“Put ya signature here” said the lanky Jamaican holding a few flimsy papers. I signed them then put my helmet on. As I approached the motorcycle parked on the sidewalk outside of ‘Conrods Rentals’, I realized I hadn’t asked any questions about the bike. When I mentioned the number of gears, the reluctant salesman cocked his head sideways, suddenly suspicious. He pointed his bony fingers down the street and told me to ride the sidewalk to prove I knew what I was doing.
I did a quick loop, showing basic competency. The motorcycle had the vibe of a used shopping cart. Functional but worn. Handlebars grayed and pressed in with faint palm marks, a lethargic gurgling engine sound and sluggish breaks that stopped the rider like a question mark. None of that mattered. I’d watched numerous bikers zip past us as we taxied to our hotel a few days earlier and my mind’s eye had already fantasized about cruising the island on two wheels.
When I finished the test run, the Jamaican nodded for acknowledgement but held back any enthusiasm and reminded me to be back in a few hours. Brittany climbed on the back of the bike, placing both hands on my shoulders, one foot on the peg and heaved herself over and on the bike in one motion. I let off the rear break a bit and danced between giving some throttle and releasing the clutch. We drifted forward like a snake, leaning right and then left. I squeezed out more throttle and the bike sat upright in motion. It took a moment to reach the street, another moment to remember traffic was inverse and another moment to gulp as we pulled out into traffic and went our way.
We headed back to the hotel first. Brittany wrapped her arms around me and pointed out different things as we rode past but the wind whooshed by too loud for me to hear any of it. I moved up and down a few gears. I weaved around potholes and I built confidence. The bike handled well. It blended into the rough terrain and neglected infrastructure. We got back to the hotel, went to the bathroom, changed into swimwear and headed right back out into the humid midday heat.
We rode fast enough for the city (a mix of hotels, rundown food joints and street vendors) to blur by in bright 80s colors but slow enough for locals to honk and dart around us in annoyance. No matter, I enjoyed it all. I try not to romanticize the future too much as that’s the best way to get disappointed but I couldn’t help it this time. Back when we initially booked this trip to Negril, I knew I wanted to rent a motorcycle. My instagram was filled with 200cc bikes darting through packed metropolitan areas or exotic third-world landscapes half-a-world away. The riders would record videos on their helmet or handlebars, giving me a literal first person view of the ride. Early morning gray rainfall in London, hazy green rush-hours in Mumbai, red sunsets on the beaches of Thailand. Throw some instrumental music underneath the video and I’m mesmerized. The algorithm did its job and sent me one video after another, presenting a new portal at the flick of my thumb. I was in the Jamaica portal right now and the music was already playing in my head.