As mentioned, my motorcycle skill and knowledge parallel that of a monk's ultimate fighting expertise. However, after the hour-long ride to the Sun Temple, I inferred the return would run as smooth as Michael Phelp's arms.
I pursued my friend Pakistan with the ease of a Down Syndrome seven-year-old on a motorcycle, but with Jesse Jame's confidence. My bankrupt brain hadn't internalized the instruction to grasp the clutch when ceasing bike movement, as in traffic. My motorcycle expired like my childhood ballerina dreams when my eight-year-old stomach swelled so much I couldn't scrutinize my feet.
Every time the motor stalled I struggled with the manual start like Michael Jackson struggled with his sexuality.
Regardless, on an open stretch of road rushing by the ocean, the seat evolved into an extension of myself. The wind whisked through my hair as if blessing me and the sensation scrambled from the fibers of my being into the motor and back into me, a cyclical ecstasy of inspiration.
The motorcycle and I liquefied into lyric locomotion. I accelerated over lopsided landscape and swerved through the roads like I swing from purchasing alcohol to liquor in an alcohol aisle.
When Pakistan and I approached a narrow bridge, a bus crawling ahead of us dominated the road like food monopolizes The Goonies' Chunk. Practiced Pakistan rounded to the right of the bus and propelled forward, passing and advancing ahead. I continued behind the monstrosity feeling like I was viewing a lagging giant's bottom. I was as conflicted as a transvestite. I knew that attempting a bus overtake on a bridge on my first motorcycle day was as illogical as living in Antarctica. Nevertheless, I was following Pakistan and wanted to attempt what was inevitably a disastrous idea.
I wrenched to the right and rolled by the bus. Adrenaline coursed through my capillaries and a smile decorated my face as wind wafted into my eyes, face, skin and I approached the front of the bus and the bridge's conclusion.
My 20/400 vision detected the oncoming motorcycle with three passengers too late. The motorcycle barred my byway. The bus obstructed the road. Men yelled like possessed banshees as I concluded I would just fall instead of colliding with a bus or a three-person motorcycle. After this deduction and after I had swung my body into a dirt-blast did it occur to me that the motorcycle was equipped with brakes as operable as a bicycle's.
The concept of brakes continued in my mind like Oprah Winfrey's generosity as I lay on the roadside in the dirt surrounded by Indian men, the motorcycle on me, it's motor still running. The motor persisted after clattering into the ground but not when I slowed going through cities. Brakes. My next thought was what I would tell people. I vacillated between elephant trampling and a fight with a rogue helicopter.