Last night both main roads in my neighborhood were shut down because a motorcyclist lost control and caused a fatal accident. It wasn’t the first motorcycle accident I’ve seen around here. It probably won’t be the last. And that’s when I started thinking about what I will refer to as the Vroom, Vroom Virus.

If you’re like me, you’re a daydreamer. Every time you brake in traffic, your mind wanders. Then suddenly an enormous ROAR whizzes by your ear, freaking you the fuck out. And no, it’s not some elated lion escaped from the Metro Zoo.

What it is, is something you cannot capture. A wild beast with a faulty kickstand.

Known in nature as a motorcyclist, biker, rider, or scooterist, these creatures roam our concrete jungle. Different species, same family. Honda. Yamaha. Kawasaki. Suzuki. Harley-Davidson. Indian. Vespa. Kymco. Wolf.

And before anyone gets defensive, let me say this: I get the appeal. I have friends who ride. I love my friends. Hell, I’m even jealous of them.

A) Motorcycles look fun.

B) They look freeing af.

C) They just look so damn cool.

D) They also terrify the living ef outta me.

But a motorcycle roaring down an open stretch of road for endless miles doesn’t terrify me. Hell, a dozen bikers on an open highway is damn near a beautiful thing.

Out there, they don’t resemble a virus at all.

The Vroom, Vroom Virus only appears when it finds a host. And the host is the city. Our city.

The crowded streets. The packed intersections. The highways clogged with people trying to get home. That’s where the friction starts.

Because motorcycles have a way of spreading. One rider becomes two. Two become ten. A friend buys one and suddenly another friend wants one. You see one parked outside a restaurant and catch yourself thinking, “Yeah, that one would look good between my legs.”

Now look. The move that gets me every time is the lane-splitting. You’re sitting at a light or crawling through traffic when suddenly a rider shoots between two cars and blasts past your window. Worst of all, it’s legal in some places. Well, it damn well isn’t here. And every single time it happens, it scares the holy heck out of me.

Maybe that’s because riders seem comfortable squeezing through spaces most drivers wouldn’t dream of attempting.

Or maybe it’s because every few months another story pops up about a rider who didn’t make it home.

Data indicates more than 9,000 motorcycle crashes occurred in Florida in 2022 alone. Florida consistently ranks among the states with the highest motorcycle fatality totals in the country.

The virus finds its hosts because motorcycles offer the promise of things cars don’t.

Real freedom. Real speed. Real adventure. Unfortunately, they also offer real risk.

As the biker saying goes, “It’s not a matter of if, it’s a matter of when.”

I don’t know if that’s true. Plenty of riders spend decades on the road without serious accidents. But the fact that the saying exists at all tells you something.

Everybody understands the bargain.

Maybe I’m being alarmist. Maybe my metaphors are working overtime. But every time another motorcycle fatality shuts down a road in my neighborhood, I wonder if we’ve become a little too comfortable with the danger.

Our roads aren’t sick. But they are getting louder and more crowded. And until somebody figures out a cure for that, I vote for wider cars!