This past weekend, I did something that I haven't done in almost two months: I drove a car. And after coming back to school alive (surprisingly), it's definitely a good thing there's nothing for me in Madison to start up and accelerate—for you and me both. Not only does my driving resemble Helen Keller's, I also have a definite degree of road rage inside me.
If I'm waiting at a light that's about to turn green and a clan of grandmothers starts crossing, I'm not going to lay on the gas. However, if yellow looks like it's approaching and they haven't finished crossing yet, I will start inching forward. But I always tell myself, ""Wait, this is bad, you should stop."" So I do... usually. I also just really like my horn.
But lately, I've been brainstorming new ways to get around town. I like to walk, but I never seem to make it on time to anything. And that strange half-stroll-half-sprint habit I've developed is just not working. I'm also tired of power walking up Bascom only to be instantly passed up by the Yao Ming-like man behind me. Next time this happens, I'm jumping on his back and in eight long strides, I too will reach Ingraham.
Then there are mopeds, but I'm not sure how I feel about them. They're certainly convenient and come in an array of fun colors and models. But to be stopped somewhere and approached by a motorcycle... oh, the shame. I've actually seen students wipe something from the corner of their eye as a Harley roars in front of them.
Riding a motorcycle is like being the electric guitarist in a band while the moped is the person tapping the triangle in the corner of the stage. Don't confuse this with the cowbell because that's a completely different matter. Ladies love the cowbell, but triangles—not so much. So maybe I should get a motorcycle. However, not being able to reach the pedals may pose a problem.
Skateboards and rollerblades are another option, but I'm not very comfortable with the idea of rapid movement when thin plastic or wood and a couple of little wheels are the only thing stopping me from kissing pavement. Plus, rollerblades make me think of frightfully tan 45-year-old men in hot pink cut-off shirts and NASCAR sunglasses skating down Venice Beach. That's not a good look for me.
I could always just get a bike. I know it would be the best and most feasible option. But I'm so used to my relationship with cyclists as a pedestrian. I run across the street while they charge at me, then I stand frozen and scream bloody murder as they brake as quickly as possible. After pedaling around me in irritation, I yell my apologies by the time they've turned the corner. It's what I do. I'm not sure how I'd be on the other end of the relationship.
I guess I'll stick with my feet for now because nothing else seems to fit just right. Even when I'm behind the wheel and Luda is pumping through my speakers, my inner-thug feels trapped inside the wrong body. But then I lean my seat back, turn on the hydraulics and shoot a few rounds of my nine-millimeter from the sunroof. Doing this always reminds me that some things are better left unknown.
