Rule #2: “You Meet the Nicest People on a Honda” OR “Everything Worth Doing is Worth Doing Imperfectly” OR “Keep the Promises You Make or Your Motorcycle will Conspire with the Universe to Make you Late for Work and Stuff”
Remember that time I said I was going to write a blog every week? Yeah, me too. Those were the good, old days of Fall Break (Google Translate says that’s “Autumn” for my British readers”). It was a time when money showed up in my bank account without requiring me to show up to a job. With ample time to fritter away, my inner–I’m-on-vacation-author let her dreams roam free across the internet without thinking of future not-so-on-vacation-me. Ugh, the former Stacey can be so irritating to the latter. Picture, if you can, the two Staceys in a Gollum-worthy power struggle during mundane tasks:
“But we LOVE to write!”
“Yes, but we also love being employed. And we love sleep. Sooo, I’m not really sure when you think we have time for this nonsense.”
“We want to write and enrich the world with stories of kindness and adventure!!!!”
“The world already has Pixar for that; WE have a job.”
Part of my irritation with that carefree and idealistic version of myself is that every week I WANT to work on my blog, but I find it difficult to sit down with enough dedicated time to compose something I believe is worth reading. However, leave it to the universe to teach me a lesson because I wasn’t writing about my bike by not allowing me to ride my bike. Please do come sit ‘round the campfire while I tell you a tale of karmic happenings.
Last Saturday marked a momentous occasion for me because I handed in the automatic Attilla scooter I had been renting these last few months of driving in Saigon. I was finally ready to join the “Cub Club” and drive my proper Honda Cub motorcycle around the city. I was so proud of myself as I have been putting this transition off, frankly, out of fear. Driving a Cub means you have to shift gears with your feet which I can promise you is easier said than done when you’re in rush hour traffic here is District 1 [insert obligatory Hunger Games joke about living in the capital here please].
Monday morning arrived, and I had to leave for work. I was so excited to conquer this fear! I was exhilarated at the thought of doing something I never thought I would, or even could, do! I was as nervous as I imagine Donald Trump’s PR team is whenever he opens his mouth to speak! My little light of hope and adventure was alight in my heart! I was feeling like all those lovely moments of synchronicity in my life that seemed to have stopped may start up again! Dude, I was going to be super late if I did not stop daydreaming about how great it was going to be and just get on the stupid thing and go.
So off I went, and it was glorious! For like, twelve minutes. Yeah, it was really good for probably about twelve minutes or so, and then I broke my bike trying to start it again after I stalled it out at a traffic light.
*Collective Internet Face Palm*
As amazing as my car insurance had been, I doubted they would send a tow-truck all the way to Viet Nam in exchange for all my loyal years of being a customer. I had no choice but to just push her along the side of the road until I found a sửa xe, also known as a Vietnamese motorcycle whisperer (By one person. Me. I call them that. I’m waiting for it to catch on.) As I sat by the side of the road, I was understandably a little disappointed, but this was all part of owning an older bike. I was like, having a local experience mmmkay? It was totally fine.
It wasn’t until the gentleman dandy arose from the pavement making the Vietnamese gesture for “no” with his hands that my heart plummeted in my chest. What? What do you mean you can’t fix it? I have no contingency plan. You ARE the plan sir. I know less about how this bike works than Canada does about whatever it is that has happened to Justin Bieber. Look, it’s like Lance Armstrong says, “failure is not an option” my good fellow, so let’s like, you know, keep trying here.
As my mind calculated how far I would have to push this beast of burden to a mechanic with a more extensive set of parts and tools at his disposal, two gentlemen, who had conspicuously arrived to our part of the sidewalk about ten minutes earlier, came over to me and sat down. I exchanged pleasantries with one man in Vietnamese, which seemed to delight him thoroughly. He then kindly informed me in English that he had paid the mechanic to push my bike to the nearest shop, given him money to have my bike fixed, and was giving me his driver to take me to the shop or to work, whichever I preferred, all free of charge.
I was stunned. I don’t mean “I won a $25 gift card to Starbucks at community Bingo Night” surprised. I mean “stopped my heart, took away my breath, swept me off my feet, wondrously marveling at how profoundly kind human beings can be to one another” shocked, especially in contrast to the heartbreaking events around the world that had occurred that weekend of November 13.
This man had no obligation to take care of me. He knew even less about me than I knew about my bike (which is even less than Canada knows about- well I mean, you remember, we’ve been over this part already). I am not a woman who is accustomed to being a damsel in distress, and in the event that I am, I usually rescue myself. This was new, and humbling, territory. It was all I could do to try and say thank you as many times over as I possibly could before I was whisked away. The original 1960s slogan for the Honda Cub motorcycle company had been, “You meet the nicest people on a Honda,” and it seems it still holds true.
Two days later I left for work. I made it about 60 seconds down the alley before I realized I had a flat tire, and Ham Porter’s voice from The Sandlot went running through my head; “You’re KILLING me smalls!” Once again, I was saved by the kindness of humanity in the form of my two roommates who rallied to repair both my tire and my spirits.
As I sat ruminating over how wonderful everyone had been, I still couldn’t help but feel needled that the occasion of switching to my new bike, which I had so looked forward to, seemed to have started off with shadow cast over it. I had come to think of this bike as a metaphor for my adventures, and here it was turning out to be a complete disaster. I was feeling unhappy. It felt like only a few weeks ago I was seeing signs all over the place from the universe telling me I was on the right track, and now, it had gone silent.
Until I realized it hadn’t. I kept running in to them everywhere on my motorcycle when I was writing, when I was being present, when I was practicing gratitude. Now that I wasn’t, the universe decided apparently it had a sense of humor. You want a sign do you? You don’t want to do the work? You need a wake-up call? You got it toots. The bike isn’t broken because you’re not supposed to be on it. The bike is broken you moron because it’s trying to tell you that you need to fix it. You need to be writing. You need to keep your promise, or you aren’t going to get what you want.
If this were a feature film, this would be the moment there would be a really artsy shot of like, light bulbs turning on and stuff, probably with a hipster-band song playing in the background because it’s still a commercial film and needs to sell the soundtrack, but you get what I mean. It would be tastefully done I’m sure.
I hadn’t been writing because I kept coming up with reasons why I didn’t have enough time to write something I felt was worth reading, but then my best friend bestowed her mother’s words of wisdom on me as I told her about my week; “Everything worth doing is worth doing imperfectly.”
Did you catch that? I know it went by really quickly so we can just go ahead and instant replay that business. “Everything worth doing is worth doing imperfectly.”
It doesn’t matter if every post is worthy of a Pullitzer. It doesn’t matter if there are errors. It doesn’t need to be the pinnacle of my literary career. It just has to get done. I have spent a lifetime making memories and learning lessons, and I barely have a record of them. I am in the most profound place learning the most wondrous things about myself with the most wonderful people, and I don’t want to find myself sitting by the fire one day wishing I had a collection of perfect essays I never wrote because I didn’t have time. I want to have a copy of imperfect memories I recorded to treasure long after I have forgotten the details that instilled wonder in me every day.
So, suffice it to say, my new bike suits me even better because she knows that if she’s going to be the vehicle for my adventures as well as my muse, then she's going to make certain I make a record of all her hard work. As it stands, I owe you (and my motorcycle) four posts that I have missed. More importantly though, I owe them to myself because even though almost everything I am doing here I am doing imperfectly- for work, for friendships, for myself- they are all worth doing. Ergo, I will keep my original promise so that these moments and memories will never be lost, especially now that I know I’m going to meet the nicest people on my Honda Cub adventure- just like my motorcycle promised.