I go out at night on this motorcycle I bought about 6 weeks ago, on my 25th birthday. I love this bike. We seemed to be made for one another. Even the license plate (which has long since expired) says "1983"--the year I was born. I don't believe in fate, but at times I wonder.
In order to legally ride the bike, I need 1) current tags and 2) a motorcycle license. I have neither. I have the title, and about 30 minutes of my time and $75 of my money would get me cleared for tags. The license comes from taking a written/driving test, or taking a 2-day class. I plan on doing this. I will eventually go to the courthouse and get the tags, and I'll take the test, and I'll be completely legal.
But for now, I sneak out at night and ride up and down neighborhoods. Not for any purpose other than clearing my head, keeping the engine running, and wasting gas (hard to waste gas on something that gets 70+ mpg, thankfully). The weather is warm, and there's little traffic, so I practice changing gears and hand signals, all the while warding away any cops with a Jedi-like mantra in my head: "You don't see my tags have expired. No. You don't want to pull me over." Seems to work.
I live where the streets are named after presidents. But there's this bigger neighborhood where I go to ride. All of the streets are named after Robin Hood: characters, location, etc. Where I lived as an undergrad, I used to pass this street called "Cinderella Drive." Now I drive through Sherwood Forest. It's like I moved from one Disney movie to another, but at least none of the animals are singing to me. Yet.
I go slowly up and down each street. I try not to go too fast, because the bike can get loud. At the same time, I don't want to go too slowly and appear to be casing the joint. I pass by people and nod; they usually return the gesture. The other day, I saw a guy getting on his motorcycle. We shared a glance of mutual understanding, sort of like we shared some secret. Though, "secret" is not an appropriate description, because our "secret" was the metallic beasts we rode...which anyone could see.
I like to ride through this area because it's really beautiful. The houses are older, and they're probably not what people would think of as "incredibly nice" nowadays--what, with McMansions popping up on every undeveloped property imaginable--but they're old-school nice. Big yards, gardens, colorful trees and plants. You can pass through at night and smell the life: woodsmoke and fresh cut grass in their respective seasons, homecooked dinners, and of course, the flowers.
When I say it's beautiful, it's not because I aspire to live somewhere like that. Nice as it is...it's still a neighborhood. The yards are big, but not big enough. There are fences. Everything is trapped. Some trees are enclosed in brick circles--like they're these massive plants that someone decided to grow in their front yard. It's all too close, and it's all too restrictive. A little ironic, I suppose, that it would all be named after a hero and his crew who lived away from that type of life.
Still, the visuals are intoxicating: it's like driving through a painting. You're not a part of it--you can't stop and touch it--but it's a nice experience to be connected to something and still very much separate from it.
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