Tim Baker is the kind of guy who can navigate a crowded subway with the grace of a swan but can't tell you what the inside of a bike helmet looks like. It's not that he's afraid of bikes; he just never learned how to ride one. As a kid, his hobbies leaned more toward video games and reading the Guinness Book of World Records - though not the ones involving cycling.
His father, a rugged outdoorsman, had once attempted to teach him. "Balance is all it takes!" his dad had insisted, but Tim's version of balancing was teetering like a drunken flamingo before tipping over into the flowerbeds. After a few scraped knees and one particularly traumatizing encounter with a thorn bush, Tim decided bikes weren't for him. Instead, he cultivated a deep love for walking and public transport, swearing off anything with two wheels for the rest of his life.
That vow of vehicular celibacy had worked well for him. Until today.
It's a typical Tuesday morning in Boston. Tim is leisurely sipping his overpriced oat milk latte in his tiny apartment when his phone rings. It's Sarah, his best friend and a walking encyclopedia of bad luck.
"Tim, I need you to come over right now!" Sarah's voice is frantic.
Tim frowns, setting down his coffee. "Did you get locked out again? I told you to make a spare key."
"No, Tim. I slipped in the shower. I think I broke my ankle. You need to take me to the hospital!"
Tim starts to throw on a jacket, his mind already planning the fastest route to her place. "Okay, I'll call an Uber."
"There's a marathon today! The roads are blocked off for miles. You'll never get through. But my roommate's motorcycle is parked outside. You'll have to use that."
Tim freezes. The words hang in the air like an ominous storm cloud. Motorcycle? She might as well have said spaceship. He's never even touched one before.
"Uh, Sarah?" Tim stammers. "I don't think you understand. I never learned to ride a bike."
There's a beat of silence on the other end of the line, followed by the sound of Sarah's exasperated laughter. "Tim, it's a motorcycle. It's not the same thing."
Tim scratches his head, unsure whether this is true or if Sarah's pain has just made her delirious. "Are you sure? Because they both have two wheels and I'm not exactly known for my coordination."
"I don't care!" Sarah yells, clearly in agony. "Just get here. I need you!"
Tim sprints out of his apartment, his heart pounding like he's on his way to a final exam he didn't study for. He arrives at Sarah's building and immediately spots the motorcycle. It's a sleek, shiny red Honda, sitting there like a predatory animal waiting to pounce.
He circles it like it's a cursed relic, poking at it with one finger. It doesn't look all that different from a bicycle, except it's heavier and looks about ten times more expensive. Tim has no idea how to start it, let alone drive it.
Sarah's voice calls down from her window. "Tim! Are you just going to admire it, or are you actually going to get me to the hospital?"
"I'm working on it!" he shouts back. He takes a deep breath, grabs the helmet hanging from the handlebars, and awkwardly shoves it onto his head. It's a size too small, squeezing his face into an expression that would make a blowfish look elegant.
He swings a leg over the seat, nearly tipping the bike over in the process. With shaking hands, he turns the key. The motorcycle rumbles to life beneath him like a growling pit bull. He feels an immediate urge to jump off and run back to the safety of his subway pass.
But then he remembers Sarah, likely sprawled on her floor in pain, and guilt overrides his fear. He revs the engine and clumsily lurches the bike forward. It feels like he's trying to steer a bar of soap across a wet bathroom floor.
Tim manages to roll the bike up to the curb just as Sarah hobbles out of the building. She looks like she's in a bad action movie, dragging herself along with one leg bent at an unnatural angle.
"Get on!" Tim shouts, trying to sound confident despite feeling like his soul is about to leave his body.
Sarah gives him a look that says, Are you sure about this? But she's in too much pain to argue, so she climbs on behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist in a death grip.
"Okay, how do I drive this thing?" Tim asks.
"You just twist the throttle," Sarah replies, clutching her ankle. "And keep us upright!"
"Great, because that's the one thing I'm bad at," Tim mutters.
He tentatively twists the handle, and the bike leaps forward like a startled deer. Tim's feet shoot up off the ground, and suddenly they're careening down the street, swerving wildly from side to side. They look like two circus clowns attempting a stunt without rehearsing first.
Pedestrians dive out of their way, shouting and gesturing as Tim narrowly avoids plowing into a hot dog cart. The vendor shakes his fist at them, mustard flying everywhere.
"Watch out!" Sarah screams as they veer toward a fire hydrant.
"I'm trying!" Tim yells back, feeling the bike wobble under him like it's got a vendetta against stability.
Just when Tim thinks things can't get worse, he hears the unmistakable wail of a police siren behind them. He sneaks a glance over his shoulder and sees a cop on a motorcycle, his face a mask of utter disbelief.
"Oh no," Tim groans. "They think I'm a maniac!"
"They're not wrong!" Sarah shouts.
The cop pulls up alongside them, motioning for Tim to pull over. But the hospital is only a few blocks away, and Sarah's face is turning an alarming shade of green.
"I'm not stopping," Tim decides. He twists the throttle harder, and the bike lurches forward, zipping through a narrow gap between two delivery trucks. The cop stays right on their tail, shouting something unintelligible through his megaphone.
Tim feels like he's in a chase scene from The Fast and the Furious, except he's neither fast nor furious - just terrified. He takes a sharp turn onto a side street, the bike nearly tipping over. Sarah lets out a scream that sounds half-terrified, half-thrilled.
In a miracle of coordination, Tim skids the bike to a stop in front of the emergency room entrance. He's panting, sweat dripping down his forehead, but they made it. Sarah slides off the bike, hobbling inside as nurses rush to help her.
Tim dismounts, nearly collapsing from relief, when the cop finally catches up. He expects a ticket, a lecture - maybe even handcuffs. Instead, the officer pulls off his helmet and breaks into a wide grin.
"Not bad for a beginner," the cop says. "You've got guts, kid."
Tim lets out a shaky laugh. "Guts, or a complete lack of self-preservation."
The cop nods in agreement. "Either way, you got her here safely. That's what counts." He gives Tim a thumbs-up before riding off.
Inside, Sarah emerges from the ER on crutches, her leg in a cast but her smile wide. "Tim," she says, "I can't believe you did that. You're a hero."
Tim grins back, the adrenaline finally fading. "Maybe," he says, "but I'm never riding a motorcycle again."
As they leave the hospital, Tim feels a strange, inexplicable sense of pride. Sure, he might never learn how to ride a bicycle, but today he learned something even better: the lengths he would go for a friend in need.
And that, he decides, is worth more than any childhood bike-riding lesson.
