Page 24 of Tito

8

Tito

Reggie was a bundle of nervous apprehension when I picked her up and had remained that way throughout the night. She finished her first glass of wine in an instant. Now half-way through her second glass and waiting on our food to arrive, the nervousness she possessed was diminishing. Relaxed in her seat and grinning permanently, it appeared her protective walls were coming down.

“What made you nervous about riding on the motorcycle?” I asked.

“Oh. My God. What didn’t? It’s definitely not what I expected I can tell you that much.” She flipped her braid over her shoulder and chuckled. “I’m just glad we made it here alive.”

“Do you feel safe in a car?”

“If I’m the one driving?” She studied her wine glass. Apparently dissatisfied that it was almost gone, she lowered it to the table. “Sure. Sometimes when I’m riding with others, not so much.”

“Did you feel unprotected? On the motorcycle?”

“It’s hard to explain.” She traced her thumb around the edge of the glass. “Vulnerable. I felt vulnerable.”

“That’s understandable.”

“It’s just. I had expectation of loving it. Girls rave about them,” she said. “I don’t know how many times I’ve heard how awesome it is to ride on a motorcycle. No disrespect, but if I make it home alive, I’ll probably never get on one again.”

At least she was honest. I wondered how many of the women who regularly rode on the back of a motorcycle truly enjoyed it. My guess was they were there because the man riding it wanted them to be.

“Do you suppose the women you’re speaking of—the ones who claim it’s awesome to ride on a motorcycle—are lying?” I asked.

“They’re either lying or they’re stupid,” she said dryly.

“They’re certainly not for everyone, but motorcycles are both fun and safe. If they’re ridden with respect, that is.”

“The federal government mandates that cars must comply with safety standards,” she said. “They have regulations that vehicles must pass. Did you know that?”

I did but chose not to admit it. “I didn’t realize that, no.”

“Those regulations prevent Joe Schmoe from putting a V-8 engine on his leather recliner and driving it down the freeway.” She leaned toward the center of the table, as if preparing to tell me a secret. “A motorcycle provides about the same amount of protection to the rider as a V-8 powered recliner.”

I mentally laughed at the thought of some hillbilly driving a Barcalounger down the freeway. Feeling compelled to defend bikers in general, however, I tried to do just that. “I think most people get in their cars, buckle their seatbelts, and leave for their destinations with the understanding that they’re safe. Subsequently, they drive carelessly, under the false impression that the vehicle will protect them from harm. Most experienced motorcycle riders, on the other hand, are extremely defensive in their manner of riding. They must be. They’ve got to deal with the careless drivers. The motorcycle might not provide the structural protection that an automobile does, but a cautious rider makes up for it in his ability to avoid the situations that the driver of a car won’t even notice.”

“You’re saying drivers of cars are less attentive than motorcycle riders?”

“Generally speaking? Yes.”

“I disagree.”

“Based on what?” I asked.

“Based on the fact that I think you’re mistaken.” She leaned against the back of her chair and gave me a look like she didn’t believe a word I’d said. “I don’t know where you get your facts, but I see motorcycle riders doing dumb shit all the time. Splitting lanes on the freeway. Riding wheelies. You name it. I’ve seen it. Then when I see a guy squashed on the freeway, I just shake my head and say, it was only a matter of time.”

I cleared my throat. “I said a ‘cautious rider’ avoids accidents.”

“Is there such a thing? A cautious rider?” She laughed. “That’s an oxymoron, isn’t it?”

I wasn’t going to convince her to like motorcycles. As I contemplated which direction to divert our conversation, the waitress approached the table with a plate in each hand.

“The fish special for you,” she said, carefully placing one of the plates in front of Reggie. She turned and handed me the other plate. “And the grilled octopus and shrimp for you.” She glanced at each of us. “Anything else?”

Reggie started to speak, and then took pause.

“Bring each of us a glass of wine, if you would, please,” I said. “Whatever she’s drinking is fine.”