riding the mechanical horse...

Just a quick story that made me laugh...

You all know I have never ridden a motorcycle but I have dreamed of getting up the guts to own ride one. Something about the open road, wind in my scalp and bugs in my teeth makes my skin shiver with excitement. Still I have not gotten up the nerve to oppose the wishes of my wife and mother. I am such a good boy.

The next best thing to a roaring Harley or Japanese made crotch rocket is a moped. Now I know you might have images of some noisy, slow moving rusted step up from a mountain bike. Actually you can't call it a step up since the moped looks like it might fall apart if you hit a speed bump too fast. And here in Tossa you will find a wide range of moped, called "motos". Some range from the new, sleek and powerful to the old and falling apart if not held together with a fresh coat of paint each year. Still, motos are somewhat preferred mode of rapid transportation within Tossa. Our population swells and contracts each day like an accordion as buses bring in more vacationers from as far as Sweden. Also the weekender from Barcelona will come and spend some much needed stress less time away from the big city and come to stress us out by overtaking all of the parking spaces. If not for emergencies or the occasional excursion, we won't move our car after Thursday so we can actually have a parking space within eye's view of our apartment windows.

The motos is such an integral part of daily life and transportation here. With the prices of gas far exceeding that of America (despite you guys catching up rather quickly), the moto is easier on the wallets than a full sized car. Sure if you need to carry more than two full grown people, walking or by car is the only option. There is public transportation but the only subway in Tossa is for the moles. And if I need to go to Barcelona alone, I go by train, which the nearest station is in Blanes (pronounced Bla - nes), two towns down the coast.

The road connecting Tossa to the nearest town, Lloret (pronounced Your-et not Lor-et) is a long and winding road frequented by daring motorcyclist on the weekend darting between cars and daring one another to cause an accident. Another reason to leave your car parked on the weekends as they have taken over the windy roads. By moto, since they do not have the extreme and fluid power of motorcycles, it´s a bit trying to get up and down the hills of this winding road. It's especially hilarious to see someone trying to attempt this feat in the winter time, braving the cold and harsh winds sweeping thru the hills and valleys while bundled in a bubble goose jacket and icicles gangling from their ears and chin. Still things have to be done, and motos are just a staple of life here.

The age range of moto riders can be as young as, and don't quote me, 12 years old or such to 113 years old. Every child here seems to have a moto, as it seems to be a rite of passage for the teenagers. They go to school and joy ride in them. A blind man knows it is lunch time and the end of the school day in the only high school here when the roars of bee like motors rev and disperse throughout the town. If you read an earlier blog, I described how these machines can avoid even the ugliest of one lane traffic jams with ease by cruising either down the roadside or daringly down the other lane of traffic and darting quickly into a space when oncoming traffic prevents them from advancing further. Most of my soccer players and those younger come to practice on their motos, some 2 at a time. Having a helmet, even if you don't have a moto is needed in case you ride with a good friend or your girlfriend/boyfriend. I do not have a helmet as yet due to the enormous size of my head. They may need NASA to make me one. Why would a helmet be easy to find in Spain if I can't even find normal articles of clothing like shoes and socks to fit me properly?

My first time riding as a passenger was when Jose offered me a ride to my car when we left the grand opening of Sebastian's bar (another player of mine) one night. Sebastian's bar, La Gamba...or The Shrimp...is situated just on the outskirts of the old part of town, accessible by car but no parking is available. Still having a motos allows you to be close enough to park so that you can trip and fall onto the bar's doorstep. I, on the other hand, had to park my car at the bus station, a good 15 minute brisk walk away. Jose passed me that night when I was leaving and offered me a ride. I figured now was good as any time to get the feeling of the cool air wind whipping thru my body as ever. I was feeling a bit awkward mounting behind another man but I am secure in my manhood so who cares. Plus it was near midnight in the winter; no one would be walking the town and pointing fingers wondering what we were doing.

As we sped past the local police station, I without a helmet, Jose assured me it was no biggie as we were going a few meters past the station to the bus terminal. Just then we hit a speed bump the size of a pimple on an adolescent's forehead and I was lifted off my seat. Since I am a big guy, I thought I would kill the shocks on the back of his bike when I finally did land back in the saddle. All I could compare this to was maybe riding a Bronco and it bucking me nearly clean off. When I landed, sometime later, I was still alive and Jose was in full control. We stopped at the bus terminal and I cautiously exited the bike. Not because I was feeling like Pinky Tuscadero on back of the Fonz’s English Triumph TR6 Trophy in episodes of Happy Days, but because I was not sure if my heart was pounding too hard and my legs were shaking too much to stand on my own.

I was so thrilled that I ran home to tell a sleeping Carme about my adventure. She brushed me off with a "that's nice, honey. Now go to bed...” the next morning I awoke, I was craving for more. I expressed to Carme that I was still excited and wanted more; she thought to herself that we should go to her parent’s house. I had forgotten that they had two motos in the garage. They were stored there in the winter mostly and unearthed during the blitzkrieg of invading tourists for ease and mobility in this small town. She took me to her parents to see if I wanted to learn how to ride the newer of the two motos and, salivating profusely, I just muttered a "yeah".

When we made it to her parents, I began my first and only lesson in the mean streets of Tossa. The only thing slowing me down was trying to squeeze my head into the larger of the two helmets owned by her parents. I laughed internally when I saw the fallen gray hairs of her father still embedded in the lining of the helmet, wondering if mine would gray quickly when I took off on the bike solo. Finally I tucked in my ears comfortably but knew I could not wear this helmet too long as my head was feeling a slight pressure and my brain would soon leak thru my nostrils. After riding passenger with Carme, just to relive those windy and exhilarating moments, I decided to go it alone. The hum of the small motor churned and I could feel the vibrations in my seat and legs, but could not heat it due to the skin tight fit of the helmet on my head. I hit the throttle and lifted my feet from the ground as the moto took off and I was securely settled in the saddle. I wanted to yelp out a "YEE HAW" but, as when you are wearing earphones and trying to speak, you tend to speak a little louder than you should and all of Tossa would have heard it. I took a roundabout and came out fine. I was scared I would not be aware of how to balance the bike but, sorry for this, it's like riding a bike. I took a few laps down the street and back, trying my best to avoid pedestrians and abiding by the laws of traffic, while praying for no increase in traffic all of a sudden.

When I finally came to a stop, parked the bike and took off my helmet with a resounding and echoing pop like that of a suction cup, I smiled and staggered my wobbly legs to the nearest seat and just smiled for the rest of the day.