Bakura did crazy things as a thief three thousand years ago. Robbing trap-burdened tombs, avoiding guards whenever he went to town to fence his treasures, dragging a dead Pharaoh's sarcophagus into the palace while trying to overthrow the current Pharaoh. He knew how to take risks.
Although the most dangerous thing Bakura figured he'd ever done was ride through Luxor traffic with Marik on his motorcycle. His partner seemed to have a personal hatred for staying in any given lane and never slowed down regardless what happened to the rest of the traffic.
They never wrecked, but still, a simple trip to market felt more harrowing than when Bakura literally died three thousand years ago.
"Dammit, Marik, if my hair wasn't already white, your driving would fix that," Bakura complained once they'd returned home.
Marik grinned. "What? Do you miss riding horses?"
Bakura snorted. "Yes. They didn't have horns to blare."
Marik shrugged. "Still, it's nice to have an excuse for you to hold on to me in public."