It is a gorgeous afternoon in Paris, and I would love to go for a long, rambling walk. But I'm going sightseeing. And you're thinking how wonderful sightseeing in Paris is on a gorgeous afternoon.

But, I am going by taxi.

Even worse, I am going by motorcycle taxi.

Paris taxis are a terror. Because nearly every driver drives as if he were in a stock-car race, they have always scared me. And motorcycles almost everywhere go too fast, don't they?

But before I came to Paris, a small mention of a motorcycle taxi service there had caught my eye, and I decided if I had a free afternoon, I'd give it a try.

But now I'm wondering: Am I crazy?

"It will be OK," says Silvan Sebastian, who introduces himself as my "p-lot" - that's pilot. He means driver, but I'm sure pilot is probably more fitting. We are going to fly. I know it. But he has laughing brown eyes and a warm smile. I feel better. He says he has been riding motorcycles 11 years and never had an accident. Even better.

But I'm still not convinced that this is a good idea.

Sebastian unpacks a helmet for me from a side-pod. It is equipped with a microphone and a long wire to plug into his helmet so that we can communicate during the ride. He shows me how to put on the helmet: thumbs inside, squeeze my head in. It's heavy.

He explains how to get on the cycle. Step on the foot rest, a hand on his shoulder, the other on the back storage bin and swing up and over with my right leg. Just like riding a horse.

"You can hold onto my waist or the two hand grips by your hips," he says. I consider it.

"I think," I tell him, "I will hold the grips. I don't think your waist could take how hard I'm going to hold on."

He laughs.

The motorcycle taxi service is called SP2. It is available 24 hours a day, by reservation only. Drivers on sturdy BMW 1100 RT motorcycles will pick you up in the city or suburbs and whisk you away - to your next appointment, to the airport or on a sightseeing tour. My hour of sightseeing cost 400 French francs, about $80.

Sebastian and I are on our way to the Bastille. He takes it easy as we pull away from my hotel near the Eiffel Tower and head toward Les Invalides and Napoleon's Tomb. We are just a few minutes into this ride, but just as I start to think I might actually enjoy it, Sebastian turns onto an entry ramp for the Quai des Tuileries, an expressway along the Seine.

We go faster. I am looking over his shoulder, trying to read the speedometer. I sit back; I don't want to know. We are passing speeding cars. We are heading into a tunnel, and Sebastian is now making his lane the lane markings between the speeding cars.

"You know," I say tentatively into my microphone, "this is how motorcycle accidents happen."

"No," he says. "It is all right. I am motorcycle p-lot!"

"Is it legal?" I ask as we roar within inches and past a police car.

"Of course," he says. "Did I not just pass a policeman? Did he stop me?"

It's a point. But I am still relieved when we are off the highway and back on the crowded streets.

When we get to the Bastille, Sebastian stops so I can take pictures, and then we are off again, breezing down long, winding streets filled with bakeries and outdoor cafes. We go to Place Vendome and stop by the Ritz and the expensive shops of Jeux Descartes and Chanel, and then we are off again, on our way to the fashionable rue du Faubourg St.-Honore and the president's palace, the well-fortified Palais de l'Elysee, where Napoleon abdicated.

All along the way, Sebastian is telling me what I am seeing. He apologizes for his English, but it is very good and it is charming with his French accent. And I am not afraid anymore. It's fun. It's more than fun. It's wonderful, weaving through traffic in the warm breeze of a sunny afternoon.

Usually, Sebastian is carrying businessmen to the airport or high-fashion models to a daylong shoot. It is rare that a tourist wants a sightseeing tour, but SP2 is willing.

SP2 is owned by Jean-Christophe Saliou, a 29-year-old entrepreneur. He used to work for French television, and more than once guests were late for various shows because they were caught in traffic.

"One day, I had my own bike, and I said, 'I'll come get you.' I told myself then, this was something that could be done," Saliou says. "After I had managed a messenger service for four years, I decided to give it a try."

With the help of the messenger company he was working for, he was able to get financing and started the business. He now has 10 bikes on the streets, and all his drivers are at least 30. Most are married with children. All speak English and are trained by police officers and have at least five years' riding experience.

"It is the only such service in Paris since 1959," Saliou says. "There were once four such companies, but they all made mistakes and went out of business. We have studied and learned.

"When many people call for our service, like you, they are nervous. There are many accidents in Paris. So our drivers must be able to speak soothingly and explain what to do and what is happening. And, I think, if they are married daddies they are more, how do you say, settled, less likely to be crazy on the bikes."

Sebastian is soothing.

It is only when another bike sometimes dips alongside us in heavy traffic and Sebastian utters, "Oops!" that I worry. But he is quick to rally. "It is all right," he says, reassuringly. "I see him."

As we pull up quickly behind a van, and he stops instantly just inches short of the rear bumper, he says into my ear, "Not to worry. We have, hmm, ABA anti-lock brakes."

When we swing onto the Champs-Elysees, the view takes my breath away. It is not that I haven't seen the Champs-Elysees before, it's that I've never seen it quite like this, straight on, looking right down the middle of the street, the trees lining both sides, the Arc de Triomphe glorious in the distance.

I let go of the handles I have been clutching, grip the camera that has been hanging around my neck and lean a bit to the left to

take a picture.

"What are you doing?" Sebastian asks, feeling the movement.

"I just leaned out to take a picture," I tell him.

"Oops!," he says, cringing slightly.

"It's OK," I say, this time assuring him.

Now we are past the Place Charles de Gaulle and heading south, toward Porte d'Auteuil and Stade Roland Garros and then cutting back toward the Seine.

We dip onto another highway, Avenue President Kennedy, which turns into Avenue de New York, and there in the water is a miniature Statue of Liberty.

"It is the original," says Sebastian. "In America you have the bigger one we sent you, but it is a copy of this one - no, it is true."

This is the way to see Paris. We are nearly back to the Eiffel Tower, and I'm sad that my ride is nearly over. But as we stop for a light, a man on a delivery scooter pulls up beside us. He seems to be staring with great admiration at my shorts-clad leg.

"Elle est magnifique!" he says.

I smile. I love Paris. And then, Sebastian says in my ear: "He says my motorcycle is magnificent. Everyone wants my motorcycle - and my job."

Of course, the motorcycle. I laugh. The motorcycle - the motorcycle taxi - is magnificent.

WHEN YOU GO ...

Background: SP2 Motorcycle Taxi Service is available 24 hours a day by advance reservation. It uses BMW 1100 RT motorcycles. Drivers speak English and are happy to provide service for business or pleasure. Passengers are provided with helmets, jackets and rain gear, as needed, before boarding.

To call: From the United States the number to call is (33-1) 55.65.19.99.

Airport run: A 20-minute ride to the Charles de Gaulle Airport at Roissy from central Paris costs $110. Reservations should be made a day in advance. SP2 will provide an additional bike for suitcases for an added 60 French francs (about $12), if asked.

Pub Date: 6/14/98