I’m ashamed to admit that I almost got run over by a Prius the other day—that’s almost as bad as getting beat up by a girl. What with that semi-electric engine and all, I just didn’t hear the damn thing as I walked out into the street from behind my car. Thank God the brakes didn’t fail on this one, as the hybrid silently came to a stop; the only sound was the accelerated beat of my heart as I stood there, drop-jawed, staring at the 60-something-year-old baby-boomer behind the wheel who, in turn, stared right back, her expression a cross between, “What, are you stupid?” and “Oh my God, are you okay?” If it is my fate to get mowed-down by a motor vehicle, at least let it be an SUV driven by a cowboy or something!

That was the second time in less than a week that I had almost met my demise because of an Alternate Mode of Transportation. Just a few days earlier, I was motoring down an arterial (in the rain) on my Yamaha Vino 125, and got spooked when someone on a side street lurched forward right as I was passing. I squeezed both hand brakes simultaneously, and my “bike’s” tires immediately began to slide on the rain-soaked asphalt; I was sure that I would lose control and wipe-out. I instinctively dropped one foot to the wet pavement, steadied myself, regained my balance, and kept on going. 68-miles-to-the-gallon only gets you so far...when you’re dead.

That’s why I bought my scooter in the first place—gas mileage; Lord knows I didn’t buy it because I thought it made me look sexy. I also figured I could take advantage of its sleek profile to navigate my way through traffic jams. Not in this city. Drivers (vs. riders) in Seattle really get their panties in a bunch when those of us who are more resourceful take advantage of the gaps between idling cars that are stuck in traffic and zip to the front of the line. I’ve been honked at, cursed at and even cut-off by the envious bastards.

It’s not that way in Mexico, I can assure you. Everybody on a two-wheeler is expected to cut to the front of the line, and they do so at every stoplight. People look at you funny if you don’t cut through traffic. But then again, there are certain inherent risks, like being run-over by a mini-bus, a macro-bus or even a VW bus. I was fortunate enough to have survived the streets of Guadalajara, although I can’t say the same of my scooters.

My first scooter in Mexico, a Honda Aero 80, went bye-bye when thieves picked it up, threw it into the trunk of a 4-door sedan, and drove off while a neighbor watched, helplessly. That was after I had lost four bicycles to crooks, once when they cut through my bike lock and another time when they cut through the wrought-iron fence that I had locked my bike to. Fortunately, however, motor vehicles can be insured, and I collected on the policy for the Honda after the standard waiting period while police supposedly searched for the stolen merchandise.

The second scooter was a Vespa 150, which I dumped when I spun-out in an oil slick while making a low-speed turn on my way home from work. Fortunately, I was able to get up and get moving again before the oncoming traffic rolled over me like a speed bump. Although I walked away from my spill with little more than a bruised knee, I decided that my Mexican motor-biking days had come to an end. But instead of selling it—resale can be such a rip-off—I simply parked it outside my office near El Centro, and just waited for it to disappear. Since I wasn’t riding it any more, I didn’t miss it while waiting for police to conduct their search, and, unlike U.S. insurers, insurance companies south of the Border seldom raise their rates.

Valoración de los usuarios: / 0
PobreEl mejor