You hear me long before you see me.
There’s nothing faint about that distant sound. Suddenly, I come around the corner, and it’s almost deafening.
Down the street I fly, sounding like a bomber from the ’40s. You stop what you’re doing and watch me go past, because there’s no way for you to ignore such a force. It’s my favorite time of year, and I’m going to celebrate.
I love spring — the cool wind blowing through my hair (I don’t wear a helmet) and sending my shaggy beard over one shoulder, the acrid stench of diesel exhaust percolating through my bushy mustache and corroding my nostrils’ lining, the thunderous sound of my two-stroke engine announcing my presence like a police loud-hailer from hell.
I ride up and down the streets, the most badass man you’ve ever seen. My leather jacket hides most of my tats, but I make sure to leave a few uncovered so you can tell how hardcore I am even if you’re deaf. Because the real sign of my power is the volume of my bike.
LOOK AT ME, it screams. STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING AND LOOK AT ME!
And people look.
I pull up to a stoplight next to some wimpy kid driving an Escort from the mid-’90s. I snort with disdain and make sure to sneer since I know he couldn’t hear the snort over my bike’s boisterous motor. I don’t look at him, but he looks at me. As he stares, envious, I rev my engine once, twice, a third time. The sound is as awesome as the voice of God. The light turns green and I peel out, leaving the kid to slowly accelerate away from the odor of burning rubber in emasculated shame.
As I roll down the pavement, I see a girl talking on the phone. I don’t like that she’s paying attention to someone else, so I shift my hog into neutral and rev my engine a few times while I coast past. I am a jealous god, indeed. Looking in my mirror, I can see that she has taken the phone away from her ear and stands, staring at me. I’m too far away to see her facial expression, but I know how she feels: lustful.
After riding around the same four blocks for a few hours, I decide to head to new turf, a street I haven’t been down today. I spot a house with a spacious front porch where three people are quietly drinking beers. Perfect. I roar down the street, the picture of ferocity. I think their heads turn. They always do. But to make sure, I speed around the block and ride past again and again and again.
That sound could wake the dead. Now I know they noticed me.
The sun starts to set and I head to my favorite dive, knowing that nobody there will have a louder vehicle. As I ride west into the setting sun, AC/DC is playing on my chopper’s superfluous radio. I can’t hear it, but I know it’s there, reminding me that I’m the most fearsome man on the planet, and I’m riding the world’s loudest motorcycle.
Joe Fox is a junior studying online journalism and a columnist for The Post. Is that your motorcycle? Email him at firstname.lastname@example.org.