Still Worth It

"...a monster steed with a fiery anus, flat out through the eye of a beer can..."

— Hunter S. Thompson, Hell's Angels, page 1


I was over at my friend Rob's house last night for an hour or so, hanging out by the water and watching the terns dive for their dinner. The weather in Portsmouth was just heaven, cool and a little breezy in the paling light, the sky still maintaining that painful blue but with just a few clouds to break things up a little. I don't think the temperature got above 75 degrees all day.

Rob was just killing time around six o'clock, waiting for his wife to get home from work. They'd scored an overnight babysitter, and had a fun evening planned. He called and asked if I wanted to come over for a beer before they went out. We talked about birds and harbor seals — I saw one off the pier at Prescott Park just last week — and their plans to head north to visit his family's island again soon.

I overstayed my welcome — I always do — but eventually excused myself and headed home. I hit a red light at the corner of Congress and Maplewood Avenue, and while I waited, a string of motorcycles — maybe 10 or 11 — turned right onto Maplewood, headed out toward the Route 1 Bypass. I'd say that easily half of the bikes were Harley Davidson's, and everyone knows how loud those things get. The rest of them were racing-style bikes, the ones that look so uncomfortable and go about a thousand miles per hour. 

Right away they were all — each one of them — trying to see how fast they could cover the 300 feet to the next light at Hanover Street. Revving their engines to a decibel level as profoundly unnecessary as it was perfectly befitting this scene of utter douche-baggery, the Harleys' tailpipes were excruciatingly loud, the noise bouncing back and forth off the brick buildings on either side of the street as the rice burners — that's what we called Kawasakis and Hondas when I was a kid — popped wheelies and did their best to ratchet up this wretched din. It was so utterly, ridiculously loud — and I was four or five cars back. I felt sorry for those right behind them, and the people on the sidewalk.

When the light turned green they of course had to race the next 300 feet to Deer Street, repeating the spectacle we'd all been so fortunate to witness thirty seconds before. They wanted to make the light and be on their way, there being no more obstacles to the open road (brother) from that point onward but a couple of flashing yellows at the Bypass — and this group had no use for caution. I laughed out loud when not all of them made it through — a few got left behind, their dramatic exit marred as cruel fate cut them from this galloping herd of stupidity.

Those who beat the light roared on in a belch of mid-life crisis and adolescent attention-seeking, flying out of town down an old, skinny street used by lots of other motorists and bicyclists and joggers and people on mopeds and pedestrians, not to mention those who live along there — and not giving a damn about any of them. 

Dummies.

I've got relatives, neighbors and friends who ride motorcycles, and I expect they are considerate motorists. I certainly see plenty of motorcyclists not acting like horses' asses. This, however, was not a good representation.

Continuing on my way, I smiled. It's Portsmouth in the summer time, and life is wonderful.

The trouble with living in paradise is the tourists want some too, and more people means more idiots. It's a small price to pay, really.