Look Where You Want to Go · 7:23pm Sep 24th, 2018
Drunk Dave.
Motherfucking Drunk Dave with his god damn motorcycle, Drunk Dave. There's a lot of things I can tell you about Drunk Dave, and in the same vein, a lot of stuff I can't tell you about Drunk Dave.
Let's start with the former.
It was at my nephew's birthday party when I first met him. Pulling along the gravel road, the cruiser cruised onto the grass and into a tight place between two trees. The biker kicked out his stand, flipped up his visor, and without taking off his helmet went to the back of his bike, opened up a saddle and whipped out a six pack of beer.
He drank a can before shaking my hand.
“Name's Dave,” the man who was Dave said, shaking my hand. “You?”
“Braden,” I replied. My hand felt wet. “But everyone calls me B.”
“Fancy a drink?”
“I'm alright, thanks.”
“Wanna learn how to ride a motorbike?”
I tilted my head, squinted, then nodded. “Alright, thanks.”
I am not a smart or careful; I am reckless and attracted to weirdness.
“Pull the clutch, tilt your left foot up, and try not to fall.”
I am not a very tall man—if six foot one can be considered tall. But Drunk Dave is short, so very short, and from the seat of a motorcycle, he is even shorter.
I kicked into first gear and the bike pulled me forward. There's a sensation in the pits of my stomach—like the hollowness gained from a plane taking off. In this case, it's more like a roller coaster that has slipped off the rails.
I drive forward.
“Good,” Drunk Dave said as I pulled up. “You can drive in a straight line.”
I've never been more proud in my life.
“The real trick ain't in driving straight,” he continued. “The talent comes in making turns: how slow ya can make one, and how fast ya can make one.”
First time on a bike and this motherfucker is already wanting me to make turns and shit. We're on a fuckin' gravel road. I don't have a license of any kind.
“So you want me to turn before the hill?”
“Nah,” he replied. “Bottom. Might as well learn going up and down shit while you're at it.”
I nodded my head and did just that.
Surprisingly enough, I did not die that day. Later on into the night, Drunk Dave and I were in the backyard of my sister's home—drinking, of course.
“So Dave,” I said as I reclined into my chair—body sore as fuck, “whaddya do for a living?”
“I'm a first-responder,” Dave replied. “When some dumb fuck crashes on a bike, I'm the first one to show up there on mine. Though when that ain't eating up my time, I fix shit.”
“What kind of shit?”
“Bike shit mostly.” Dave took a swig from his beer as his fingers fiddle inside his jacket pocket. A cigar clutched between his fingertips, he slipped it past his dry lips. “But I fix a ski-lift for work. Go to track to help about; teach younglings to ride a motorbike whenever I get the time.”
“You enjoy it?”
“What part?”
“All of it.”
“Yeah.” Drunk Dave lights his smoke, puffing. “Teaching is the best part though.”
“How come?”
“My daddy taught me how to ride,” he replied. “And now I'm teaching others how to ride. Keepin' the tradition alive.”
It was sweet and slightly illogical all at once, but Drunk Dave was a nice guy, and in being sometimes nice myself, kept my mouth shut.
“I'mma get a bike soon,” I had said during the silence. “Nice cruiser or somethin' to take me across the States. When I do, we should ride.”
Drunk Dave looked at me, and inhaling his smoke deeply, gave me a smokey smile. “Son, I'll show you the world on that bike.”
Some months passed, and I decided to get a bike.
There was a program that would teach you and evaluate you. It took the last of my money, but I did the course—and sucked ass at it. Be it me or the bike, but I was the fuckin' worst in class. The worry was that I would crash or fail or somethin' like that.
Everyone else there was normal, so I didn't have any friends. There was one guy who looked like a loser, but like most losers, he was kind. So we made friends and chatted about how scared we were—scared of being inept, that is.
“I just hope you don't crash,” the fellow loser said to me.
The fellow loser would crash on the second day of the course—I never saw him again.
