Riding the Recharge

Afternoons at Amaru are for recharging. For reading books, laying in hammocks in the now-onshore breeze. For protein smoothies from the always-open bar (all healthy beverages are included in your weekly lodging fee), for practicing duck diving or slacklining in or over the pool. But I’ve got a different idea. After spotting several brand-new little Chinese motorcycles under an eave in the far corner of the parking lot, I track down Sabrina to ask whether I could rent one for the afternoon.

Ah, that is Robinson, she says. He will be very happy to talk to you. He is repairing the surfboard that got run over.

I find a perpetually shirtless, fit man in his mid-twenties wearing a COVID-style mask, smoothing new fiberglass on an eight-foot single fin with a circular sander. I’ve seen him around the grounds of Amaru, and at the dinner table the night before, but haven’t yet spoken to him. I wait until he notices me, turns off the sander, and lowers his mask. When I mention motorcycles, he lights up.

Yes, they are for rent, he says. A day or a week, whatever you like. You know how to ride?

He looks more than a bit skeptical, and for good reason. At three times his age, I am a geezer to him, one step away from the rocking chair. This dynamic isn't unfamiliar. You find it in ski shops and surf shops and bike shops (analog and electric and motor bikes) all over the world. The young dude doubts the old dude’s proficiency. So, the old dude over-flexes and tries to skewer the shop kid’s bona fides. You work in a shop, punk, and not exactly ripping the world freeride tour. Bro-speak and location-dropping are de rigueur. Did the season at Jackson. Scored in Indo. Moto-ed in Moab.

This is always a man thing. Women are too smart, too subtle and don’t need all the posturing to take a man’s measure.

I’ve always hated this seemingly mandatory interlude on the way to fun. Because here’s the thing, if you don’t flex a little, the kid takes a quick glance at the presented geezer and promptly puts him on a foamie surfboard or suggests a Vespa scooter. The challenge is to convey competence without becoming a blowhard. I tell myself that I’ve gotten better at it over the years.

Fortunately, today I have my phone, and on my phone are hundreds of motocycle photos. I show Robinson stills and videos of me on my big adventure bike, on my dirt bike in the sand, and one of me and my wife on our wedding day with her in a wedding dress, side-sadle on the big black 1100 cc. I even show him an air shot of me on the 450 at the motocross track. Okay, I admit it. That was a bit much and I should be embarrassed, but c’mon, just because a dude has been around for sixty years doesn’t make him mature. Anyway, the shot of me sending a tabletop at the track closes out the conversation. He’s convinced that I’ve been on a dirt bike before and he can run the risk of renting his new 250 to me.

Now it’s time for the money talk, and I notice he’s snapping the elastic band of his face mask nervously against his neck. Ah, how quickly the tables turn for the geezer. He’s twenty-something, and I’m sixty-something. If there’s going to be a negotiation over price, the old guy probably has the upper hand, as well as the money.

Twenty dollars a day, he blurts, his eyes searching mine for a reaction. Which comes easy: Done.

In Utah, the math would be closer to $20 an hour for a motorcycle rental. Without hesitation, I fish in my pocket, pull out a damp handful of cash, and count out six twenties. After I hand them over, however, Robinson doesn’t seem happy. Shaking his head, thumbing the bills slowly, he says: Not good.

He holds one twenty at a time up toward the afternoon sun. Scanning for imperfections.

The Nicaraguan economy effectively operates on two currencies: the Nicaraguan Córdoba and the U.S. dollar. Dollars are accepted for almost any purchase, with change always coming back in Córdobas. But apparently Nicaragua's banking system is strict about not accepting worn currency, and you don’t want to be the last one holding a damaged, worthless bill. Also, depending on the political situation, dollars may not just be spending money, but more enduring stores of value. People may save dollars for years, benefiting from currency swings. And they don’t want to save already degraded dollars.

Out of the six twenties I’ve given Robinson, he hands three back. I rifle through my short stack and find better ones. Note to self: next time get crisp new cash from the bank before the trip.

Currency challenges behind us now, he walks me over to the bike: A 250 cc, red Yara Scorpion. The odometer shows 17 miles. The tires still have the little new nubs. When I comment, Robinson tells me that this is a new business venture and that he just bought the bikes the previous week. He hopes to rent them out, pay them off, and turn a profit. A born entrepreneur. I tell him not to worry.

I break it, I buy it, I say.

He smiles and hands me a full-face helmet—black and red to match the bike — that would fit Frankenstein. When the mismatch becomes apparent, he disappears into the lodge and comes back with another. Same color, a bit smaller. Then he hands me a registration and insurance card.

In case of police stops, he says.

I shake the young entrepreneur’s hand, thumb the starter, and I’m riding out of the Amaru courtyard. I didn’t fill out a single form, sign my life away, or deny costly daily insurance. Life is nice when things are simple, and people trust each other.

Just the basic act of riding a motorbike makes me happy. It really can be that simple. Ramping down, through the gate to the compound, Scorpion and I jounce down a rough dirt road toward the water. Gunning the little bike’s throttle, we fishtail through the soft sand of the beach before gaining purchase on the hard sand by the water.

Low tide and firm sand. A miles-long expanse framed by verdant jungle on one side, peeling white waves to the other. I find Scorpion’s happy place in third gear, mid-throttle, and let the afternoon unspool, emptying thoughts and fears and doubts. There’s something so reliably calming, so bankable, in getting on a bike and rolling through space and time. It’s been that way for as long as I can remember.

When I was ten years old, rolling home from hockey practice on a crisp New England fall evening on the back of my father’s motorcycle, hockey bag bungee-corded to the back, stick strapped under our left legs, with my arms wrapped around his back, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket and head resting on his back, I fell into a relaxed slumber and only woke up when he reached home. The moment was woven into the patchwork of family lore, and in Dad’s telling, a supreme compliment to his smooth shifting skills. Now, fifty-odd years later, I find the same reliable groove on this little bike on a Nicaraguan beach, in the space between moments.