Steven’s Wild Ride

On most days, I have a pre-arranged xe om motorcycle driver to school for 15,000d or about 90 cents. It is about a 10-minute pollution-laden ride from our house to the school. There are only two turns and it is all main roads. It should be an easy ride. It typically is.

One day my usual driver chose to take Sharon to work instead and motioned toward a man he had arranged to take me. An old, small, frail man who looked like he was cheating fate was waiting near the curb. Although I wasn’t sure why this new arrangement was made (you never do), I reluctantly rode with him.

It was a dreary day, which always causes some consternation, in the sense that the drivers take no additional caution whether it is dry or pouring rain. In that regard it reminded me a lot of home, in that the reckless Atlanta drivers never adjusted their driving habits despite the conditions either. Immediately after leaving the curb, I begin having reservations about driving with this small and frail man. Firstly, his motorcycle seemed as old and frail as its driver, vibrating and shaking when it picked up speed. Secondly, the man never seemed very confident with his decisions on the road: how to weave through the traffic, which street to turn on, etc.

The first mistake he made was missing the shortcut for the school, which would have avoided the looming traffic jam a half mile ahead. As we approached the jam, the driver was, at first, content to sit in traffic with the other 200 million motorbikes on the road. However, being a taxi driver who, by nature, generally attempt to reach their destination as soon as possible, he noticed that drivers were riding on the sidewalk to avoid the traffic and felt obligated to follow suit. As soon as he began to make the move, I knew it was a bad idea.

To picture this, imagine a 6 foot, 160 lb western man riding on the back of a 110 cc motor scooter that should have been retired in 1992, driven by a 90lb frail old man about 5’3 in stature. Simply put, this is not a recipe for success. To reach the sidewalk one foot above road level, bikes must climb a curb that is roughly at a 45 degree angle. As the driver turned and began to climb the curb, he got halfway up and did not have the momentum to carry us up onto the sidewalk causing the bike to tip over onto the next bike on the road, creating a domino effect with four other bikes, ending only when the last bike hit a bus. Luckily, I put my food down in a two-inch-deep puddle of mirky water to catch our fall. The Vietnamese people near us, one-by-one, disentangled their bikes and pushed them up on the side walk. One woman next to us, whose arm had been gouged by the handlebar and was shaking her arm out, and no one seemed to happy with my driver. I had to wonder if there was not a white man in professional attire (I wear a tie) on the back of this driver’s bike, if the man would have be chastised much worse. He certainly deserved it.

Despite a harrowing near miss in traffic, we reached the school without further incident and as he drove off, I wondered if I would see him again the next morning.

The following morning, I was pleased to see my regular driver along with Sharon's regular driver AND the frail, old, feeble driver. I don’t think it surprised him that I resumed my schedule with my regular driver. I have never seen him since.