Getting Out of This Place

I have 100% confidence in Chris's motorcycle driving abilities. I do. I wouldn't even consider getting on the back of a motorcycle if I didn't think he knew what he was doing. He's careful, aware, responsible and all of this is heightened when I am with him. Having stated this, riding in and out of New York City is a nightmare. Even on a random Thursday afternoon, getting out of Manhattan took a FOR-EV-ER. I trust my husband, it's everyone else that I don't like being on the road with.

There is the illegal immigrant without a drivers license in the POS beside us that is about to loose it's bumper. I've never noticed so many vans with ladders strapped to the top- and what if one of these decided to come off? A "black car" (you know, one of those car services people with money use instead of taxis) rode our bumper the last mile or so in the Bronx. Chris yelled at him. I flinched.

"He has passengers with him," Chris reassured me.

"Good," I yelled back "At least that way he won't shoot at me. Witnesses."

Stopping and going, stopping and going. It's awful. Want to "get out and hit the open road?" Yeah, it's not going to happen until you are about seventy miles outside of the city. After we got upstate we got on Highway One, which was scenic and homey. We continued on this way into Greenwich, Connecticut and ate a late lunch (3:00 or so) in Norwalk. We had gone 45 miles in 4 hours. Granted we stopped at a gorgeous city park and took the less traveled road instead of Interstate 95, but still.

It's frightening out there. I mean, when we had to stop in the Bronx and refer to the iPhone for directions to get the heck out of this city, there was nothing between me and Mr. Scary Man. At least in a car I have a wanna-be metal door. A lock. Something. On a motorcycle it's just me and him. Okay, and my 6'5" husband, which doesn't hurt. I turned the diamond on my engagement ring toward my palm. I tried to look nonchalant. Like, "Oh yeah, I'm not a pretty white girl from the Upper East Side. I live in Harlem, as a matter of fact, and I can kick your ass." I don't think anyone would ever buy that, but I tired.

What if someone's hubcap came flying off- hitting my arm at 70+ miles per hour, or worse decapitating me. I realize these things could happen while riding a motorcycle anywhere, but in Texas is was so much easier to get away. To find space. To not sit in traffic for two hours. A van merged a little to quickly to my liking at what point I yelled out, "Cuss words" at the top of my lungs. Literally. I just yelled, "Cuss words. Cuss you, you stupid van."

Then, there was the lady smoking pot. While driving. In the car beside us. And this was in the quaint and wealthy community of Rye, New York. This was your mom smoking pot while driving her 2008 Toyota Camry. I'm serious. Chris is all, "Do you smell that?" And I'm like, "Yeah." And he's like, "Someone is smoking pot." So, I start scanning the sidewalks for someone smoking. This went on for a minute or so. "Where is that coming from?" Then, we see the nice looking lady in a business suit who is DRIVING HER CAR, take one last hit and roll up her window. Are you freaking kidding me!?

After we decided to head home, I kept asking Chris if I could just get on the Metro North Rail and take it back to Penn Station. I'm pretty sure I said, "I am so done with this" no less than ten times. He would not allow me board the train, but he did say riding with me hanging on the back of the motorcycle added stress to his trip.

"If I lay this bike over, I can just roll out of it, or you know..."

"Or die," I pipe in.

"Yeah, or die. But you're with me. And I can't let you die. I have to take care of you."