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01 September, 2007
Vroom VroomYikes. It's called lane splitting, but hair raising is more like it.
My father used to pick me up from grade school on his motorbike, and in my Catholic school uniform I would ride side saddle behind him, my arms wrapped tightly around his waist because I was terrified of falling off. I was the envy of the whole school for being the girl lucky enough to have such a cool dad.
I was never a speed junkie, and tight squeezes like the ones on the video clip would definitely freak me out -- luckily, it happened rarely because we lived in a relatively small town and he never rode it on the freeway -- but I have fond memories of riding my dad's bike, especially when he took me to visit relatives in the country.
There, on the open road, my initial feelings of apprehension would dissipate: I would raise my head with my eyes closed, soaking up the sun and enjoying my hair being whipped around by the wind, as my dad revved up his Honda, zooming through endless acres of golden rice fields.
My mother didn't think it was cool, though. I don't recall her ever riding that bike, but I do recall her arguing with my dad about getting rid of it. She finally got her wish one day when my father drove it off into a ditch; he walked away with just scrapes and bruises, but the bike was a goner.
He never did replace it with another one. I was practically a teen by then, and my younger brother was almost a year old. I guess he finally decided it was time to grow up and get that family car.
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