So about three weeks ago I invited my seniors out for a movie. About a dozen showed up, and we were “treated” to the shenanigans of a horde of giant man-eating snakes in the destined-to-be-classic thriller “Anacondas.” We all agreed that it was pretty bad and not scary at all, though the theater popcorn was good. Next we went to Hardee’s (which was in the same mall as the movie theater) where a student insisted I let him buy me some curly fries and a drink. A nice time, in short, was had by all, and if the night had ended there I would not have much of a story to tell. (About the neatest thing up to that point was seeing them all out of uniform and dressed like normal, individual, real people: that was fun.)
So here’s what happened next. Two of my students had previously mentioned they owned motorcycles and that they loved riding them through Cairo. (Most of their writing assignments seem to feature motorcycles in one way or another.) I didn’t entirely believe them, but when they pulled up before the mall in leather jackets and on dirt-bikes, I had to admit I was mistaken. One of them, Ahmed, asked how I had gotten to the mall. When I told him by taxi, he asked how much I had paid and grimaced when I told him. “Too much,” he said, “I’ll take you home after the movie.” “No, that’s okay,” I said. “I’m not really into motorcycles.” “No,” he said, “you’ll like it—very safe.” I did not budge, however, and we went into the movie.
After the movie was over, Ahmed repeated his intention of giving me a ride home and bought me my food at Hardee’s. I began to waver. I realized this was very important to him. I also began to rationalize as follows: first, Lee, think of riding around this city in taxis: that’s not the safest, most comfortable thing to do, either. Also, you’ve seen people on motorcycles and scooters before, and it seems a lot like being in taxi, albeit there’s certainly less room for error. Next, if you are EVER going to do ANYTHING like this, you should probably risk it with this kid. His senses and reflexes are in their prime, he knows the city well, he appears extremely confident, and you could certainly put your life in worse hands. Finally, and this really was the clincher, I said to myself, now, Lee, really: you are so cautious most of the time, and that’s great, but here you are in Cairo, Egypt with a chance to take a motorcycle ride through the city. Can you REALLY pass up that opportunity? Wouldn’t it make a good story? Won’t it be fun? And even if it’s SLIGHTLY more risky than a taxi, isn’t it still unlikely anything bad will happen? And besides, it would mean a lot to your student, who will clearly be offended if you don’t trust him.
And so, at last, I agreed, and we left Hardee’s together and, after bidding everyone else farewell, walked over to where he had parked. Ahmed jumped on the bike, fired it up, and I hopped up behind him, hugged him with my forearms on either side, and waited—now completely helpless—to see what happened next as we pulled out into traffic....
Alas, my friends and family, words at this point fail me. I was expecting Ahmed to simply drive me home. I was very, very, very mistaken. You all, of course, have seen those movies with big car chases in them. Well this, my friends, was EXACTLY like that. Within seconds of pulling out into traffic and going through a turnabout, Ahmed gunned it and before I knew it we were whizzing between buses, weaving in and out of traffic at high speed, and alternately accelerating and then braking so fast my heart felt like it was bouncing back and forth horizontally at the end of some completely crazy bungie cord. We would be caught in heavy traffic—my breathing spaces—then suddenly Ahmed would spot an opening and open up the throttle and we’d plunge through it like a bullet. He used the usual Cairene calculation in these matters, which is, if you can fit, you can go. (Lanes being entirely theoretical constructs here.) More than once we were between two buses or trucks or cars with maybe a foot or two to spare. At one point, on a relatively open stretch of road, he asked me, “do you like wheelies?” “No,” I said as calmly and as firmly as I could, “no, I do NOT like wheelies.” Ahmed then proceeded to take the front wheel of the motorcycle off the ground with one quick burst of acceleration and we enjoyed the unique pleasure of riding on a single wheel for maybe 50 yards. When the wheel at last came down, we noticed a large speed bump quickly approaching. “You like air?” Ahmed asked. “No,” I said as calmly and as firmly as I could, “no, I do NOT like air.” “BRRRRRRRRR!” screams the machine and suddenly there’s a tremendous jolt and we no longer have EITHER wheel upon the asphalt....
There’s one other detail I should note here: I could not see Ahmed’s expression, but I knew he was completely immersed in what he was doing. In the pauses between his feats of cycling prowess, and often a couple seconds before doing something dramatic, he would quickly cock his head to one side, as if he were cracking a kink out of his neck, or as if he were a boxer staying loose just before plunging back into the ring. I became unaccountably fascinated by these movements, possibly because I found in them comforting signs of confidence. In which case I suspect they helped me keep it together as we roared and braked our weaving, eye-stinging, vehicle-choked, exhaust-drenched, wind-whipped way along the lanes and freeways of the “mother of the world.” (As Cairo, sometimes, is called.)
Meanwhile, to return to the chase itself, we abruptly take a right-hand turn and, to my immeasurable relief, I recognize the street. “My flat is on the next street on the right,” I say to Ahmed. “The next street?” he says—then BRRRRRRRRRR, he accelerates again, charging between the one narrow lane of solid traffic on our left and the unbroken row of parked cars on our right at probably 50 miles per hour until we reach my street, make a right hand turn, and, a block later, come to a stop in front of my apartment building. I dismount, my heart still racing and my legs weak but not quite shaking, give Ahmed a hug, and thank him for not killing me. Ahmed is mildly amused by this, and I suddenly realize that, for him, it was all in a night’s work. He then wished me goodnight, turned around, and rumbled off into the night.
I was relieved to find him alive and well at school the following Sunday, and felt very close to him, being affected by an irrational conviction that he had actually saved my life. He said that we should do that again sometime, and this is what I told him: “Ahmed,” I said, “I want to thank you. That was one of the most exciting and terrifying experiences of my life, and I will remember it until the day I die. I truly, truly thank you for that. But I will never, ever, ever do that again.”
Looking back, I now realize that feeling my feet back on solid ground that night was one of the peak moments of my life. I felt both incredibly relieved and totally overjoyed at the same time. A similar mix of feelings characterized the ride itself: it was absolutely exhilarating and terrifying all at once. In fact, it was SO exhilarating and so surreal that my fear, though very real, never became panic. I think a part of me was too caught up in disbelief to panic. There was also SO MUCH going on that I did not have time to lose my cool. I did manage to ponder the consequences of disaster: a car switching lanes suddenly in front of us; a tire blowing out; Ahmed losing control after that speed bump coming up and wiping out, sending us grating and rolling along the roadway for who knows how many yards before we stop. I found a couple moments to consider the irony of my being killed on a motorcycle. With all due respect to motorcyclists, I have always passionately disliked these machines, considering them unacceptably dangerous. I once ripped into Faith for taking a ride on a motorcycle during the Sturgis Rally one summer. (And that was a normal motorcycle: Ahmed’s was a dirt or racing type of bike.) To her credit, though, Faith was not angry at me at all. Nor was I angry at myself. Because I survived intact, I was very happy I had done it, though in the hours after I came home I became, as the euphoria died down, more and more astonished and alarmed at what had happened. Even then, however, I was glad. Especially since, as I told Ahmed, never again: this meant that I had dodged this particular bullet now forever. To adapt a phrase of the French thinker Voltaire, “once a philosopher, twice an idiot.”
Besides, I guess you only live once.
