The bike was sold two weeks after the funeral.
Not even just a month. Simply could not. Did not dare to look at that cold frame in the garage, provoking memories. Each line of that black Harley jogged my memory of her, Mia, her chin buried in the back of my neck and her giggles whispering in my ear, her arms wrapping my midsection like I was all that was holding her together, anchoring her to the ground. There was this preposterous pink helmet, scratched and scuffed, and it gobbled everything else we wore. We used riding as a way out. Our rebellion. Our dates and our therapy combined.
When it occurred the accident, the time when a drunken driver crossed a red traffic light and robbed us of her, I put the bike aside and never opened it since. I couldn’t. It was one thing to ride without her; but it was not right. And worst of all it was dangerous. As playing with fire. I had children to take care of. I cannot afford it.
Then I forgave it. Said to myself it was but a machine. It was letting it go as part of the process. I guess that is what people say. It is time to get on with it.
There are lies which choke in the throat.
I once had my son, Jace, who is ten, run his hand along the bike before I sold it and breathily say to the bike with the (plainly silly) belief that the bike could talk back at him. My daughter Lila, who is thirteen but insists she is thirty, was unable to draw in her sketch book days after it went missing in the garage. They did not say so directly. I knew. Did they read it as it was, as something to remind us of us before the world broke apart?
And when yesterday they broke the front door flying home like the place was afire, I guessed something was going on.
“Dad! A fellow has got your bike!
“Yeah! The Harley black–the tank streaked with flame! Your design! You did that painting!”
I went out after them, with my heart pounding. At that end of the block a man in his forties was riding slowly down the street as though he had no place to be. The bicycle was shiny as though I had buffed it last night. The side custom flame was new still–orange and red licking along the tank like a living flame.
I owned it.
Well, it will be left in competent hands, I guess, I mumbled, to them rather than myself, and went in. yet the fact? It was a gut-wrenching feeling of seeing an ex with another person. It was not envy–it was more than that. Sorrow beaten over again with remorse.
I woke the next morning still thinking of it, and made eggs and over-toasted bread. The children were very silent, exchanging glances without exchanging words. And then I heard the other sound–that sound, that growling sound of a V-twin engine.
I went out and opened the door.
Pulling up at the curb sat. The man of yesterday. No bedsittingmaid, now off the helmet, showing the sandy hair tipped with gray, the eyes creased with sun, the good-natured smile that did not quite fit the leather jacket and the fingerless gloves.
He shouted, Morning. Whatcha say, can I holla atcha a sec?
I hesitated. Then came down the steps.
My name is sporting, Rick, he said, offering me a callous hand. I rattled it.
“I’m Nate.”
Yes, I know, answered he. Your children wrote me last night about you. Did not need much time to interlink the dots.”
I lifted a brow. Do they talk to strangers?
He laughed. I used to be a stranger till I said I had your bike. Then I was literally a superhero.”
I gave the Harley a sidelong look. You take good care of it.
Not dream of it, he said, and putting his hand in the pocket of his jacket, took out some bills. I understand this is strange, bro, and I did not want to interfere, but after seeing your children… I felt as though perhaps you ought to have this.”
He gave me a folded flyer.
It belonged to a club of bikers. The Iron Circle Riders.
Below the logo was written: Weekend rides. Nobody rides in a vacuum.
We are there every Sunday, said Rick. “Nothing crazy. It was simply a collection of individuals that have experienced things–grief, divorce, PTSD, whatever. We are riding along. We have eyes on one another. It is chrome and throttle therapy.”
I looked at the announcement. What has this to do to me?
He shrugged. Your children said why you sold the bike. I understand. I really do. Five years ago I lost my brother to the same sort of thing. At one point I believed I would never ride again. Next I chanced on this group.”
He stood still and stared at me. I will sell it, if you want your bike back. The same price I had paid. No markup. unless you come along one trip. Look and see. No hard feelings in case you hate it.”
I hesitated a moment.
Would you return it? I asked.
Rick groused, If you have to give it to somebody, I suppose I would sooner give it to somebody who has some idea what it means. It is still sort of your bike.
I did not answer yes immediately. However, I never said no.
The next Sunday, I arrived at one of Route 7 gas stations in my old boots and jacket that still had a slight odor of oil and leather. I could see Rick there nodding this same composed smile. And other riders straggled in–men and women and children, some with patches and some with nothing but a grime of road and weary eyes. I was waiting to hear noise and bravado. And yet it was still. Respectful. As a church of exhaust and asphalt.
We toured forty miles through back country roads which wound like ribbons over the hills. I was not a talkative person. Did not have to. It was the wind who talked.
We pulled onto a roadside diner to get lunch and a woman seated next to me was called Tasha, by who, she immediately enquired about Mia. I had not mentioned her name weeks. I did not really expect myself to reveal all that to her–how we met each other under a gas station, how she showed me how to salsa in the living room, how she passed away in a now of a second, and struck a chunk out of me, too.
What I think is this: I rest my hand on my forearm, and Tasha said, It may not be. I believe she would be proud of you that you went back on, had she seen you today.
I made no reply. I did not argue either.
At the end of the ride, Rick gave me a key.
I want it, said he, and it is yours.
I glanced at the motor bike, then at my fingers, slightly trembling. Out of fear, yes, something new. Anticipation.
I wanted it, I said.
The next evening I drove into the driveway. Jace and Lila were already on the porch, and waiting as though it was Christmas morning.
Bought it back? Lila gasped.
I have, I said, swinging off and throwing them each a helmet.
And off we go?
I smiled: only when you give me your word that you will hold fast.
Not very far we went, only a few blocks, them giggling all the time, and I can feel the wind in my face, and hear their laughter in my ears, and it was like breathing after holding it far too long.
Mia was still absent. Things were still the same in this regard. Yet something had changed in me. The grief remained, to be sure–but now it had space to ride along with something along. Hope.
Yea I sold the bike two weeks after the funeral. Yet perhaps it was no mistake in letting it go.
Perhaps it was the idea that I had to be alone to ride.
Would you have returned the bike?
And, in case this story touched you, please share it. There is always somebody out there to get back onto the road.