I was alone again but paired with a nice girl. She was much older than me, attractive too, and she seemed rather fond of me—in a little brother fashion, if you will. We helped each other out, and by her being normal, I was able to connect with all the other normal kids.
When other people think I'm normal, then I can pretend to be such and fit right in.
I was at McDonald beating myself up—it wasn't the first time.
I couldn't pull my clutch without stalling out. Any success in the shifting of gear always pulled me forward like a jet blasting off. Everyone was lucky at me like I was inept and that made me feel bad—though the feeling of speeding on the bike was orgasmic.
Finally, I was on my phone and beating myself up. I was watching videos on how to ride a bike when some familiar voices passed me by.
'
“Do any of you guys have change?” one guy from a group of four had said. “We need five bucks to get drinks.”
They didn't have much money but tried their luck with the cashier—but she was having none of it. So I got up from my seat and paid for their drinks and their meals. I felt good and bad when they thanked me and called me a nice guy.
I'm used to buying people stuff to make them feel like they're my friends.
But these people are nice to me for the rest of the course—supporting me during the test when I'm freaking out. We all got back to the class, and as the day went by, I started to feel better on the bike. The people teaching us liked me cause I talk funny and have an interest in them.
“I plan to drive a bike across the world,” I said. “Like Jesus Christ but with wheels instead of feet.”
They found this funny.
“You're starting to drive well!”
I blinked as I stopped my bike.
I thought I was in trouble.
“You had problems when you started this course,” my instructor continued to say, “and now you're whippin' around like a champ! You'll score the test no problem.”
Nodding, I give my thanks and drive off.
The test came, and I was in trouble.
“Your bike is actin' different than the rest,” another instructor said to me, and in working on my clutch, changed it. “Your bike has been giving you more power. You may feel a slight change, but this shouldn't mess with you on the test.”
I began to freak out because the bike felt different. I was able to drive fine before. Now I couldn't stop stalling or thinking about stalling. I did the final test and was sweating the whole time—I'd swear myself as I finished and drove to the boys from before.
“How badly did I fuck that up?”
“You were fine bro,” they told me. “But that guy behind you dropped his bike. He ain't seeing a bike until next month.”
I was worried that guy would be me.
I did the test and thought I had failed.
“I think I failed,” I kept telling everyone.
“If you failed, you wouldn't be here,” they told me. “The fact that you're still here means that you passed!”
But I didn't believe them because I am a very logical person. At any point, an instructor could prove them wrong. I needed to ask an instructor if I had passed.
“You passed,” the instructor told me. “Your three points shy of a perfect mark.”
“What did I mess up on?”
“You had your kickstand out the whole time,” he replied. “We just didn't catch it until near the end. Dunno how you pulled that one off.”
I was very glad and feeling very guilty.
“That looks like a nice bike,” I told my dad. “We should go check it out.”
My dad drove me in his car to check out the bike. The bike was not so nice in person. I'd been dreaming about this bike for the past month.
“Getting a vehicle isn't easy,” my father told me like a were a whiny child. “It takes time and research. Could be another month or so until you find the right bike.”
I didn't like the idea of that or how he was talking to me. Taking his phone, I looked at another bike, and seeing it was decent texted the seller. The seller replied and said we should come and check the bike out—many other have, made false offers, and pissed the guy off.
The guy said he would destroy the bike if the next person were a bust—he was well off.
When I met him he was cleaning his golf clubs—he took care of his stuff. He whined but overall was a good man. I sat on the bike and said I liked it. The seller told me someone else was coming to check out the bike.
“I like to buy the bike,” I said. “I'd like to buy it right now.”
A motorcycle was in my driveway a few days later.
I was happy to have one. I always wanted to have a motorcycle since I was a kid. I don't have a strong reason for wanting to have a bike only that I wanted to have one. And now I had one, but it didn't feel real—like it belonged to someone else or would just vanish into air.
I tried getting on the bike, but my father invited his friends over to check out the bike. That made me irritated, and I hated myself for it. I had just gotten my bike, a project months in the making, cash in the burning, and time in the wasting. Now I had to fake a smile while people looked and touched and talked around my bike.
