Back in the saddle again...

I used to get at least half a dozen calls every week from soldiers and students looking to catch a ride Sunday morning to Beer Sheva (where I work).  Back in the day I used to drive our family station wagon to work, and was more than happy to have company (and to do a good deed).

But then I bought a scooter, which has saved me a metric butt-load of cash on fuel... but has seriously cut down on the available seating for hitchhikers:

 

Oh sure, once in a while I'll pick up someone I know for a quick trip within our town... or even to Kiryat Arba (about a 15 minute ride).  But so far nobody has made the hour ride with me to Beer Sheva. 

That is, until today.

Last night I got an SMS from a friend (hi Doreet!) asking if I had room in my car for a soldier (her daughter's boyfriend) who needed to get to the Beer Sheva bus station early on Sunday morning to catch the shuttle to his army base. 

I called her back and explained about my new mode of commuting, and suggested that she contact someone with a car who still made the hour commute in that direction.  I told her that if he couldn't find a ride he was welcome to come along with me.  She thanked me and we said goodbye.

A couple of hours later she called me back saying that the only ride she'd been able to find in that direction was with someone who was leaving too late.  It seems her daughter's boyfriend needed to be back on his base fairly early, so was my offer still open?

I said sure and told her to have him at my house at the time I usually depart.

When I went out this morning, standing next to my scooter I found a tall, lanky soldier wearing the uniform and insignia of an IDF Paratrooper.  He had a backpack and M-16 slung over his shoulder and was eyeing my scooter dubiously.

I noticed the look (as well as the lack of jacket), and asked him if he'd ever ridden on the back of one of these things.  He admitted that, except for a bicycle, it would be his first time on two wheels. 

I shouldn't have been too surprised about the lack of a jacket.   Several years ago I remember chastising a soldier hitchhiker for not wearing a coat when I found him half frozen at a bus stop in the middle of the winter.  He explained with perfectly deadpan delivery that his platoon commander had forbidden the soldiers in his unit from wearing jackets, telling them that, "Paratroopers don't get cold".

So I knew it was pointless to ask about a jacket, but I was worried about his eyes and offered him a pair of sunglasses (which he gratefully accepted in French-accented Hebrew). 

As I helped him get my spare helmet adjusted, I told him that all he had to remember was to do whatever I did;  If I leaned right... he had to lean right.  If I leaned left... he had to lean left.  He nodded his understanding and got on.

As we pulled out I realized there was something else I'd neglected to tell him. 

Chicks ride pillion with their arms around the waist of the driver.  Bros hold onto the seat handles and avoid physical contact at all costs... unless a chick is driving, and then hey, the more contact the better!.   ;-)

 
The only person who has ever hugged me quite so tightly while riding on the back of the scooter is my wife. 

I momentarily debated pulling over and telling him about this small-but-important codicil of the bro-code, but decided that the Paratrooper uniform and machine gun probably added enough macho-points to the equation to balance out the uncomfortably intimate embrace.   Heck, the guy jumps out of planes for a living... it would take more than a hug to knock the shine off that! 

Anyway, about 15 minutes into the ride I could feel him starting to loosen up... and by the half-way point his hands rested only occasionally on my hips... which according to the bro-code is somewhat acceptable.

When we finally pulled up at the Beer Sheva Central Bus Station, he got off slowly and thanked me for the ride.  But I could see he was having some trouble, and asked him if everything was ok.  He simply smiled and nodded as he handed me back my spare helmet and sunglasses.

As I sat at the light waiting to leave the station, I looked back over my shoulder and saw him take a few tentative steps... followed by a few deep knee bends and a couple of more baby steps.  This was repeated a few times before he settled into a bow-legged gait that would have made Clint Eastwood proud.   

Ah yes, saddle sore.  I'd forgotten that an hour on such a small seat might leave its mark... especially on someone too terrified to adjust himself into a more comfortable position. 

Oh well, I'm sure he'll have plenty of time to work out the kinks on the shuttle ride to his base.