I’ve loved motorcycles since a college friend of mine bought an old 1974 Honda CB and decided that he would fix it up. I joined in the process and was hooked, not just with riding the thing, but rehabilitating it. Regardless, almost a decade later, I had never owned one for myself. And still didn’t.One Sunday morning, I was really craving a trip away from the constant of Los Angeles and called my friend asking him if I could lend his motorcycle - a jet black Yamaha Bolt - for the day. I wanted to ride it up the Pacific Coast Highway to Santa Barbara, spend some time on the beach over there just relaxing, and then ride back. I’d do it over 7-8 hours essentially, taking my time.“Sure,” he said! At about 10am, I had the motorcycle, was in full gear, and drove up the coast. It was a beautiful, sunny day. Breeze was feeling good against me. The roads were relatively empty, so it was a very comfortable, freeing drive. Anyway, two hours later, about noon, I’d made it up to Main Street in Santa Barbara. The first order of business: get some lunch. The good news is that in Santa Barbara there’s this awesome pizza place. The owner/chef is from Brooklyn and he makes a pretty mean regular slice. No frills, super simple, but super good. So, I sit for two slices of pizza and a coke. Chef’s kiss.After that, I take the bike towards the oceanside and sit amongst the rocks that line the beach and just do some thinking. My leather jacket was off and the ocean breeze felt great. It was an awesome day for introspection so I’m glad I was able to take the trip and come up.About an hour later, I decide that time’s up, I’d do the rest of the thinking on the way back home. As I ride home, there’s this awesome little ice cream shop - that sadly has now gone out of business - about halfway between Santa Barbara and Los Angeles. I stop for two scoops in a bowl. It’s bliss.Then, I’m back on the road. I make my way past Malibu, through Santa Monica, and finally on the 10 and back towards Playa Vista to return the motorcycle. With just 10 minutes of road left, about to exit the freeway, I feel a gurgle in my stomach. Like one of those gurgles that’s entirely audible and incredibly present. I feel the bubble of gas ascend and then descend in my stomach, completely rolling about within.Oh fuck, this is bad.Not to worry, I think. I can hold this in, make it to my friend’s place and use his bathroom. Somewhat embarrassing, but whatever. No big deal. So, I get back, park his bike and he welcomes me in (thank God!). I walk in and the first thing I notice, the shower in the bathroom is running. He tells me, “Oh, Kristina’s in the shower. She just got home from work. You can hang out, she’ll be out in a bit - she likes to take her time.”Fuck.“No, it’s all good. I have to get back. Get ready for work tomorrow. But, thanks so much for lending me the bike. It’s beautiful, rides smoothly, and I had such a great day.” All the while, I’m uncomfortably holding my stomach muscles rigidly in the fear of an explosive event, if you will.So, we bid adieu and I call a Lyft. 22 minutes to get back to my apartment. Thankfully the sensation of imminent diarrhea has now passed. I’m clear. Oh boy was I wrong. The Lyft arrives, I settle inside and as soon as I do, the pangs of gaseous pain arrive once more. And this time, it’s the real deal. There’s only so much I can do. The driver’s trying to make small talk, but I’m in no mood to talk. I’m in the mood to just relieve myself.As he heads down Lincoln Blvd. towards Washington and into Culver City, I remember something.A year earlier I paid for the top-tier membership to LA Fitness. I could enter any LA Fitness in the country. And guess what? There’s an LA Fitness just a minute away, en route home. “Hey man, actually can you just stop up the block! Change of plans, I’m going to meet a friend.” He abides, I step out, and I realize that I’ve never been to this LA Fitness before. I have no idea where the entrance is. I walk up the block: nothing. Down the block: nothing. “How the fuck do I get in?” I’m searching, and all the while my glutei are just begging me to relax and let this great and unholy flood go.I can’t find an entrance, but I see cars descending and ascending from an underground parking garage. I head in that direction, descend into the depths, and find an elevator that will take me up and into the building and, hopefully, to the