The Worth of a Broken Motorcycle
Jenzyne Webb
It was in my parent’s hometown, a tropical city in Manila Philippines, on a summer evening on a weekend in July of 2005. The bright orange sky had only just turned to dusky midnight blue. I was 10, blithely and amicably conversing with my mom, my cousins, and my sisters while eating the barbecue we bought from our good friend. I remember feeling so happy just bantering and laughing, eating the best barbecue I’d tasted in a long time. This might be the best night I’ve ever had. I shrugged that thought off hoping not to jinx the moment.
Spending time together in front of our house was probably our favorite thing to do in our youth. Living the simple life with not a lot to worry about. Our house was built in the 60s and located on a cul-de-sac on 19th Avenue. As a two-story Victorian, it had that white-railed terrace, horizontally divided into two different sections. My dad’s side of the family lived next door so naturally, we were tight knit.
There was a section of our house that functioned as my dad’s water business. We were hanging out in front of the business, where my dad’s motorcycle was parked. That night, I sat on it with two of my feet on one side. It was better to sit on it to converse than to stand up for hours talking. Brand new Lifan 150 cc, weighing about 2,000 pounds, this was his very first motorcycle. He saved up for it so he could have a vehicle to travel to and from meetings with business clients. The traffic in the Philippines was especially atrocious. In traffic, it would take an hour to get to a place that would only take you 10 minutes sans traffic; it was almost always better to walk. Having the motorcycle meant less time traveling, and more time with family.
“Jen, you better not knock that over,” my cousin jokingly blurted.
“I’m too small for it, so I possibly can’t,” I innocently replied.
In the Philippines, people would still roam around the streets as late as 10 pm. We were still out at 7 pm so the street right in front of our house was teeming with people, including my crush named Jared. My cousins, sisters, and I made small talk to whoever said hi. Everyone knows everybody.
This is my chance to get Jared to notice me.
I adjusted my position on the motorcycle, then I looked back to make sure he was looking. As I re-positioned myself, I kicked my short legs against the curb that the motorcycle was parked against, in hopes to get more comfortable. Instead, physics, namely gravity, worked against me. The motorcycle fell over on its side with a loud, shattering noise that startled everyone.
As I jumped off of the motorcycle immediately, I tried to grab the handlebar grip to salvage it from getting damaged. Unfortunately, I couldn’t avoid the accident from happening and all I could do was watch. The two seconds it happened felt like an eternity. It was too late, and I couldn’t save the motorcycle my dad worked so hard for to invest in. It was on the ground and the proof, smelling like gasoline, spilled on the street. It wasn’t badly damaged but the impact definitely destroyed the right rear view mirror.
Not only did Jared notice me but everyone else in the whole neighborhood did, too. My cheeks suddenly turned red, all the commotion had ceased, and all I could hear was my heartbeat faster than a competitive rowing team’s drum.
My dad and little brother had been napping on the couch in our living room after a long week of work, so my cousin quickly ran inside to wake them up. My dad was groggy enough to do something irrational. He ran out just as fast as my cousin ran in, saw the motorcycle and without hesitation, raised his hands as if to hit me. My mom stopped him before he could actually do something, and then something clicked inside him.
My dad is a sensible man. He usually thought before he acted or talked. When someone has done him wrong, he tries to see the good in that person and he forgives easily. Although in this instance, the motorcycle was an important part of his living — it’s what helped him provide for his family. Breaking it means more expenses, which also means more hours outside of family time to be at work.
He slowly dropped his hand to his side, his eyebrows were still furrowed, and he left a big sigh — mostly out of frustration — kept his composure, picked up the motorcycle, and called me inside the house. Anxiety hit. I had seen my dad angry before, and I definitely didn’t want to be the one who he’s angry with. When he just went upstairs to their bedroom, I was surprised. But it was bedtime.
While my sister and my little brother slept, I replayed the accident over and over in my head. I wrote down everything I couldn’t say at the time, and everything I should’ve done. I wanted to write a letter to my dad first. I tore a piece of paper from my school notebook to write down what I wanted to say. I addressed the letter to my dad. After I wrote the letter, I made sure that neither my mom nor dad were in their room so I could drop off the letter unnoticed. I placed it on their dresser to make sure that my dad could clearly see there was an important letter from me waiting for him. The note’s message was simple:
“Who do you love more: Me, or the motorcycle?”
Fifteen years later, I would occasionally bring up the story to my family. They would tease me about being too sensitive and for writing the letter. My dad, on the other hand, would simply give a humble smile and reply, “The motorcycle was important but you are more important, and I know that better now.”