Night wash: Finding a brief respite from the day's demands

Just around the corner from my house, the small self-wash station, usually bustling with beach-going tourists, is vacant but for one tired motorcyclist. Water droplets pulled inland from the ocean shimmer in the LED lights as the thrum of my 2022 Suzuki SV650 echoes against the stall. Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.

Before the end of June, when the rainy season typically starts here in South Korea, where I live with my family, the coastal regions often experience a few days of peculiar weather: Hot days collide with cool evenings, air pressure fluctuates wildly, and the result is a dense fog that, as I'm standing alone in this car wash, I realize is starting to make me feel somewhat claustrophobic. I think of my son back at home, still an infant, who's just gone to sleep, and am reminded that, despite my fatigue, time here is precious. Clean his toys, do the laundry, empty the dishwasher, play with the cat — the list of things to do back at home seems endless. Taking a deep breath, I look out into the night, trying to focus on the present.

Tense, I try to relax, pulling off my helmet and gulping in the cool evening air. For the first time, I notice that the usual nighttime sounds of insects, delivery scooters, and the distant drone of the ocean, have been replaced with a silence that borders on oppressive. Looking around at the ethereal lights of the car wash encased in early summer fog, I feel as if I've been transported into a dream. Standing here alone, my otherworldly surroundings leave me with the strange feelings of nostalgia, wonder, and a little anxiety to get on with what I came here to do. Exhaling, long and low, I begin to relax a little more, the exhaustion of the past few hours leaving my body in waves.

After killing the ignition, I fumble through my pockets, trying to remember how much money remains on the self-wash tap card that sometimes lives in my wallet. Maybe 10,000 won, maybe 5,000, I can never remember when it comes time to actually use it. I make my way over to the head office, where I usually chat with the owner, and stash my belongings so they don't get sprayed by the other patrons' wandering jets of water. Now, at night, it's dark, and empty, save for a few blinking security lights and the orange glow of the computer's power bar, which sends long shadows up the back wall. Here at the end of the lot, it smells heavily of chestnut trees, the damp musk of wet grass, and something metallic; tinny. Maybe ozone? I leave my helmet and gloves on a dusty chair outside, resigning them to the night's dampness. Turning back to Bay 3, I top up my card (current balance: 14,000 won), shake my head of the remaining unease, pop in my ear buds, and begin the process of washing my motorcycle. Now it's time to focus.

Tapping my card against the fob, I remove the power wash gun from its holster, and begin to mist down the bike, its pearl-white tank and cherry-red frame and wheels gleaming in the spray. I make sure to penetrate every nook and cranny with the gun, never touching the trigger. The first pass should be delicate and deliberate. Satisfied, I tap the fob again, select "SNOW FOAM," and get to work covering my bike in a layer of white soap, making it look like a cake covered in thick white icing. After a few minutes of waiting for the soap to do its work, the bike is ready for a scrub.

Starting with a micro-fiber cloth, I start from the tank, and work my way down, and across all the smooth bits of the body work, frame, cockpit, fork and engine. Next, I use a coarse brush to clear away stubborn grime that clings to the bottom of the exhaust, engine, rims, subframe and rear suspension. Dark brown snakes of dirt mix into the snow foam, drip to the ground, and disappear down the drain.

I repeat this process once more: snow-foaming the entire bike, then lightly polishing the most visible bits with the same micro-fiber cloth. Time to myself is precious, and so I treat it that way, taking the extra steps to make my bike look extra special. For the final rinse, I hold the gun high above my bike, point it downward, and let the power washer go full blast. A rain storm of clean water washes away the remaining soap and residue. Following this last step, I remove my ear buds, and am abruptly pulled through a vacuum back into the night, whose silence is punctuated only occasionally by the sound of water dripping to the concrete. I look beyond the car wash, and towards the incandescent street lights which now glow with eerie halos from the night's fog. A shudder ripples over me, causing me to pause, then shrug, and then finally get back to work.

Careful not to slip, I three-point-turn my dripping bike back, and then push it over to the compressed air station at the other end of the car wash, my right hip never leaving the side of the bike. Even pros can fall victim to drops during this stage in the process. Pulling the bike to a stop, I pop my ear buds back in and return to the rhythm of the synth-heavy playlist I've chosen to match the strange sensation I'm getting from this usually familiar place. Boom, pap — Boom boom, pap.

I tap yet another fob, give the trigger of the air compressor a few pumps for good measure, and start to dry off the bike, just like before, starting from the top, and working my way across, and down. I repeat this step, two or three times, keeping note of the remaining balance on my card (4,000 won now), and watch as my dripping SV slowly reveals itself back to a state similar to that of when I first bought it off the showroom floor. Returning the small air sprayer to its holster, I look around, and take in the otherworldly atmosphere of this cool June night for the last time.

Orange and red street lights gleam overhead, telling no one in particular to slow down, to stop. Metal signage creaks somewhere in the near distance. The glow of the LED lights in the fog and the strange darkness beyond them have me feeling once again as if I'm in a place that exists in a bubble on the edge of space and time. Where going to work each day, paying a mortgage, and the responsibilities of being a new parent are just vague concepts that lurk in the vignette that seems to surround this place. Where the pull of wanting to return to a life full of familiarity, ease, and a semblance of control writhes on the air like a current.

I look down at my bike, sparkling in the overhead lights, shrug once more, and take some comfort in the fact that the simple act of washing my motorcycle has given me a brief respite from some of the more pressing stressors of everyday life.

My phone rings.

"When are you going to be home?" my wife asks. There is a hint of worry to her voice. "Aaron's awake, and he has a runny nose. Are you able to come back right now?"

"He… is?" The words seem to stumble out of my mouth. "He does? It's only been an hour since we put him down."

Sighing, I tell my wife that I'll be home right away. I quickly pack up my things, put on my helmet and thumb the ignition of my now gleaming SV650. Swinging my leg back over the still slightly wet saddle, I click the bike into first gear, and head back to my son, who, it turns out, has caught his first cold.

As I speed back towards uncertainty, I see the ghostly reflection of the car wash slowly receding in my mirrors, back into the fog and the darkness of the night where it will remain as my otherworldly refuge. A place where a little control, if only for an hour or so, can sometimes be reclaimed.