Road Rash: Solace In A Time of War
The senseless beating of bikers in a war with the road. Angry cops on an impassioned mission of pursuit. Fiercely expedited rice burning motorcycles with a flair for the flamboyant. These are the reasons we rash with the road. Or more appropriately, the reason we Road Rash.
The aforementioned impetuous highway was discovered on a day in my youth that would be best forgotten, for it harbored a plethora of dreadful memories of a long gone intermediate purgatory in the less pleasant “middle” school years of my reality. A reality that fortuitously included scores of nerd driven gaming weekends at my BFF’s midget sized dwelling. That’s right, we had each other to help forget the nonsense of the otherworldly meanderings of cheer leaders and Pop Warner football players, but more significantly, we also had Road Rash.
Ahead 20 years, and a lifetime of insight rests at my heels. The fun of re-collecting my decrepit youth fills me with excitement. Road Rash arrives to me not by intention, but by mere coincidence. Suffice it to say that it was a jewel of the Nile, a diamond in the rough, a satisfactory surprise in an assortment of drivel. The kind of drivel that pads the game “lots” periodically sold on eBay. Have an appetite for Road Rash? Acquire John Madden as well! No matter, Road Rash was the logic behind the illogic of monumental sports games.
Next comes some alcohol, a cotton swab, and five minutes later my triumphant return to competition is in motion. I am greeted by pixilated, faux 3D murals on a plain of sprawling avenue that explode forth as the contest commences. I race forward with a plethora of fluent road warriors, club in hand, whacking for position amidst the scurry of momentum. Fourteen antagonists and a single exponent, striving for the achievement that only extreme velocity can bring. The result is in view and only one will abound.
A round to the left, a curve to the right, a cow in the lane and our hero takes flight.
Over the bars and into the air, then to come down, with minimal flair.
I run back to my bike and attempt to get on, but low and behold, it explodes like a bomb.
And to make matters worse, a siren rings out, it’s a cop on a bike, we are left with no doubt.
As I am handcuffed and hauled off to jail, I can’t help but think, I’ve done nothing but fail.
My joy ride may be over, but I can’t help but want more, a sign of remembrance, in my youthful days of yore.