Ride or Die: Scooting in Bermuda
Recently, my husband Dan, my father and I headed to Bermuda to visit with our longtime family friends who live there. Besides visiting with them, one of the things I was most looking forward to was riding my own moped again.
I first rode a moped on my own in 2013 and I don’t recall being particularly frightened that first go. As our recent trip this year began to loom closer and closer, though, I suddenly felt mixed feelings about the prospect--equal parts excited, equal parts terrified. Dan kindly offered to rent a two-seater--he could drive the two of us, he said, but I was determined to ride solo. Riding a scooter felt like it aligned perfectly with my new year’s goal of being more capable, and what’s more, it had just been plain untainted fun when I’d done it before.
Renting the Bikes
The morning after we arrived in Bermuda, we walked down to the local cycle shop from our friends’ house. I had forgotten the process of renting one in Bermuda was bewilderingly easy.
It went like this: My husband, father and I walked into the cycle shop. Ding, ding, chimed the bells announcing our presence.
The white-haired man behind the counter piped, “What are you folks looking for?”
Dad explained we’d need three mopeds for four days.
“Ridden before?”
“Yes,” our three voices said, with varying degrees of confidence. I clamped my mouth shut to quell the wave of nervous nausea that threatened to spill over.
“Great,” he said.
The man filled out paperwork, said “Sign here, here and here.” Should we read the fine print? I wondered, looking around as Dad and Dan pacifically signed their paperwork, their brows unfurrowed, relaxed.
As the scooter gent swiped our credit cards, I tucked my license back into my wallet--apparently proof of vehicular ability was not necessary. Hmmh, I thought, feeling slightly unsettled.
“All right,” the man said. “Anthony will give you a quick refresh on the bikes and you’ll be on your way.”
We grabbed a few helmets--Dad’s, of course, failed to fit his large head--and we headed out to the parking lot. Perhaps Anthony will be in the bathroom, I hoped fervently, or taking a walk, or otherwise engaged elsewhere for a very very long time. Anything to buy a bit more time before the scooter test! I thought desperately.
But as fate would have it, faithful old Anthony was outside waiting for us. My heart had been fluttering about this moment for weeks and, upon seeing him, it began to cough and sputter.
“Right,” Anthony began, sitting sidesaddle on a parked bike. “Gas, brakes, signals, kickstand, starter, horn. Ready for your test drives?”
His syllables came out in one quick puff of steam, leaving me sweaty and unsure.
Dad and Dan, on the other hand, nodded in unison like the Bobsey twins: we’re ready!
I cleared my throat. “Riiiiiight,” I said. I, uh, still had some questions. “What do I do for the gas again?”
I wondered if this question would result in my being demoted to riding tandem on Dan’s bike, but Anthony smiled kindly. He went through the bike’s anatomy once more, nodding encouragingly you’re getting it right? Despite his endearing outward display of faith in me, I got the feeling he expected I would be covered in road rash after my test drive.
Testing 1, 2...3
Theoretically, the test drive was simple: Pull out of the parking lot (remembering of course that they drive on the left side of the road in Bermuda), go up the road a bit and turn around and finally pull back into the parking lot. Elegant and simple in its vagueness to everyone but me.
With easy flair, Dad and Dan kicked off onto their test drives. They smiled rakishly. No big deal! they said, pulling into the parking lot after they’d done their loop. I scowled at their ease and beatific smiles and finally had to admit that the time had come. I was up. My knees were knocking a bit and I was afraid to move in case the ground fell out below my legs.
Anthony looked at me. I attempted a smile and hopped on the bike, accidentally popping the horn. “Oops!” I said, flashing another unconvincing smile his way yet again. He nodded, good old Anthony, and I gave the scooter a little gas. It bucked like a bronco. Jesus CHRIST, I thought, as I broke out into hives. To describe the moment as “wobbly” would not do my take-off justice. I was off though, embarking on the test drive.
I puttered forward, getting out of view of the cycle shop before panicking and pulling into a nearby driveway. I had scooted approximately 20 feet and I was shaking like a set of wind-up teeth. I am very scared, I thought. I breathed deeply. I realized as I breathed deeply that I had pulled into a driveway with a textbook blind corner. I couldn’t see anything around the bend. In other words--be it a massive Isuzu truck, another moped or a poisonous cane toad coming around the bend--I would not be able to see it as I pulled out of the driveway and back into traffic.
I thought about the mindfulness meditations I'd tried so hard to practice--the breath was supposed to fix everything! I thought mournfully. The breath would get me part way there as I collected myself, but I realized I would have to simply commit if I was going to do this.
I studied the corner. Vehicles rushed around it unforgivingly, at full throttle. If I reentered the road meekly from where I was, and a vehicle happened to be coming, I’d be roadkill. Well this sucks, I thought.
I breathed again, prayed my friends and family wouldn’t read my journals that I had always meant to redact and let it rip.
Somehow, I did not die.
Glory
As I puttered along, feeling the rain of relief falling on my insides, I saw Anthony speeding up the road in the opposite direction, no doubt looking for me, images of horrific road rash flaring in his mind. I flashed him a winning smile oh hello! No problems here!, clicked on my blinker and turned back into the cycle shop.
“How was it?” Dan asked. “We were worried you crashed!”
“Totally fine,” I smiled, praying the hives had faded.
