I’ve been a driver since I was 15-years-old, more than half of my life. In September of 2010 I was at my wits end with owning a car. I had to fix the clutch a half dozen times. The transmission was once again on its way out. There was a dent on the driver-side and the passenger window was out of commision. Even so, I loved my honda civic ex hatchback. She was compact, fire engine red, and ripped up and down route 101 like a champ.
But living in the mission district without a residential permit was like having a pimp – for my car. That pimp was the City of San Francisco. Within 19 month I accumulated over $1,500 in parking tickets. Some tickets were warrented, others just tricks of the trade.
The hatchback was sold in less than a day. I’ve been car free for seven months. I use Zipcar, which has a pick up location one block away from my flat. I ride my bicycle just about everywhere I can. I use the muni and Bart like a true city gyal. But I can’t stop the drool from streaming down my chin when I see a hot rod or muscle car purring it’s way down the street. Dare I say I even get a slight hard-on when a motorcycle zips past me. I often notice when the driver notices me. I fantsize too about being in the empty seat. Gripping my fingers into the leather riding jacket; feeling abs contract beneath the hide as we hug along the sharp windy curves of the open road. But you know what would be even better? If I had a motorcycle of my own.