I have always considered my bungee-jumping, motorcycle-riding sister to be the risk-taker of the family, but last Friday, I did something I'm betting even she wouldn't even do. I rode in a pedi-cab in NYC, in rush hour, in the rain.
In my defense, it was NYC, in rush hour, in the rain.
My friend and I tried to get a regular cab. Really. We frantically waved, we jumped up and down, we planted ourselves in the path of oncoming traffic, we practically did semaphore with our bags, but all the cabs were taken.
As we scurried along the crowded streets, wondering whether we could make it the twenty-five blocks to the station before we either drowned or missed the train, we heard it. The ding ding of a bicycle bell.
"Where to?" the driver (?) called. Clearly, we looked like tourists. Dumb tourists.
Politely declining (which confirmed his whole tourist theory), we moved up the street and renewed our efforts (along with about two dozen other soggy people) to catch a real cab.
Ding ding. "I'll give you a good rate." Yeah, right, on what, the funeral costs when we end up as roadkill?
Again, we declined, less politely this time, and began madly waving our arms like some large, flightless birds recently escaped from the zoo in order to secure a cab that was larger than a Cracker-Jack box.
Ding ding. Apparently, our disparaging remarks with regard to the safety factor of a large tricycle competing with actual rush hour traffic failed to deter this guy. "Anywhere in Manhattan, faster than a regular cab and just as safe."
Hmm. Why not just say "as safe as a swim in shark infested waters", or "as safe as juggling chainsaws that are on fire". Yeah, he might want to rethink that as a possible slogan.
Brushing him off once again, we slogged through another block teeming with rain and cranky pedestrians, but no cab was to be had.
Ding ding. And that is when is struck. Temporary insanity. We looked at each other, said a quick prayer to the patron saint of idiots and squeezed into the "cab".
After zipping the plastic cover, sealing us in like leftovers in a Ziploc baggie, our driver hopped on his bike and took off down Fifth Avenue. Before we could even register the lack of seat belts, protective headgear or roll bars, the nice "safe" ride became the Tour de France and our driver Lance Armstrong.
We hurtled down the street zigging and zagging through traffic, narrowly missing cars, buses, construction barrels, concrete barriers and a few stray pigeons. Pedestrians dove for safety, horns blew, brakes squealed, and we learned some wonderful new phrases that are sure to make us a lot of friends in several different languages.
We flew like the wind, hitting every pothole, rut and sewer lid until we felt like a couple of pieces of Shake'n Bake chicken. Finally though, the end was in sight...Penn Station. But wait, we weren't slowing down. We were still doing Mach 10 in a Mach 3 zone and three lanes over from the curb. As we tried to attract our "driver's" attention by clawing at the plastic (apparently, he had grown immune to our screams about fifteen blocks back), he suddenly swerved one final time, cutting off a cab, a limo and a bus and propelling us up and over the curb to come to a bone-jarring halt three feet from the door. (well, that explained the speed. It's hard to get airborne doing anything less than sixty mph I guess.)
As he unzipped us with a grand flourish and boasted, "Ten minutes!", we pried our fingers from around the sides of the "cab" and practically fell to our knees and kissed the pavement in sheer gratitude at still being alive.
I think I'll leave the daredevil stuff to my sister from now on.
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