The bike break

I am my father’s daughter. I think like him, talk like him, am hardheaded and can sometimes be glib like him, am dexterous like him, hard on other people and self, forcefully hot tempered like him, and dare i say it, arrogantly insouciant like him too (but only cause i’m always right). And if you can’t get over skin color and the shape of my nose, you might say i look like him too.

Situation-wise i find myself in a very similar spot from where he was, before he retired. I work the same hours he used to - 7 to 3.30, and i am at a place now where he was when i was very young - a little chunk of my insides rotting from the stew of not being able to have a vehicle of my own.

Yes, I’m back to the motorbike thing.

I’m a planes, trains and automobiles kinda girl. That, i got from Dad. Dad has 3 daughters (and is quite relieved he never had a son), and as i showed an early inclination for getting down in the dirt with the boys, while never developing any interest in playing house, i became a son-of-sorts, his idea of the best of both worlds. He brought me fishing, bought me knives, encouraged me to play sport, when i was old enough, regaled me with tales about the two and four wheeled hot rods he had when he was a young man, and how to love them and every little nut and bolt that makes them up. Don’t get me wrong, Dad isn’t one of those guys who can dismantle an engine and put it back together without batting an eyelid. It’s hard to be completely hands on in the motherland; but close maintenance, performance scrutiny, sensitivity to the nuances of your engine’s idle, are things that are not hard to learn if you are so inclined. In short, i leant that vehicle ownership isn’t about transportation, it’s a love affair.

When your dad’s your very own anti-hero, these are things that become more or less permanently imprinted. My sisters and i have learnt many things from our father, importantly, the life lessons that would have been deemed suitable for even sons in the regulated, stifled society we grew up in, this being an example.

But back to the motorbike thing.

My parents sacrificed a lot for my dad to have a car, back in those early days. My dad had ridden a motorcycle for many years, but gave it up when i was born. Cause it was dangerous and he had an infant to consider, etc. One day when i was eight, he went running for the bus in the rain on the way to work, and something snapped.

He came home that day and told my mom “i’m sick of this. I’m getting a bike.”

She freaked.

They compromised and got a car, a second hand 1983 Mitsubishi Lancer.

Things appear to have gone that way for me as well. After howling on and off about my spousal obstacle in getting a motorbike, it would appear i’ve won.

My poor husband sighed and gave in one night when a disagreement about one thing, unrelated, turned into this issue with the bike. I’ve been stewing about this for months, and it was getting to the stage where not being able to get a bike was the root of all evil. Period. No money for fuel? Cause i can’t get a bike. I’m being a bitch about household cleanliness? Cause i can’t get a bike. Didn’t reset the alarm clock after i woke up? Yup, cause i woke up late, cause i can’t get a bike. Couldn’t get fresh bak choy at the green grocer’s? Yup, you guessed it, cause i got there too late can’t get a bike.

But here’s the irony.

I’m actually having second thoughts about getting the motorbike altogether. I’m quite happy doing this cycling thing. Getting a vehicle would just kill it, beyond doubt. ‘Cause while i might have the intention to cycle on working days and keep the motorized version as a weekend warrior, it won’t happen; getting around is so much easier with an engine.

Importantly though, is the practicality of it. While cycling is a pleasurable and very cheap distraction, i’m still quite mad on the motorcycle thing. I have lost all interest in cars; that R34 GTR across the road, which used inflame insane attacks of lust everyday (being the pinnacle of performance that it is), is now viewed with mild, though still reverent, appreciation. I don’t want it anymore. On the other hand, everytime i see a biker decked out in full leathers on a sports bike zooming by, my breath catches in my throat and my heart pauses to remember its function. This, by the way, is very bad for when you’re trying not to fall off a cracked pavement into a steep ditch.

But keeping a machine for the pure pleasure of is just crazy when your money is:

a) definitely too limited to fund such an indulgence
b) could go to a more productive cause. Like getting this car shit sorted. Or actually saving.

We will see. A change of situation will probably warp the current story altogether.

Score!