Two weeks after the funeral I sold the bike.
Couldnʂ Herzog wait one month? It was simply impossible. Did not dare look at that cold frame that was in the garage, mocking me with memory. Each line of that black Harley was a movie playing back in my mind, of her–Mia–nose mashing into my back, chuckling in my ear, her arms on my waist as though I was opening the Earth to her. She was this absurd pink helm, rubbed all to pieces, incongruous with the rest of our dressing. We got out on riding. Our rebellion. Our therapeutic dating and nights combined.
However, after the accident, when a drunk driver ran the red light and stole her out of our lives, I parked the bike and did not touch it even after that. I couldn’t. It was not only hurtful to ride without her it was unnatural. And most of all it was dangerous. As playing with fire. There were two children to whom I had to give a hand. I would not do so.
so I discarded it. Said to myself that it was only a machine. Releasing it formed the part of the process of moving on. That is what they say is it not? It is necessary to go on.
but there are lies which stick in your throat.
Once, I had caught my son, who is ten (Jace) moving his hand along the bike before I sold it, muttering to it as it could talk back. When my thirteen-year-old daughter, Lila, behaves like she is thirty, she did not draw in her sketchbook now for days, since it went missing in the garage. They did not say anything, plain out. I knew. They knew it was what it is, a symbol of us when the world was whole.
Therefore, having smashed down the front door today morning yelling hoarse as though the house had caught fire, I could tell that there was something cooking.
“Dad! Somebody is on your bike!”
“Yeah! Blacks Harley–fire in the tank! Your design! Thou did make that?”
And I came out after them, with my heart pounding. At the other end of the block a man in his forties was riding leisurely down the street as though he had nothing to do. The bicycle shone as though I had shone it up last night. The side flame, which was still new-looking, orange and red licking around the tank like a living being.
It was mine.
Then I said to myself rather than to them, I suppose it is safe enough, and turned in again. The fact is, though? I felt my stomach knot so that I could see an ex in someone else. He was not jealous–there was something more. So grief in a new paint of regret.
I couldn t get it out of my mind the next morning, as I scrambled eggs, and burnt toast. The children were not at all loud; they looked at each other, but did not speak. and then I heard it that low, growling V-twin.
I turned the door knob and went out.
He was on curb side. The fellow who came here yesterday. Her helmet off and he saw sandy hair going gray, sun-traced eyes, a friendly smile that somehow failed to go with the leather jacket and the fingerless gloves.
He was calling, here it is, morning. You mind letting me speak to you a sec?
I hesitated. Then went off the porch.
I am Rick, he said, and offered his calloused hand. I twitched it.
“I’m Nate.”
I know, nodded he. Your children have given me the details about you. So it did not take me long to make the connection.
I eyed a brow. Doy they speak to strangers?
He laughed. Until I answered I had your bike, I was a stranger. At that point, I was basically superheroic.”
I had peeped out at the Harley. You are keeping it in good condition.”
Not the blessed chance, he said, not the blessed chance, and thrust his hand into the inside-pocket of his jacket. I understand it is strange, man, and I did not want to butt in, but I met your kids and I want to say this. I thought I just should have this somehow.”
He gave me a flyer lit up.
It belonged to a bikers club. The iron circle riders.
Below the logo there was: Weekend rides. Nobody rides singly.
Rick said: We get together every Sunday. “Nothing crazy. It is just a group of people that have endured things- grief, divorce, PTSD, you name it. We travel in a group. We keep an eye upon one another. Chrome and throttle therapy.”
I was looking at the flyer. So what is this to do with me?
He shrugged. Your children explains to me why you have sold the bike. I understand. Guess, I sure do. Five years ago I also lost my brother to the same sort of thing. I believed that I was never going to ride again. After that I discovered this team.”
He stopped staring at me. I will sell it back to you,–get it back–your bike. Price I paid same. No markup. However, only when you come in one ride. Take a look. Not liking it, well, there are no hard feelings.”
I hesitated a moment.
She meant, apparently, to make it belong to him. You would give it back? I asked.
It should some one who knows what it means, said Rick. In addition, it sort of feels like your own bike.
I did not answer yes immediately. I did not answer no, however.
I was at an old gas station on Route 7, on Sunday; wearing my old boots and jacket which still smelled somewhat of oil and leather. There was Rick nodding at me as with his usual cool smile. One by one the other riders arrived–men, women, sometimes patched and sometimes with nothing but road dirt and weary eyes. I was prepared to hear lights and brashness. But it was still. Respectful. A church out of exhaust and asphalt.
We were together forty miles through the back-droads that wreathed like a ribbon through the hills. I was not very communicative. Didn? t have to. Wind spoke itself.
Later on when we had some lunch at a takeaway place a female person called Tasha was seated next to me and inquired about Mia. In weeks I had not called her by name. I knew I would be able to say a lot to her, but I never expected to tell her all those things: how we met each other in a gas station, how she helped me to learn to salsa in the living room, how she died in a second and took a fragment of me with her.
What you think is this. I can feel it, said Tasha, leaning on my forearm. I believe she would be pleased to know you are back on, had she seen you to-day.
I made no reply. I did not object though.
By the end of the ride, Rick gave me a key.
Who is it to have it when you want it, he said.
There it was, the bike and, I could see, my hands were trembling a tiny bit. Not because of fear, but of something brand new. Anticipation.
Said I, I want it.
This evening I had pulled up in the driveway. Jace and Lila were on the porch already on tiptoe as though a Christmas morning.
You have purchased it again? Lila gasped.
I did, I said, swinging off and throwing each a helmet.
”Why go riding somewhere?
But on condition that you will hang on tight, I smiled.
We did not get very far–a few blocks, circling the neighborhood–but it was enough, it was like breathing after a long and too constrained holding.
Mia was not back yet. That did not change. There had been something changed in me. Grief was still there certainly–but now it could have a place to perch itself amid other things. Hope.
Anyway, I sold the bike two weeks later along with the funeral. Or perhaps it was not the mistake to let it go.
Perhaps it was the fault in considering that I must ride alone.
Would you have returned the bike?
Post or share this story, if it touched you. There is there someone, who needs a motivation to get back on the road.