Crotch Rocket

I straddled the motorcycle dubiously. It was a huge, sleek, yet bulky thing—a touring bike, at least half the weight of a car (and maybe heavier than a Volkswagen). I stared at the instrument panel—one huge multifunction display, currently blank. None of the dirt bikes I’d ridden had even had a speedometer.

“What now?”

A panel below the screen snapped open, revealing an iPhone/iPod docking cradle. I was reaching to snap the phone into place, and paused when I heard a whirring sound coming from behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw a shower of sparks falling from the top of the door.

“Hurry up!” Nicolette insisted. I snapped the phone into the cradle, and the motorcycle roared to life. At the far end of the garage, another door started to slide open, revealing the dim light of a subway tunnel beyond. “Now go!”

“Hang on a sec,” I said, trying to figure out the controls.

“We don’t have a sec. Hold on tight!” I was nearly thrown from the bike as she took over and we surged forward, out the door.

View this story's 1 comments.