I just wanted to be alone with my bike.
But I shouldn't be so selfish. These people were friendly and told me how nice of a ride I had. I felt sorry for feeling bad. Still, I was mad. Soon the people went away, and I felt worse for it. Soon I sat on my bike all night.
And then I realized something.
I'd forgotten to ride a bike.
It had been months before the course, and I was looking at insurance.
Looking at insurance made me feel like a grown-up, so I hated it greatly. Soon I found one that was decent and bought it. I tried printing it off for the DMV so I could drive the bike I couldn't drive.
The printer wasn't working, and the place closed in an hour. All this meant was that I had to wait a day, but I hated waited—I wanted to drive the bike that I couldn't drive. So I went to my Nanny's house down the street, found out her's was broken.
So I fixed it. Then I printed my stuff, had her drive me to the DMV, get my plate, then have her drive me back. I thanked her and told her I loved her and then haven't seen her for a while. Soon I was on my bike, but I couldn't drive it yet.
I had learned to drive a dirt bike on the course that was many months ago. Just starting the engine of this seven hundred pound cruiser scared the shit outta me. I'd practice letting the clutch go and letting it take me across the driveway. I never felt competent or confident at it—had I made a great mistake? Soon I said 'fuck it' and drove out onto the road and drove around the block. I was scared and muttering underneath my helmet for other cars not to kill me.
Soon my dad came home and took me driving.
I wanted to drive around a mall to learn the basics, but he took me to an intersection instead. I had to learn how to make turns on a bike that was heavier than anything I drove before. I was scared and ready to die yet my body made all the corners without flaw.
Then we got into traffic, and I was to turn left then went right at the last second. My bike stalled. Horns honked. Lights were bright. Cars whizzed by. I was going to die.
My father drove into the intersection and cut off traffic. I was able to push my bike onto the sidewalk and into a gas station. My father was waiting for me there. I got off the bike and couldn't keep my hands from shaking.
“I'm proud of you,” he said to me—for the first time in a long time, and in that state, I couldn't believe him. Was he saying that because of his guilt for pushing me into a state well beyond my skills? “We can go home if you like.”
I didn't deserve that. “No. Let's go to where you want to go so I can learn how to drive.”
So we went to his park, and I learned how to drive while he smoked. I became excellent and adjusted. Soon I could drive, and with that, we drove home—our neighbor was driving home on his bike and then I drove with my neighbor on my bike.
It felt like Lost and the Dammed from GTA IV.
I had anxiety attacks.
They happened at work, and they were because of the bike. Driving the motorcycle was scary—other cars scarier. I was worried one would hit me and would keep begging them not to from under my helmet. The road was for adults, and I was still just a kid.
But I had to keep on the road because I had a bike and taking the bus would be silly. I couldn't just give up because that made no sense—but logic rarely works against panic. I didn't understand the dynamics of the road.
I'd walk to my bike after work. My heart was ready to explode and my legs ready to buckle. I'd locked myself in a bathroom stall and tried to calm myself from a panic attack—while the guys next to me were complaining how bad their shit smelled.
“How do you feel on that bike?”
I answered, “Best feeling in the world!”
A month had passed, and I became very good on the bike.
I got used to the rules of the road and how cars worked. Drive like your invisible; never drive parallel to another car. Account for stupidity and laziness.
Rain and darkness, wind mixed with sleep derivation—all conditions I've beaten. No matter what happens outside, I will ride. I put myself in bad spots in safer conditions to learn how to react.
I am now a good driver.
But one day out in the country there was sand, and I was fucked.
'There's sand on the road,' I thought. 'Haven't tried that one yet.'
And so I made the turn on the sand and ended up not making the turn. I flew over my bike, and it crashed into a ditch of sand. I landed in front of a fire truck and hopped up on my feet. My left arm hurt, but my bike was fine.
The fireman helped me lift and start the bike. I chilled with the marshal for a while—he was in a pick-up truck behind the firetruck. He drove alongside me to the nearest gas station and sent me on the way.
