Level Two: Hog Wild

My first cousin on my mom’s side is the second son of my mother’s brother, Mimi, and brother to the cousin I have already written about. His name is Antoni. I remember him when he was a teenager and younger. He lost his dad when he was 16 years old, and for whatever reason, the image of him in my mind has been stuck though I have seen him in the 12 years since our loss of Theo Mimi. Mimi was the car nut in the family. He loved them. He worked on them. He knew everything about them. He said, “If I could put wheels on my wife, I would love her all the more.” He bought a 1960 Mini Cooper that his widow and Antoni still have. It has more than 1,000,000 miles on it, because Mimi would take it apart and rebuild it. My love of cars sprouts from him and my love for him.

Mimi also rode bikes. Here they are called “michanakia” or “little engines.” My mom has told me a story from back then, when she visited Greece and rode on a bike with Mimi. He instructed her to put her purse between them and close her eyes. My mom remembers going so fast along Syggrou Avenue that she couldn’t open her eyes if she wanted to, and of course she wonders to this day how on earth Mimi could drive! But that was Mimi, and there was only one Mimi.

Today, there are many more cars and michanakia in Greece. And when you’re driving anywhere in Greece, but especially in well-populated areas, the michanakia are what can take you by surprise. Here, they go wherever they want. In traffic, they move between slow-moving cars. Without traffic, they do the same, just at higher speeds. At stoplights, they flood the crosswalks to be first in line. At left turn lanes, they bypass the waiting cars and head to the front of the line to make the turn first. Of course the benefit for having a michanaki is the ease of getting around and above all else finding a parking spot. My American eyes, however, can only see the disadvantages—the lack of safety standards, the absence of helmets—and the speeds at which they weave through traffic horrify me.

I saw Antoni this week. Now, I think I finally have an updated mental image of him. He stands at 6’2” and has filled out. Even though I remember him when he was 16 months old when I was a tiny 9-year-old myself, he nears 30, and his goatee is a reminder of how far we’ve both come since then. Antoni invited me out with some of his friends. They meet every Thursday night. Sometimes they gather on Sundays too. You see, this group that he is a part of rides bikes. In further redefining my image of him, Antoni owns a hog and is a member of the Harley-Davidson Club of Athens.

I’ve only ever ridden on a scooter. That was in Greece too, back in 2004 when Freddie and Jordan came to visit and we wanted an easy way to get around Mykonos. I never drove the scooters, but chose to ride with one of the boys at any one time. While on the island, we ponied up for helmets.

“Wear pants.” When Antoni called to tell me he was waiting down below, I arrived, purseless, in jeans and closed toe shoes. He rides a Harley, but not one of those huge ones with back supports; it’s a sporty one, with a black matte finish. And no room to house a second helmet. With my mother watching above from the veranda, I climbed on the bike, helmetless. I thought that the only way I could be making the choice that I was making was to be in the hands of Mimi’s only surviving son. He had my full trust—and my life—in his control. (Only upon my safe arrival home did my mother confide in me her thoughts as she watched us zip away.)

“Hold on to me, because there is nowhere else to hold on.” I didn’t know where we were headed. But because of where we live, we had to get on busy streets. I hugged Antoni and rested my head on his shoulder. Worried about losing my contacts, I did not open my eyes for a bit. When I finally did, I chose not to look at the speedometer, but it did make me wonder: what was I doing exactly?

“Lean with the bike.” We were headed to Piraeus, so we were traveling on one busy avenue to get to another. We weaved in between cars, and sped through them as they merged from two lanes into one. (I had the opportunity to drive in Corfu a couple of years ago, and I likened it to being in a video game with the one difference being that my life was literally at stake. I think I just reached Level Two of that video game.)

As we approached Piraeus, I squinted to have some idea of where we were. I could feel and hear the gears changing. Click! We’d pull away from cars or other bikes. My one open eye watched as we passed between buses and cars and whizzed pass shops. I saw the headlights of oncoming traffic Click! as we traveled along the median to bypass a line of cars. The reflection of streetlights became a dotted line I could follow in Antoni’s helmet. Reminding me of my cranial exposure, the wind cooled my face, and I could occasionally feel it at my back when we came too close to a bus. Click! Click!

I’ll tell you about the details of meeting the gang when I see you next (the 20 or so bikes of all sizes, Antoni taking me by each one to match the person I just met to the bike as well as to inform me of the differences in the bikes themselves, my experience with the three other women that were there, a bus knocking a bike over, the members of the gang who directed traffic between buses and cars along the “steno”). Antoni took me home—I can only imagine before going out again—and I thanked him for the experience. I told him that it was the first time I had ridden a michanaki, and he was delighted that it was done properly. On a Hog.

More to come...