MARK: Getting whacked
For my 21st birthday, I bought myself a new 1983 Kawasaki GPZ750 and I rode it flat-out everywhere. It was a fast bike, too, and I thought I looked pretty cool on it.
I met a girl at a party and she gave me her number. The next day, I called and asked her if she’d like to go out for dinner, but she said – and I kid you not – “actually, I’d just like to go out for a ride with you on your motorcycle.” OMG! How often do you get to meet a woman like that?
I picked her up from her house, me in my full leather sportbike regalia, and we rode around for a while. I don’t remember where, but I probably rode some ramps off the Don Valley Parkway and that sort of thing. Truly impressive, I’m sure, and she was happy. We ended up in downtown Toronto, looking for a place to stop for a coffee.
We were headed north on Yonge St. and stopped for a red light somewhere around the Eaton Centre. This was going great! I revved the motor, of course. When the light turned green, I dumped the clutch and shot off up the road. There’d been some pedestrians still crossing the street and one guy in a suit had to leap out of my way to avoid being clipped. I thought that was pretty funny.
The light at the next block turned red and I stopped for it, still revving the engine. I asked my passenger if she was okay and she said yes, she was having a great time. She loved the power of the bike. She was my perfect partner. I probably squeezed her knee. Love was in the air.
Glancing down to look in the mirror, I saw somebody running up the middle of the road toward us. It was the guy who leaped out of our way. He didn’t look happy. He was approaching fast and the light was still red and there was traffic blocking every exit and there was nowhere to go and the light was still red and suddenly he was right there and he whacked me around the back of the helmet with his bag, hard.
It was all I could do to keep the bike upright as he yelled at me and hit me again. The light eventually turned green and I got us out of there, but totally chagrined. The guy had been absolutely correct – I was an asshole and a poser piece of shit and a total dick. I’m sure there was more, but I knew he was right. Worse, my passenger on the pillion knew he was right, too. I asked if she still wanted to go for that coffee and she said, no, she just wanted to go home.
That was the end of a beautiful relationship. If it hadn’t been a first date, she might have cut me some slack, but I deserved the guy’s abuse and it was easier to just ride away.
When I dropped her off at home, I asked if we might go out again sometime. No, she said – I don’t go out with assholes. Fair enough and point taken. She was beautiful and funny and fun, and that was all gone now. At least I still had my motorcycle.
