White Sands, White Knuckles

Or how to be scared shitless on the Caribbean coast

I was on the verge of a full-blown anxiety attack in the worst possible place. A two-lane road marked by a middle “line” that was more for decoration than traffic enforcement. Cars whizzing by me on the left. Another straight up my ass. A motorcycle whizzed past the car behind me and then me, and I swear to chocolate baby Christ, the wind nearly knocked me over.

I was on a scooter. On the Caribbean coast of Costa Rica, somewhere between Puerto Viejo and hell. And I knew this had been a terrible fucking idea.

Look, I talk a big game on occasion about being a badass. Fuck it, fuck off and fuck you if you don’t like it. I took up welding for fun. I’ve given talks on stage in front of thousands. Published two books and survived two marriages and a died-too-early partner. Hell, I even took my motorcycle Basic Rider Course as an I’M 50 BITCH! gift to myself and bought a sweet cruiser and had it shipped all the way to Arizona from Texas.

THIS ^^^ is what was sitting in my backyard when I was white-knuckling it on a scooter in the lawless traffic land of Costa Rica! What is wrong with me!?

But on that road between two beach towns, at the surely reckless speed of 40 KPH, in a helmet that had been worn by no fewer than 87 other people and probably offered the same protection as a hat made from a spaghetti squash…

I felt like the biggest fraud in the world. There wasn’t an ounce of badass left in me, and all I could think was I can’t tell Philip that I’m scared seven different kinds of shitless and I just have to suck this up until we get to the perfect beach* he’d found the week before I arrived.

*where the ambulance would undoubtedly pick up my road-rotted carcass.

So we get to the beach. I turn off the scooter, dismount with the speed of a Florida Republican writing an anti-trans bill, and walk the hateful tangerine death machine to a parking space. I slide/rip off the helmet and methodically go about locking the scooter up with as much nonchalance as I can muster. I wonder how no one even asked if I had a driver’s license when they let me fork over 150 clams to rent these two piglets*.

*not even close to being hogs.

And before I knew it, beach time was over, and it was time to saddle up again.

Kill me.

Philip rolled off and I nearly put the two-wheeled fucker into a tree.

On the way back to town, my hands were still cramping. If white-knuckling were an Olympic sport, I’d be a podium contender. At one point, I looked down at the speedometer and HOLY SHIT FUCK NO NO NO

I was going 50 KPH!***

*** 31.0686 MPH

Dialed that back IMMEDIATELY to 40 lemme tell you what happy crappy.

I was a fake. A bullshit artist of exponential proportions. How was I supposed to ride a 400-pound hunk of iron — CURRENTLY IN MY BACKYARD — if riding on a road at 31 MPH made me want to schedule a remote session with my therapist?

The next day, we had hot dates with yet another amazing beach plus a wildlife rescue. I stared at that little orange monster and thought, “I’m going to mount you. I’m going to ride you, you are going to BE NICE TO ME, and then you are going to bring me back to this goddamned hotel.”

Only this day, there was roadside landscaping work being done.

Not only were the drivers in Costa Rica trying to kill me. Men with weed whackers and orange vests were also trying to kill me.

I took shards of grass to the face. Slid across slimy grass cuttings on the road. And yes, a small panel truck passed me during all of this, closing me into a foliage-filled death envelope from which I surely would not emerge.

We beached. It was lovely. I took pictures of my knees and Philip’s knees and thought about how Americans have such a puritanical take on beach toplessness, a thought inspired by several women who obviously felt that less was more.

As we headed to the wildlife sanctuary, I had my own European moment. No one even looked, which was both a shame and quite satisfying.

I nearly missed the turn to the sanctuary, but pulled a near-U-turn out of my ass and didn’t even skid on the gravel road. I saw a tiny sloth.

We rode home and had a fantastic dinner where Philip tried stingray (it was delicious).

As we walked by our mini-motos on the way back from dinner, I sent a telekinetic “thanks” to mine for hearing my earlier fervent prayer.

The final day, we headed to Manzanillo — a solid 20-25 minute ride from our hotel. I latched my helmet, threw my reflective sash over my shoulder, and hit the ignition. After rumbling over rocky roads and too many potholes to count, we hit the open road. The landscapers were back. Fuck ‘em.

Speed humps in school zones. Cars that laugh at them. Brave (or dumb) pedestrians sprinting across the road and cars backing up from grocery store parking lots, oblivious to that whole “check your mirrors” thing from driver’s ed.

The air smelled like rain. The rainforest canopy was a shade of green that no Crayola box could capture. There was this totally rad dip and steep hill in the road. I let out a “woooooooo!” as I rolled on the throttle and powered up the other side.

Manzanillo was bliss. Fine views, good jokes on the trail. We rolled into lunch as the rain came down and enjoyed a lovely meal under a thatched canopy as a dog named Poseidon looked on. Sated, we rolled onto the road in our brand-new packable travel raincoats. The roads were slick. The rain pelted my glasses.

I didn’t “wooo” on the dip this time but I did find a good line and settle in at 50 KPH.

I passed another scooter on the way back to town and felt a pang of sadness as I saw the turn off the main drag for the hotel. If it weren’t raining, where could we go?

I slept and dreamt of tiny sloths.

The next morning, it all came to an abrupt end. We rode through rain to return the scooters, and as I dismounted in a downpour, I was so sad to hand over the keys. In two and a half days, I’d gone from terror to attachment, loving the way this zippy orange rocket powered me through the crazed streets of the Caribbean coast.

I loved that I didn’t give up and let the scared shitless feeling get the better of me. And a boarded a plane home the next day very excited to climb aboard my actual hog, full of thanks for the darling piglet that dared me not to hold so tightly onto fear and ease up so I could find the “wooo!”

xoxo.

E.