I quickly found sand again, and on a fucked arm, made the turn. I would make more turns that day, and much to the burning and bruised muscles of my left arm.
I met Drunk Dave again yesterday.
“I got the bike,” I told him.
“Good,” he told me. “Let's ride.”
He had been drinking.
We drove anyways.
We drove all day and all night, roads stretching deep into forests, turns sharper than my nails. The deeper we went, the fewer guardrails we had, so I became more scared the closer I came to a cliff. I didn't want to hold back Drunk Dave, so I told myself to stop being a pussy.
And it worked.
It worked because of an adage: “Look where you want to go.”
It's good advice. Your eyes dictate where the bike will travel. When I crashed on the sand, it was because I was looking at the sand and the ditch and the bike inched toward it. But when I was making the sharp turns at fast speeds, I stopped looking at the cliff and what could go wrong to focus on the road and beautifully it would wind.
While this was happening, I thought of all my friends in the States and how fun it will be to see them all. I believed that the adage “look where you want to go” would make for an excellent blog too. If you focus on what could go wrong, your body will inch toward it.
It's natural to focus on what could go wrong because we must know what could go wrong to avoid it. But we have to be careful. Our bodies go where our eyes lead. We stare at it and out bodies inch toward it without choice—and that makes us feel certain things are destined.
In the forest, I stared at the cliff. My bike inched toward it. I was going to die.
“You're not going to die you dumb fuck,” I told myself. “Stop staring at stupid shit and focus on the road!”
So I drove faster and looked at where I was supposed to be going. I kept perfectly aligned and did so for the rest of the night.
“You're a good biker.”
Drunk Dave and I had stopped at a bar to pee. We didn't pee in the bar but the bathroom that the bar had. When we were done, we sat at the bar itself to drink—him a beer and me a coffee. Black. Black as midnight on a moonless night.
“When I let you lead on, I was watching how ya handle her,” Dave told me as foam covered his thick mustache “You're seamless when it comes to the gear transition and you're handling is good enough for any road. You can drive for long stretches without whining too.”
I felt proud in a strange way.
I'm going to be driving to the States in a few days. There's a good chance I can die on the bike, and I don't mind that fact so much. I wanted to write a blog about how you should look where you want to go—meaning to know the scope and goal of your life and focus on it. Looking elsewhere causes us to inch away, something we must do from time to time, but more often than not, leaves us lying fucked in a ditch.
But I realized that even if I wrote something profound that it wouldn't change my life. It would just make me feel slightly better about myself. Other people are what make life worth living. Sometimes activities can suffice—riding and writing being prime examples.
I hope to do something with my life, but until then, look where you want to go.
And after that.
Find a way to be giddy.
Damn.
This was far more impactful than expected.
See your sorry ass when I see you, yeah? Hopefully it'll stop raining by then!
~Skeeter The Lurker
This brouth a Tear to my eye stay safe my dude. 😎🤜🏻
Stay away from pretty much North Carolina clear to Florida. It's not safe for cars right now, let alone a bike.
Much as I'd like to give you my battered copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance in person, we got hit hard by Florence and we've got another just as bad rolling in.
When the fuck did you grow up you little shiet!?
Geez. I'm still angry I made the sensible choice and got that fuel efficient four door instead of the motorcycles I was researching. Yea, it feels natural driving it, but there is nothing like the wind on your back, and your heart in your ears.
Still cant wrest my eyes from the ditch tho
guess it's not for everyone...
4943125
Quite the shame. Let me know if things get better or not in the coming weeks—I'm heading southward to Florida and your location was on the way.
4943113
Bruh. Our meeting in person WILL BE LEGENDARY!
4943347
Ho boy
Forecast show snow towards the end of the week here, I guess our meet will probably have to wait. I know we haven't talked for a while, but I was looking forward to it. I even put new tires on my big bike last month!
4943616
Don't you worry, you son of a bitch—we'll meet somehow and someway and many moresomes and sons.
And yeah. Get on Discord more faggot