January 3, 2010
One hour before teaching my first yoga class at Desa Seni, my heart is still pounding- because I, big white American that I am, managed to do what millions of Indonesians do everyday. I rode my scooter to the resort. Maybe not even a mile over bumpy roads, muddy potholes, past rice fields, and small shacks selling gas in Absolute Vodka bottles. I passed two 8 year-olds going twice my speed the opposite direction. I, in my neon blue tourist rental bike, with the speed racer red helmet, I got here! It was not without earned trepidation and fear.
Two days ago, Shirley and Steve (Former owners of Black Dog Yoga in Sherman Oaks, now running the yoga program at Desa Seni) said I should have my first scooter lesson. I stammered, avoided, stalled, and managed to ride on the back of Shirley’s bike, with their 7 year-old Charlotte. It’s not the driving on the left that I mind, but the lack of a huge protective armor between me and my speed. Steve took a very fatherly proactive approach. “We’ll go to the football field at the end of the street and practice.”
We did. In 5 minutes it seemed so easy and stupid to be riding around an empty field I declared I was ready.
“You’re sure?” He said, “I have no problem sitting here, watching.”
“Nope,” I said, “I got it.”
We go to Desa Seni to pick up my motor bike.
“They gave you girl one,” Steve says, “It’s kind of sexist, they rent these to the women, they have less pick up.”
I didn’t mind.
I put on my speed racer helmet, jump on my neon blue scooter, and follow Steve down the gravel pathway exiting Desa Seni.
At the end of the gravel pathway is a hard left turn, on the otherside of which is a flowing irrigation stream, called a “got”, really it’s a sewer.
Steve turns left.
I accidently accelerate as I turn left and don’t make the turn.
Here’s where time slows down, I see the blue water, surrounded by a three foot deep concrete trench, I can tell I’m going in, and in the 5 seconds, between seeing and entering, I think, “Oh shit, this is gonna hurt.”
Somehow I landed directly into the trench. A perfect fit. I’ m not even sure you could do it if you tried. I’m sure I also thought about jumping off my scooter, jumping the trench in action hero style, and all the other glorious options I didn’t take.
Steve shot like a lightning bolt off his bike, along with two security guards, they had me , wet,the bike and my right shoe out of the trench so fast, I barely had a second to register my embarrassment. I scraped my left pinky finger and my right big toe. Steve couldn’t believe it.
I drove the scooter home, the whole time replaying the image in my head and laughing uncontrollably.
But I’ve avoided getting back on the bike. Until today, there was no one to ride tandem with, so that term, “Back in the saddle” – that must have been made for speed racers like me.
So far so good, But I still have to get home.
