did his best to keep his scar-free face clean-shaven.

         Daveed wore brown corduroys and a collared shirt with a mildly oversized denim jacket. His shoes were the work boots he wore when he and his dad worked together during the summer. His brown hair had grown out some, but it was not yet down to his shoulders. Girls thought he was cute, often offering to trade their invisible eyelashes for his long dark ones. In 1973, Daveed wore no love beads. The last time was two years ago, in a European bar, when his father had ordered a drink and the bartender turned to Daveed and asked, “And for the lady?”

         Daveed was not a homo. Over five months ago he had surrendered his burden of virginity to a bubbly 18-year-old blonde with a tight ass and a crush on him, and had enjoyed sex with other girls up to three years older than he. He had nothing against homos, though, since they couldn’t change their own urges. Nevertheless, Daveed was getting uncomfortable with an unbidden erection growing in his tight pants, thanks to the vibrations of the engine, even more intense than the personal vibrators with which he had experimented. He had never noticed, until then, how close the passenger’s crotch gets to the back of the driver on a two-seater motorcycle. He scooted as far back as he could.

“Put your arms around my stomach and hold on,” said Stan, and Daveed did so. “Tighter!” Daveed began to feel a little funny. He had a weird twinge of tingling in his arms and legs. He was pretty sure that Stan was not a homo, either, but you never know. And he was smiling a bit too much a few minutes ago. However, he felt that this is probably the way most people looked when they rode together on a bike, and no one thought they were homos. At least he never did.

Daveed’s room mate, Bobby, who wore his armpit-length red hair tied in a pony tail most of the time, and who, like Einstein, had a wardrobe that consisted of about ten pairs of jeans and ten pairs of denim shirts so he would never have to think about what he was going to wear, was, in Daveed’s opinion, an asshole. He had his good moments, and after all, everyone is an asshole to someone, and you just have to find the hidden goodness in people to come to respect them for whom they are. Some people hid their goodness better than others. Compared to the smiley-faced asshole of a roommate that he used to have, Bobby was much better. After all, that first roommate was a Jesus freak, for Christ’s sake. Besides, Bobby had introduced Daveed to several of the finer things in life, like Lebanese hashish, the Grateful Dead, and Firesign Theatre. As between all roommates, there were a few struggles between them, like the peanut butter knife that sat on the desk for two weeks which Daveed refused to clean up, since it was Bobby who put it there. Bobby had finally cleaned it up, and things were pretty good for the time being. In fact, it was Bobby who had arranged Daveed’s ride on Stan’s motorcycle. And now here he was, about to do one of the things Daveed had promised his mother he would never do.

A good boy and an obedient child, at least when he was living at home, Daveed had promised his parents that he would never get on a motorcycle. Those things were dangerous. Not only that, Daveed had promised to never ever under any circumstances place himself in any danger whatsoever as a condition for going away to college at such a young age. But, then, how could he tell his roommate and his friend Stan that he couldn’t take a little ride on the bike, because his mommy said he shouldn’t. That would not be cool at all.

Stan kicked something and the engine fired up. It was so loud! It was like a machine gun, rattling his insides, and Stan was just gunning it over and over to make it louder. In a second, they were off. The jolt nearly knocked Daveed off the back, but he held on tight to stay on the seat, his arms locked around Stan’s waist in a manly way, imagining them nylon straps as strong as a car’s seatbelts. It was as if Stan wanted to surprise him, or to show off to him. Daveed looked down at the blacktop, measuring its roughness with his eyes, and imagining the kind of injuries he might sustain if his skin were in contact with it. Worse, there was sand on the road, and sand was the cause of his childhood bicycle accident. After only a few seconds, Daveed wished the ride were over.

The first turn came up quickly, and they leaned into it. Then the other way. Which way was the wrong way to lean? His body wanted to align vertically, but the feel of the G-forces made him align at an angle. He matched his movements to Stan’s, and they glided through rapid S-turns, right, left, right, left, without slipping. They didn’t have to go this fast, did they? But, even if he wanted to shout, there was no way Stan would hear him over the blasting mufflers. What feels right, what feels wrong? The ride was going fine. The wind blew up into his pants, the noise of the engine and the road had deafened him, and he ignored the flapping of his shirt, feeling lucky that the helmet stopped the shirt from whipping up over his head. To his relief, his erection was long gone, thanks to the fear. But now the fear was ebbing a bit. Were they done yet?

“Please God let me live, even though you don’t exist,” Daveed thought. They passed the Steak and Shake and came around the big curve south of the university. The bike was tilted at a severe angle, and the curve went on for a long, long time. There were pale patches on the road ahead, and Stan was going right through them, risking a spinout every time. Daveed thought about praying, but since he was sure that there was no god, he thought instead, “If I live through this, that proves there is no god, or no gods.” He glued himself to Stan’s back as they accelerated through the turn, pulling them upright at the end, which seemed to be about ten minutes later. “I’ll never do this again—God or no gods,” Daveed thought. He had definitely decided this would be his last motorcycle ride. The fear-to-thrill ratio was too high.

They pulled up to a stop sign in front of a convenience store. Their parallel reflection in the store windows pulled up to the reflected intersection, and Daveed was surprised to see how cool they looked on the big machine. Their helmets were gleaming in the Florida sun. It was like in Five Easy Pieces, except they were two on a bike, and those guys rode choppers, separately, without helmets. Two girls came out of the store sipping Slurpees. Stan and Daveed stared at their slim bodies gliding in slow motion, with their low-cut jeans and peasant shirts, tan skin and water buffalo sandals. They waved. Stan and Daveed waved back. Stan pulled the bike off the line with a smooth acceleration. Daveed’s head kept the girls in view as long as he could before the next curve. “There might be something to this motorcycle thing,” he thought.

The second half of the ride was easy, once Daveed had convinced himself that he was not going to die from it. He was still filled with guilt, for acting cool when he was not feeling cool, and for turning a promise to his parents into a lie. They would never find out, but that fact did not change what he had done. This was not the only thing Daveed had done of which his parents would not approve. What about the speeding in the car, the LSD, the unprotected sex, the hash? Life was full of adventure, and he was here to enjoy it. He would have to learn to be more careful, but not so careful that he couldn’t have any fun at all. He vowed to do well in school, to eventually succeed in some profession, like law, and to stay under the radar with cops and school authorities.

They rolled into the parking lot, and got off the bike. Stan was beaming, and Daveed doing his best to smile. He did smile as he realized he was still alive and that he would never have to get on one of those things ever again.

“How’d you like that?” Stan asked.

“Fine! That thing is fast!” Daveed was still catching his breath, and wanted Stan to know he was grateful for the ride, but he did not want to give him any false impressions. “A little scary, though”

“Aw, it’s ok. You did fine for your first time! Bobby said I should scare the shit out of you, but you did great!” Daveed looked up and saw admiration in Stan’s eyes. He was telling the truth, as if he really thought Daveed had passed some kind of test with flying colors.

His heart still racing, Daveed left Stan in the parking lot with the excuse that he had to go finish some calculus homework. They shook hands, as manly men do, and he went off to find Bobby. He was going to kick his ass.