Feisty Repartee

Sisters, Guys, and Motorcycles

When I was seventeen, my older sister and I shared an apartment while we attended college. She had a boyfriend back then. I, of course, did not. With three years separating us in age, we were rivals with grades, our parents' affection, and attention from the boys, as well as everything else under the sun. I may have won out on the grades, but she won out with the boys.

My sister and I share biological parents, but we do not resemble one another. She has always been slight of build and most petite. She stands 4' 11 ¾" and back then, probably weighed 90 pounds. She has thick black hair and very oriental features. I stand 5' 6" and weigh a good deal more than 90 pounds and have very dark brown hair. I could possibly look less oriental, only if my hair were blonde. Since I caught up with her in height (when I was five and she eight), she has taken great delight in referring to me as her "baby" sister when speaking of me to others, particularly those who have never met me.

One afternoon, near the end of a spring semester, Steve, a classmate and guy I was interested in, was driving me to our apartment to trade books with me. I was going to give him my Constitutional Law books and he was going to give me some history books for the next semester. As we pulled up, my sister and her boyfriend were talking to a couple of guys who lived in the apartment complex, one of whom had just purchased a new motorcycle, a Honda Shadow 500. As Steve and I approached, I heard my diminutive sweet (sarcasm) older sister say: "My baby sister has a bigger motorcycle than that." This statement, of course, led to much disbelief and then discussion.

After introducing myself to the group, I answered the obligatory: "This is your baby sister?!" The owner of the motorcycle then asked me if, in fact, I could ride a motorcycle. I answered in the affirmative and explained I received my first mini-bike at age five, at eight had a Honda 200, then graduated to a Honda 360 at ten, a Triumph 750 at thirteen, and a cobalt blue Honda Gold Wing 1000 at fifteen. I was uncertain whether it was because he was duly impressed with my stated experience, the number of beers he had already consumed or the challenge issued by my dear sister, but the owner asked me to show him I could ride.

This was not a problem. I straddled the machine, started the engine, and without a backward glance, proceeded to tool around the parking lot, then cut out into the street, opened it up for a couple of blocks, wheeled it around, and returned. It was a cool bike. Yes, it was a bit smaller than those to which I had grown accustomed, but it was quick and easy to handle. I also noticed it had about 50 miles on the odometer.

When I pulled up to return the bike, its owner was apparently having difficulty drawing what appeared to be a sober breath. I then remembered Steve and thought it might be fun to take him for a ride. At this point, it did not occur to me to ask if he had ever ridden a motorcycle before. So, I asked the owner if I could borrow his bike for a while and assured him I'd top-off the tank before I returned it. For reasons known only to him, he let me take his brand new bike!

I then smiled at Steve and asked him to hop on. With what appeared to be only a moment's hesitation, Steve said okay and climbed on behind me. Steve was a big guy and a football player. He was probably at least 6' or so and weighed no less than 200 pounds. There was plenty of room on the bike. It was stripped with no running board, sissy bar, bags or ferring, only two sets of foot pegs.

Because of his added weight, it took a few minutes for me to get comfortable with how the bike handled and, instinctively, I headed for the outskirts of town. Before long, we were whizzing by the rice fields on flat open roads. The thing about flat open roads, they become boring after about fifteen minutes, no matter the speed.

Next, I decided we should head for the interstate. The interstate was busy and more difficult to ride than the country roads. There was definitely more traffic, it was harder to be certain whether other drivers actually saw the motorcycle, and there were grooves cut into the roadway that affected the ride of two wheels more so than vehicles with four or more. We were still doing fine and I, for one, was certainly enjoying the afternoon.

Our destination: along the interstate was one of the tallest, steepest bridges I knew that stood over one part of the Calcasieu River. This was not my favorite bridge. I did not like bridges and was not that fond of heights. Why on that particular day I thought it would be fun, I did not know. I seemed to recall a certain uneasiness as a child when driving over that bridge in car or truck. I had never ridden over that bridge on a motorcycle before. I had certainly not ridden over that bridge with another human on the bike behind me!

As we approached the bridge, I edged over into the right hand lane. The semi-trucks and other vehicles were picking up speed in the left hand lane, it was getting a bit congested, and I was getting a bit nervous. We hit the bottom of the bridge and began the ascent. It was wild! The higher we got the stronger the wind was blowing. I felt I actually had to lean the bike to the right, into the wind, to keep it upright.

We were about two-thirds to the top of the bridge when I began to feel the breath being sucked out of me. My companion had given up his hold on each side of his seat and reached around my waist to hold on tight. He was literally, squeezing me in two. I released the left handle bar in an effort to get him to loosen his grip around my middle. At that point, poor Steve began shouting: "I don't want to die!" "Stop!"

Dilemma: What now? There was no shoulder on the bridge. There was no place to stop. There were four lanes, two headed west and two headed east. People were driving at speeds of 60 + miles per hour. What was a girl to do?

As calmly as I could, without taking my eyes off the road or further endangering us, I screamed back at him: "What?!" "What is your problem?!" To which he screamed back: "I've never been on a motorcycle before!" Oh.

I slowed the bike down and pleaded with Steve to stay calm and hang on. The last thing I needed or wanted was for him to jump or "bail" off the back of the bike. That would certainly have killed both of us. We eventually made it off the bridge and took the first exit which, unfortunately, was a tight loop that did nothing to calm my passenger down. At the first available opportunity, I pulled over to the side of the road and shut the bike down. As I came to a complete stop, poor Steve rolled off the back of the bike and threw himself face down into a grassy-dirt type area just off the shoulder of the road.

After I turned the bike off and secured it on the stand, I walked over to check on him. Oh, dear lord, I was ill prepared for him! He was crying. He was not sniffling, he was all out bawling his eyes out. He could barely breathe. If I had known the term back then, I probably would have said he was having a full blown panic attack or anxiety attack! It took me over an hour and the sun setting to calm him down where he could actually sit up and talk to me again.

Fortunately, there was a convenience store near by and I was also able to walk over and get him a soda, all while he sat on the ground desperately trying to collect himself. It was not a pretty sight. I felt very bad for him. It just never occurred to me a grown man of twenty-one or twenty-two had never been on a motorcycle before. Who knew such creatures existed?

Only after I thought Steve was sufficiently recovered, did I bother to mention that we still had to get home and it was now getting really dark. We had three options for the return trip, the long way on the twisty, perilous Baghdad road with no center stripe to a flat bridge over the Calcasieu, the 210 loop bridge which was taller and longer than the I10 bridge, but had a much more gradual incline, or back over the I10 bridge. To his credit, after I explained our options, he merely asked which was the shortest route. I told him that was the I10 bridge again. Without further discussion, I started the bike and with a very deep breath he got back on. I carefully guided us back onto the interstate. He held onto to me, but allowed me to breathe, and back over the bridge we went, without word, comment or further incident.

Safely back at the apartment complex, Steve got off the bike and without a glance or goodbye, got in his car and drove off. I took the bike and filled it with gas. After I parked it and returned the keys to its owner, I went to my apartment and told my sister and her boyfriend what happened. My sister's only comment: "And you wonder why no one ever asks you out?"

Steve never spoke to me again.

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