Motorcycle Mama

We made it back alive. That's the good news.

Vacation in the Caribbean. We had stops in St. Thomas, St. Kitts, St. Maarten, St. Lucia, Barbados. All beautiful. But they weren't without their dangers. Let's talk about Barbados.

We decided to rent a motorcycle and tour Barbados with the wind in our hair. It sounds romantic, and Ryan has been riding a motorcycle almost as long as he has been walking. What could go wrong?

Did you know that people in Barbados drive on the other (read "wrong") side of the road? Do you know how hard it is to change something you've been doing for 25 years?

We should have realized. The signs were there. Not literally--literally, there were no signs. None at all. No road signs, no directions, no arrows, nada. But figuratively, we should have realized.

We had reserved a motorcycle, but when we arrived, no one knew anything about it. We finally managed to arrange for one (everyone in Barbados, it seems, is willing to give advice). The rental operator told us that she would have to drive us over to pick up the bike. On the ride over, I was in the back seat (which, in retrospect, was probably a great idea). At one point, Ryan asked the gal if she'd ever thought of driving for NASCAR. We were weaving in and out of traffic, starting and stopping without any warning, swerving around and through places that I wasn't sure a person could walk, let alone drive. People would step off the curb as if in a game of chicken, and everyone there was honking from every direction. At this point, we probably should have jumped from the moving car, but we soldiered on.

As we pulled into the rental shop, Ryan and I spotted the bike. Clearly ours...with a flat tire. I had heard that was a common problem in Barbados. (I now know why.) Because of the flat, we were put on a different bike, one decked out with flames. A Honda-wanna-be-Harley. And I thought, here we go.

Where did we go? Around in circles, for the most part. Between the road signs and the round-a-bouts, navigation was nearly impossible. We asked for directions. We followed the map. We asked for directions again. And what was that, up in the distance? The same tiny strip mall we had passed 20 minutes earlier. Once, after asking a taxi driver for directions (he should know where to go, right?), we ended up back in our port city--the exact opposite of where we wanted to be. In retrospect, I think he might have just wanted us to get back on the ship.

And that was the easy part. I need not mention again, the "wrong" side of the road, or how many times we found ourselves there, headed into oncoming traffic. Or the rattle of the bike as it vibrated itself into pieces. Or the huge, double-decker buses, that were too large for the narrow roads of Barbados, and that have killed (we found out later) dozens of motorists, over-turn regularly, and are a definite hazard throughout the country.  But it was lovely, really.

The weather was a balmy 80 degrees. The smell of the ocean wafted up toward us, even when we were inland. The tiny little towns were filled with school-children in uniforms, tiny shops, people headed here and there. Much of our drive was along the ocean, waves lapping just a dozen feet from the road. Ah heck, I'd do it again in a heartbeat.