OpinionsThe Way It IsOnce upon a time motorcycling in Dumaguete

Once upon a time motorcycling in Dumaguete

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I started riding motorcycles when I was 12 years old. I did not have a motorcycle nor did my parents allow me to ride them. There were, however, a few tricycle drivers in town who were willing to rent out their motorcycles sans the sidecar, and they didn’t care who rented them.

It helped that I was taller than my age, but I’m sure my young face betrayed me; like I said, they didn’t care. It only cost about P8-13.00 at that time to rent a motorcycle for the whole day, depending on how new or old it was. My friends and I used to pick them up at around 8 in the morning in some obscure location in the outer rim of the City where they left the sidecar on blocks, and the usual agreement was that we returned them by 5 in the afternoon. If we were late, we added P5.00. To us, that was a pretty good deal especially so that they kept it from our parents. And how else could we have gotten our hands on those motorcycles, anyway? Of course, if something were to happen, they would have said something crazy like, they believed we were adults because we told them, and our parents would ultimately bear the responsibility for our actions.

That thought didn’t cross our minds at all, as nothing did. It was a pretty easy thing to do, except the money part. Well, somehow, we managed to find the dough by saving, or other means.

Our motorcycles of choice at that time were mostly two-stroke Yamahas, Suzukis, and Kawasakis because they were higher revving, and accelerated faster than the lumbering four-stroke Hondas, and they were the most common.

This perception permeated through to us as we based a motorcycle’s actual power and performance on the meanness of its growl. The Hondas, being the four-strokers, more polite sounding, were always out of the running.

As soon as we picked up our bikes, we would fill them up “to the brim” with that oh-so-cheap-gas back then, and hurriedly took off to somewhere, anywhere.

We were overwhelmed by the freedom that this gave us, knowing that we could go anywhere we wanted. As kids, anywhere was new and unexplored, and having the freedom to explore was simply too exciting. It was easy to rent those bikes but there were still days when they simply were not available to rent.

Wanting to just ride every day, I wanted so badly to have my own bike, but how does a 12-year-old ask his parents to buy him a motorcycle? I simply resigned myself to wait, for the time being.

When we rode, we didn’t have a leader, nor did we know about formation. We just rode, raced each other, and became hazards to other motorists. In the first kilometer, we usually found our bike’s top speed. Given the road conditions, we usually could only go anywhere from 80-90 kilometers per hour at best, and that was pushing it. But that was fast enough for us.

Our usual ride was to the farthest town where we knew someone. This was usually anywhere from 50-100 kilometers from home, north or south, but usually north. We didn’t bother to find out if the person was there. We just rode, I guess for the sake of riding. Our obligatory first stop was at a restaurant somewhere at the halfway mark. We didn’t care about the kind of food, just that it was a place to stop, and there was food.

Our excitement never wore off during those times–it felt like the start of the day, all day long. Those lunch stops were always among the most anticipated moments of our rides because it gave us a chance to talk about the ride, and brag about the crazy stunts we did, and even the hazardous situations we created on the highway. We enjoyed laughing at our crazy adventures. It felt to me like I did not want it to end. It gave me that great feeling of camaraderie and joy that I really, literally, couldn’t have cared about anything else at all.

On one such ride, we ended up at the hometown of one of the more famous girls at school. Everyone wanted to be her boyfriend, and that included all of us. Can you imagine a bunch of juveniles riding illegally to a girl they all wanted to make out with? It was crazy. But somehow, we managed to make it a group activity. She thought we were all retarded.

We took it as just a destination for our ride. Since there were a bunch of us, malicious intents were farthest from her parent’s minds. We got served refreshments, and got to relax in their beautiful house. Not once did her father wonder what a bunch of kids were doing riding motorcycles so far away from home. We felt like adults and tried our best to look and act the part. We had already calculated the reception we got. We knew that if we just showed up like that at her house, she would have no choice but to welcome us.

Somehow, it worked and from then on, we each could brag about being at her house, and even talking to her parents. An achievement! Being a “biker” had its advantages!

Those antics of ours went on for a few years, nurturing our love for motorcycles, and strengthening our experience, boosting our confidence in our riding abilities, solidifying our friendship.

Sure, there were accidents. In fact, I’ve had a few, myself. If I were to rate my accidents, one stands out as probably the one with the most potential for fatality, but only stood out in my mind many years later.

A friend confided that he didn’t know how to drive a motorcycle. I have always been one to share things, especially motorcycling. I didn’t see any reason why I shouldn’t let him experience it.

One day when I had a rental, I let him drive it, and I rode in the back. He started out smoothly as I was giving him pointers, explaining to him ways to hone his eye-hand-foot coordination, all important, to tame the machine we were straddling. He was nodding as he listened to me, and everything I said, he did.

He told me he had driven a car, albeit not on the street. That helped a bit, if at all, and when I closed my eyes, it was as if I was riding with an experienced rider. We went for a few kilometers on the highway, and he was really getting comfortable, at times freeing his left hand of the grip to touch his shades, a habit I supposed.

We had successfully negotiated a few curves and were approaching one in Sibulan (where the diversion road now branches off) that was blind. I told him to ease off on the gas a bit as we entered the curve, observe, before giving it gas again.

As we got out of the curve’s apex, a scary sight presented itself. A passenger bus was stopped, unloading passengers. Our speed was such that to an inexperienced rider, slamming into the back of the bus was inevitable.

This was a first for me, too. I could not even remember what else went through my mind except to lean sharply to my left side, enough to cause the bike to fall to the left. I must have thought that action would cause the bike to get dragged on the pavement, and slow it down before we hit the bus. Wrong! We fell on the left side, scraping our legs, hips, and elbows but the bike continued sliding, going underneath the bus.

I saw that big differential housing slide mere inches above my head and I guess my friend’s head, too. As we were on this slide, I had no idea whether we were injured already or not. There was no sensation of pain, only a visual experience of the event.

When the bike finally stopped somewhere mid-way through the length of the bus, I found myself able to move normally. There were people all around struggling to pull us out from under the bus. I called out to my friend, hoping to God he was fine. He answered and told me he was okay. I took a big sigh of relief. Then I started to worry more about the motorcycle. It was pretty much trashed on the left side but nothing that couldn’t be repaired by replacing some pretty expensive parts. That was something I was totally unprepared for.

It was already dusk when we got to my friend Mel’s warehouse. We put the bike in one inconspicuous corner, well away from curious eyes. He said if his father asked, he would say that a friend asked a favor to leave the bike there for lack of space at their house, and that it was only until he could get it to the shop. Mel had money, and none of us ever asked him where he got it from. He just never ran out of it. His family owned one of the biggest stores in town. Maybe that’s what it was. He was generous, too, and it was no problem asking him for help with repairing the bike. In fact, he asked me first how much I needed to get it fixed. That was a relief as well.

Now there was just one little problem–to tell the guy I rented it from. I had to promise him that the bike would be repaired, and that I would pay him the rental every day until it was returned to him. I estimated that it shouldn’t take long if the parts were simply replaced. I guess him knowing of my family helped a great deal because he said it was no problem at all. The parts were replaced in two days. All problems solved. I told Mel I’d pay him back as soon as I can. He said it was fine, whenever I could.

Whew! That was quite an experience. That’s the way it was in Dumaguete for us.

You’d be hard-pressed to find such fun with friends today, here in our Dumaguete.

______________________________

Author’s email: [email protected]

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