LA Fitness. Sure enough, I find the elevator and enter into this steel chamber of elevator music that’s just pleading for me to soil my pants. A few - and very long - seconds later, the doors open and I see the entrance to the gym. At this point, and if you’ve ever pooped your pants as an adult, you know this: the closer you are to the toilet, the more your subconscious will relax your asshole. Whether I want to or not, this feels like it’s going to get messy. In a moment of brashness, I decide that I won’t show my ID to the lady at the front desk, I’m just going to steamroll in there and make my way to the bathroom. Sure enough, that plan does not work and she demands my ID. I squirm my wallet out of my pants, show her the ID, and then ask her, “Ummm, where’s the bathroom?” She looks me up and down, and, yes, she knows what’s about to go down in there. She points me in the direction and I’ve never speed walked as fast as I did that day.I walk straight into the handicap stall - I’m going to need all the space I can get - and unleash my pants from my waist. Unfortunately, I can’t grab my skin tight athletic boxers in time. The proverbial gates of hell have been unchained and the poop flows. A chill travels across my body. In this moment, I’ve never been more relaxed and stressed out in my life.I look to the floor, absolutely sure I’m going to see poop splitting from the sides of my underwear and to the floor, dripping over my pants. But, no. These Hanes Premium underwear are magical. They’re holding it in. I can feel the pressure and loss of any extra space there exists.Strategically, I kick my motorcycle boots off, which is a monstrous task of its own, acrobatically pull my pants off, leg by leg, and then prepare myself from taking the boxers off.I tell you that this next part was a miracle. I pull the waistband of the boxers off and to the right of my waist. I pull my right leg out slowly. The remnants of soil smearing my thigh. But, not too bad. Then I do the same on the left side. Incredibly, the Hanes Premium boxers have turned from underwear to shit satchel, not betraying the contents held within. Yes, my legs had been soiled in the process, but not a speck of poop had left those boxers and spoiled the tiled floor of that bathroom.I sigh in relief and now have to figure out how best to dispose of the evidence. I quiet, bringing my breath down to an almost still pace. Outside the stall, the coast seems clear. There’s nobody out there. Good, I unlatch the door, tiptoe across the bathroom and throw the boxers into the trash can. We’re close to the end of the business day and the janitor will deal with this. I then continue to tiptoe away from the stall area and to the curtained showers. I peel off the rest of my clothes from my torso and slide into the shower. I let the cold water rain over my body, using soap out of the dispenser to clean myself.New problem: no towel. So, I head out of the shower, drenching the floor and use several dozen one-sheet paper towels to dry off.By now, the poop in the trash can has settled and a terrible, almost dead, smell has settled over the bathroom and locker rooms. I ignore it in the interest of getting the heck out of there, put my clothes back on - sans underwear - and as I head out of the bathroom, two young gentlemen walk in. The first thing they do: noses to the air, “Fuck! What is that smell? Did a raccoon die in here?! FUCK!”I tip my head down, and continue out of the locker room only to be greeted by the lady from the front desk. “Sir, are you okay?” My heart felt as if it stopped. Sweat poured from my forehead, the hair on my neck rose. “Oh, yeah. Um, yeah. I’m good, I think.” I nod at her and walk straight out of that LA Fitness never to have returned. And, I probably won’t ever return. I can only imagine that they have my face on the wall: Beware the Poop Bandit.But, I’ll ride again. And take that trip up to Santa Barbara again. And probably risk two slices of pizza and two scoops of ice cream because even though I’m lactose intolerant - oh, did I forget to mention that - there’s nothing like the feeling of the wind beating across your chest as you head up the Pacific Coast Highway on a cruiser.Fin. via /r/motorcycles https://www.reddit.com/r/motorcycles/comments/gagx1d/theres_nothing_like_a_motorcycle_ride_up_the/?utm_source=ifttt
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