I never liked motorcycles because they didn’t look or feel safe. When I went to get my driver’s license, New York State made me take a course and watch a video of several accidents involving motorcycles. I gaped in horror as I saw motorcyclists killed in horrific ways. If I had to choose between a car or a motorcycle, I chose a car every time.
Plus, I imagined falling off. I assumed I would tumble to the ground when the bike leaned too far to the right or turned too fast to the left. Or I expected it to take off without me, like in cartoons when motorcycles speed up too quickly, moving right out from under the passenger, leaving them behind. Since I didn’t want to injure myself, I stayed far, far away.
For 27 years, I avoided the two-wheeled death traps. In fact, my dad had one for 10 years and I never rode it, sat on it, or even so much as touched it. And I would have been content never riding one for the rest of my life.
Which is why I planned on walking everywhere when I moved to the Dominican Republic, without taking the hot weather and humidity into account. At first, I didn’t care that the intense heat would make walking nearly impossible or that one of the most common and cheap forms of transportation involved motorcycle taxis. I insisted upon never getting on a motorcycle.
Besides, how was I expected to ride one without holding onto the motorist? You aren’t supposed to touch the driver and there was no way I would ride a motorcycle without hanging onto anything. What if I fell off?
I wish I could say I stood by my declaration to never ride a motorcycle, but my stubborn refusal lasted 3 whole days. A mere 72 hours.
Since there is a curfew in the Dominican and everyone must stay in their houses after 5 PM on the weekends, I had to get on a motorcycle. The last bus into San Pedro was at 4 PM and my boyfriend and I were running late so I didn’t have a choice. His brother just happened to have a motorcycle and offered to take us to the bus station.
After asking where to put my feet, which side of the bike to get on, where to put my arms, how close to sit to the driver, and if I could close my eyes for the 2 minute ride, I hesitantly approached the bike. With a great deal of help, I hoisted my leg over the seat and squeezed into the space between the two men.
It wasn’t terrible because they sandwiched me in the middle and I wasn’t going to fall, but then we started moving. I panicked at every bump in the road, closed my eyes as we veered left and right to avoid holes in the middle of the street, and stopped breathing every time a car passed us, missing my legs by what felt like inches.
Although I didn’t enjoy the open road or the wind rushing through my hair, the experience wasn’t as horrible as I thought it would be. I definitely didn’t like it, but I didn’t think it was dreadful.
I mean, if I have to choose between walking directly under the fiery heat of the sun for 20 minutes and drenching myself with my own sweat or taking a motorcycle, I might choose the second option from now on. Especially when it feels like I’m walking in a giant sauna and I look like I went swimming with my clothes on, but really, I’m just sweating.
Since the day of my first ride about 3 weeks ago, I have been on a motorcycle at least 20 more times and I’m still alive. They are similar to dirt bikes anyway and some of them are like a moped or scooter so they don’t go very fast. I don’t hate them anymore, but I don’t particularly like them either.
This experience made me realize that sometimes I avoid certain situations altogether because I worry about what MIGHT happen. I make decisions based on possible outcomes which don't actually take place. I don’t want what may or may not happen to dictate how I live my life anymore.
I don’t want to miss out on what God has planned because something bad could happen if I live in a different country or get on a motorcycle.
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