I was positive a very loud motorcycle was following me. For days. It was the summer after moving to Maine and I had only learned to drive a few months prior in Chicago. A city boy at heart, public transportation (and taxis) had always been my main mode of getting from point A to point B. With my impending move to Maine, securing a driver’s license was essential. A gruff man named Sammy from the South Side of Chicago taught me to drive in his beater car. Now in Maine, with the warm breezes and salty air, I drove with my windows down, but couldn’t seem to spot the motorcyclist who was clearly trailing my every move.
I even mentioned the mystery to friends, but clearly I was nuts – I could never lay eyes on my stalker. Finally, after almost a week, I had a passenger in the car with me.
After about two blocks, he interrupted me mid-sentence, “Stop the car.”
“See, don’t you hear it?” I asked, sure finally my sanity would be validated.
“Get out of the car,” he ordered.
When we both got out, he circled the car and then summoned me over to the rear.
“You’ve got a flat tire. It’s completely flat. That’s the ‘motorcycle’ noise you’ve been hearing,” he informed me.
And with that, the mystery was solved and I was left wishing Maine had subways, buses, and taxis on every corner.