A seven-foot giant stood in front of me. His breath reeked of Coors Lite (cans, not bottles).  His jeans were a work of art; the delicate combination of sweat, grease and road kill. 

On his left hand, he had three thick, black under-the-nail blood blisters you get, say, after beating a scrawny bearded pencil neck radio talk show host through the mixing board. He was unshaven.

His hair was a mix of sweat and frizz, giving him a halo of barbed wire.

My first question for Rogue was, "Could you tell the nice people in the listening audience what it's like to be in an Oklahoma motorcycle gang and how much fun you have spitting through that missing front tooth while you're on your way to frighten little children, kick the neighbor's dog and knock off a bank?"

I finished the interview by asking Rogue if I could have a ride on his bike. 

Had I been any closer, he would have eaten me whole.

Pablo stands a towering five feet, one inch. 
His belly stretches from the point where his neck should be, to somewhere just above his knees. And yesterday, when he kick-started his two speed motor SCOOTER and motioned for me to hop on the back, I knew he hadn't listened to my "Three Easy Steps To Becoming A Motorcycle Gang Member" talk show. Hoping Rogue hadn't jumped bail and moved to Mexico, I hopped on the scooter. 

Grabbing some of the excess flesh on either side of Pablo's flanks would have made the trip easier on my nerves.

Now, watching the madness of The Scooter People as they ride through the city streets is one thing. BEING one of The Scooter People riding through the city streets, is another. Luckily, Pablo had no regard for cars. Or pedestrians. Or life.

WE OWNED OAXACA.

In fact, the hardest part of my day was encouraging Pablo to look at what was IN FRONT of us as we cruised along. He had this fascinating habit of turning his head sideways to listen while I yelled broken Spanish over the "roar" of the engine and into his ear.

It was the “I'm Not Sure How Much Longer I Will Be Living Will” I wrote shortly after our ‘moment' with the Really Really Big, Really Really Fast, Oncoming Bus.

But fear not mother, Pablo has also perfected his human ambulance siren. 

The two times we got stuck in traffic, he let out an ear splitting, exact reproduction of the local ambulance siren. People scattered. Cars moved. The path cleared.

And there we were, Pablo Pancho Sanchez and Johnny Rider, cruising the streets of Oaxaca, Mexico. On a scooter.