Mr. Moto

We bought a motorcycle. I blame the Captain. He wanted one to “tool around with”. I thought he was nuts. The last time he got on a bike, he crashed it. “You’ll do yourself in for sure” I warned him. Then I went in on half.
I told myself that I would only use it on paved streets where there’s little traffic, always drive slow and absolutely wear a helmet. Why does this sound like a kid promising to take care of a puppy? I know myself. Inching up the throttle a little each time is inevitable. The allure of an unpaved side artery winding up a picturesque hillside, inescapable. It won’t be long until I resemble the rest of these terrorists who call themselves drivers. I’m a goner for sure.
The roads here are narrow and riddled with potholes. That doesn’t stop four lanes of vehicles from careening down them at gravity defying speeds. Braking just isn’t done. It’s not macho. Motorcycles sputter along the side, where there’s usually an emaciated dog sound asleep. (Note: There’s no spaying program here. The number of mongrels is staggering. Technically they have owners. In reality they’re on their own. They also have an odd tendency to plop down in the middle of the pavement oblivious to the cars zooming by. I watched one spend the afternoon in the middle of a roundabout. Vehicles shot left and right of him. If you had painted him orange, he would’ve been the perfect traffic cone.)
Along with the motorcyclists dodging horses, dogs, donkeys, cows and craters are cars, vans, buses and trucks. They rocket around the slower individuals without concern. Passing, despite oncoming traffic, isn’t an issue. At the final moment, both vehicles swerve to the right and towards whatever hapless pedestrian, animal or cyclist happens to be there, missing everyone by inches. Somehow, it all works. I spent twelve hours traversing the north coast in a beaten-up old van packed with twenty sweating bodies last week watching it all unfold and never witnessed an accident.
Once we took possession of the motorbike, I carefully constructed my initial run with my new helmet planted firmly on my head. Just up the coast are the ruins of “La Isabella”. (Important Historical Note: Columbus got drunk and wrecked the “Santa Maria” west of there. He built a settlement out of the timbers and left forty of his crew. When he returned a year later, they were all dead. He tried it again at La Isabella. This time he built a fort. That didn’t pan out either.) The road was reported to be good and only carried local traffic. What wasn’t mentioned were the herds of cattle that waltz down the middle of it, usually right after a blind curve. Horses were also plentiful. The caballeros like to herd them down in your lane, but in the opposite direction. Add some goats, chickens and a multitude of speed bumps and you suddenly found yourself in the middle of a Mario Brothers video game. (There were even donkeys.) But I made it there and back; I have a whole new set of insect bites to prove it.

The biggest problem I will encounter in future expeditions is beer. They only serve it in big bottles with plastic cups. If you don’t keep the cup at least half full, the wind will knock it over. If you fail to drink it quick enough, it gets warm. A vicious cycle ensues that I’m quite used to by now, but am admittedly still a bit uncomfortable being behind the rusted handlebars of an aging Yamaha. Someone suggested I simply forgo the beer drinking altogether. And I thought I was crazy.