Deus Ex Machina
“I always have a sense of trembling, but so does a compass, after all.”
August 19, 2006
Something my motorcycle and I have in common, other than boring you all to death, is that from time to time, we both stall out. I was on the bike yesterday when I was hit with an insulin reaction— low blood sugar. It's a time-sensitive condition that, even when I'm not on the bike, needs to be treated quickly, but riding a motorcycle makes it a little more dangerous. If left untreated, I could easily pass out — though I never have — but before I reach that point, I sometimes become slightly confused. Okay, sure, I get a little confused regardless of how high or low my blood sugar is, but I can usually remember that the sun sets in the west. Yesterday I couldn't. I missed a turn, somehow got turned around, and couldn't remember which direction I wanted to go—then lost myself in the heart of Bushwick's underbelly. "I need to pull over," I said, and no sooner did I say it than the bike forced the issue by stalling. It was rush hour at a busy intersection, under an elevated train.
"Yo! Whuzzuh mattuh? You run outta gas or sumpin'?" asked a guy through a mouthful of teeth as crooked, yellow, and cracked as civil war era tombstones.
"No, just stalled out," I said, as a guy limped toward me.
I tried to start the bike to take it to a less congested area, but I was getting progressively weaker and needed to deal with my blood sugar first. After untangling a bungee net and digging a bottle of Coke from the bag strapped behind me, I took a couple of swigs.
"Whuzza mattuh? You outta gas?" the guy said again.
"The bike's not, but I am," I said.
"Heh, heh, heh. Wazzuh mattuh whichyo bike?"
A few of the guy's friends, who appeared to share the same dentist, came over and stood in a semi-circle speculating on what was wrong.
"What year is dat bike?"
"Sixty-eight."
" Sixty-eith! Wooo weee, I knew it was old."
Low blood sugar reactions make me cranky, and I just wanted to get the hell away from the honking cars, the clackity clack of train cars lurching overhead, and swarms of pedestrians spilling down the subway stairs, crossing the street on either side of me. Most of all, I wanted to get away from the helpful citizens who offered two cents through two teeth. I gave the bike another kick and sped around the corner to a relatively quiet side street.
Once my blood sugar was back to normal, I found my way home. I was heading home to pick up Deborah's helmet, so I could then pick her up from her friend's Park Slope boutique, where she'd gone after work.
"I'm running a little late," I called to tell her. "I'm on my way."
"Okay. No rush."
Deborah's friend was having a sample sale, and by the time I arrived, Deborah was standing at the counter paying for a few things. "Perfect timing," she said.
I had some free cheese, salami, and crackers, said sorry to eat and run, and then tried to bungee Deborah's fancy new duds onto the bike without smushing it all into a wrinkled mess. "I'll just hold it," Deborah said.
On the way home, we hit a block along Myrtle Avenue where dozens of people were milling around in the summer heat, spilling onto the road. The car in front of us stopped before disappearing into a crowd of baseball caps and do-rags. At first, I thought there was a street party going on, and after getting rocks thrown at us several nights ago, I wasn't looking forward to running this gauntlet.
A few nights prior, we found ourselves on a short strip of road that looked a lot like Sesame Street. That is, it was neither an upscale tree-lined street with million-dollar brownstones, nor a run-down, trash-strewn ghetto. Kids were playing on the sidewalk, laughing. It wasn't until a couple of them started hurling rocks at us that the image was broken.
When someone finds out I have a motorcycle, they usually say, "Wear a helmet." But I doubt that's what they have in mind.
In any case, this time I saw cops. And then I noticed a person collapsed on a stoop, with a rather large woman standing over him, obscuring a clear view of what had happened. "Did you see that person on the street?" I called over my shoulder to Deborah once we'd passed through the thickest part of the crowd.
"Yes," she said.
"Could you tell what was going on?"
"No."
