Motorcycle Mama
The joy of letting go, and holding on.
I was eight when I got my first All Terrain Vehicle (ATV). It was red, shiny, and so advanced that I needed to shift gears (which I made sure to do with gusto). The machine’s metallic intestines were exposed and the exhaust pipe constantly burned my calves. The clementine-sized blisters were nothing a pair of plastic cowgirl boots from Wal-Mart couldn’t fix.
In no time, I deemed myself and demanded others call me “Motorcycle Mama.” Unfortunately, my title came crashing down quickly. The faux-wood heel of my right boot fell off among the rotten fruit in the plum orchards and I was forced to walk like a carousel horse, slowing maneuvering up and down; faster if I was excited.
My friend Kristin didn’t care about my lack of proper footwear and was a loyal passenger, clutching my abdomen as I pushed the throttle as far as it would go. We’d dig out empty plastic water bottles from the recycling bin, unscrew the caps, and hold them open in the wind, trying to catch cicadas. We’d fill the under seat compartment with freshly picked raspberries, park the machine, then devour the slightly-smelling-like-gasoline-exhaust fruit.
After I turned sixteen, the cherry bomb Kawasaki could no longer fulfill my desires to explore the world. It wasn’t as cool as a vehicle that required an actual drivers license. I retired the machine to my father’s stone quarry, to be used as a courtesy vehicle.
I never looked back. Wasn’t that what my ATV taught me—to look onward. To see what was ahead, under the overgrown grass. To see if this journey had any visible speed bumps?
Then, almost twenty-four hours after we said “I do,” my husband and I landed on a 100-step cement staircase in Santorini, Greece, where tan men wearing white linen uniforms and white-framed sunglasses painted our hotel’s already-white exterior bright white.
“Are your legs shaking,” I asked Oscar when we finally arrived in our cave-like suite appropriate for all types of romantic encounters. My thighs felt like jelly. “I mean, I’m a certified pilates instructor. I’m in shape. The best shape of my life.” I caressed my rear end, as if to say, look, this thing is rock hard.
“It’s just these stairs … they’re so steep and there’s so many,” I continued.
As we dipped zucchini fritters in tzatziki under the umbrellas on the beach, the faint noise of ATV engines roared in the background. I half expected to hear crashing plates and the guttural “OPA,” so I was slightly disappointed and ignored the revving of motors.
As we ate sticky Greek donuts on the side of a cobblestone street, I rolled my eyes at the tourists flying by on four-wheelers smaller than my seven-year-old nephew’s.
It seemed like everywhere we turned, the island was infiltrated with these multi-colored ATVs.
“They look like idiots, in their helmets and the big RENT ME sticker plastered on the side of their new toys,” I said to Oscar about the tourists flying by. “They are screaming ignorant vacationer. No Greek people ride those things.”
“Actually, I think it’s pretty cool,” he said. The romantic honeymoon soundtrack playing in my mind stopped. “When else would you be able to ride one of those on city streets? And it’ll certainly help with all of the stair climbing. You’re always complaining about your burning thighs. I think we should do it.”
Deep down, this was exactly what I was afraid of. Oscar, who grew up in Venezuela, had a very different upbringing than I did. While I was riding my go-carts and helping my dad dig dirt on an excavator, he was learning how to program a computer to say “hello.” I had gotten the crazy ATV riding out of my system early on.
“Well, my body can handle the stairs,” I said. “I don’t want to rent one and look stupid.”
“I do.”
Perhaps it was the fact that we had just said those words so lovingly to each other in front of our friends and family. Perhaps it was something inside of me that wanted him to have that feeling I had as a kid. That feeling of being free, of having the wind blow through your hair at excessive speeds.
Whatever it was, I caved and we soon found ourselves at the rental shop, forking over Oscar’s New York license. The Greek sales associate was stereotypically blasé, and I couldn’t help but check my sunburn in the reflection of his Raybans.
Five minutes later, we strapped on bright orange salad-bowl-style helmets and were out the door. The gas tank was on empty (which I felt to be a bad omen), so we stopped at a gas station. Oscar had no shame as he pumped fuel into our ride. He smiled, giddy with excitement, and proudly wore his helmet into the building to pay. I stared down, diverting eye contact with the drivers waiting behind us. When was it socially acceptable to take this treacherous looking helmet off?
Once refueled, Oscar pushed the 100-horsepower engine as far as it could go. It wasn’t nearly as fast as my Kawasaki, and oftentimes we had to wave of our arms, without turning around, for cars to pass us. Going downhill, we both leaned forward, hunched over, to make sure we were as aerodynamic as possible. But it didn’t make a difference. This thing was slow.
Within an hour, we found ourselves at the top of a mountain, looking down on the classically beautiful white buildings. I forgot I was wearing a helmet and attempted to kiss Oscar, only to have my visor poke his eye. After a quick check to make sure his eyeball was still intact, that free feeling came back to me.
I turned to Oscar and whispered, “I’m your Motorcycle Mama now.”
Leigh Nannini lives in the Hudson Valley region of New York where she works at the family business, a stone quarry. Similarities between the Nannini family, a stone quarry. Similarities between her life and that of Pebbles Flintstone are abundant. Despite her resistance, Leigh still finds herself in the passenger’s seat of various forms of tourist-only transportation: camels in Giza, cable cars in Hong Kong, and tuk-tuks in Bangkok. She comes to terms with this.