My younger brother went on a business trip, and he left his brand new Suzuki motorcycle with me (we’ll that’s what I assumed because he didn’t brought the key along with him, and knowing he knows that I’ll never be able to stop myself from riding; it’s a safe assumption. I used to ride my late father’s motorcycle and the sensation of speed and mobility is ingrained in me.) I can’t help it, really. The three days out of five days that my brother has been out, after coming home from school, what I do is ride that bike to the still unfinished highway (politically called: Highway 2000), smell the breeze and watched the herons and birds feeding on the rice fields.
I also pick my wife from work using that motorbike and together with my daughter we would ride along highway 2000 at night where the silence is so peaceful that we can have a conversation even while riding.
But last Wednesday I had the urge to go farther than highway 2000 and went to junction Cainta where I’m supposed to pay our bills. But as I was cruising, a lady crossed the street. It would have been fine had she not stopped in the middle of the road and hesitated. So there she was frozen, looking at me and me looking at her. I don’t know, but the rule is when you are crossing a road, you don’t stop in the middle and play with motorists. The rule is you walk or run to the other side where you’ll be safe. No, this lady hesitated and I had no choice but to break abruptly. The problem was the road was wet and slippery; the bike slipped. I crashed, and my left elbow and left knee was grazed. Funny thing was the lady just looked at me. I mean, I had to stop the urge to stand up to bash her head with the helmet and call her names that would kill her with shame. (You know, maybe those prayers did a lot to temper my temper.) She just looked at me, rode a jeepney as if nothing happened. Bless her; maybe she felt guilt too, deep in her heart—why not, she almost killed me!
I used to ride my father’s motocross bike when I was still a teenager and I never had an accident, yet this time I did. To top it all, my brother’s bike is a low rider unlike my father’s motocross bike where I had to stop and step on atop a gutter in order to ride onto it and to get off of it. Must be that my reflexes is not that good as it is during my teenage years.
I went home and looked at my elbow and knees. I was so tired because of the adrenaline rush that I didn’t even bother to wash my wounds. I was so sleepy that what I did was lie on the bed and took a nap. Now, when I woke up that’s when things got painful. My elbow and my knees were as stiff as a…err…frozen hotdog. They were swollen, they felt hot and they hurt like hell. I did what I do when I’m in pain: I slept, again. The second time I woke up the pain is already bearable but it still hurt.
Now, sitting on the toilet is a challenge. Bending my knees is so painful that I think I’d have a premature delivery. Now washing my er…hmmm…(I’m thinking of a politically correct term for my anus)…is another challenge that taxed my creativity. (I will not tell here.) Taking a bath is also painful. Why is it that skin injury, no matter how superficial, is so painful?
Anyways and anyhows, I don’t know what’s worse the pain of the guilt of damaging my brother’s new bike or the pain of my injuries.
It’s good thing that my mother is still with my sister in Baguio because if she’s here with me, I’ll have three things think about:
The pain of the guilt of damaging my brother’s new bike, the pain of my injuries, and the torture of my mother’s lashing. Y
You know how it is with mothers. But sometimes there’s something cleansing and sanctifying about mother’s lashings; it help cleanse the guilt. Maybe some sort of sado-masochist Freudian phenomenon…blah, blah, blah. But they do, mother’s lashings do remove some pain and guilt because she’s always right, well, not all the time; I suppose.