On Riding My Motorcycle

The morning even tastes cold. It’s September, and it’s already getting colder in Rexburg, ID. I don’t mind though, not today. I walk to the corner of the parking lot at Harris Hall apartments to see it still there, parked in the yellow crossed lines that tell drivers, “Your car won’t fit here.” Their cars won’t fit. My car doesn’t fit, but my new motorcycle does.

I call it new, even though it’s not. It’s a black and chrome 1985 Honda Shadow; just like the one I picture when I sing along to Meatloaf’s “Bat out of Hell” with my clenched fist pounding the steering wheel in my car: “I’m gonna hit the highway like a battering ram on a silver, black phantom bike.”

As I walk closer to the motorcycle, I see a fine film of dew covering the gas tank, preventing it from shining like the eyes of a child wearing his first suit. My leather coat only smears and streaks the dew when I wipe the seat with my arm. I walk around to the left side and lift my right leg to straddle the bike. Gently, I tip it until it balances perpendicular to the ground, and then my left foot kicks back the kick stand. My right foot slides suddenly from all of the loose bits of sand-like gravel left over from constant snowplowing from the recently dead winter, but I muscle the handle bars back to prevent it from tipping.

I insert the key in the ignition, turn it, and lights sputter on the front panel. My thumb flicks off the red kill engine switch. I loosen my grip on the throttle and squeeze the clutch, but I feel my body strain with tension as I push the little square start button. I feel the gasoline spew into the engine as it rumbles to life. Just like the movies, I twist the throttle to turn the spew into a pour and turn the rumble into a roar.

With the green light shining neutral, and the engine gracing back to a rumble, I slip my sunglasses on the bridge of my nose. I pretend that I forgot my helmet and reason to myself that it’s only a small joy ride. I’m not sure why I need to pretend I forgot it because I looked at it when I walked out the door, started to walk towards it, but then decided I didn’t want it. So I left it.

While gripping the clutch, I press the shifter with my toe. The engine clicks into first gear, and the neutral light disappears. Simultaneously I ease off the clutch, increase the gas, tuck my left foot under the clutch ready to click again, and let go of the brake. I gravitate to the road increasing the gas, letting off the gas to grasp the clutch to shift into second, then to third, but just as my hair starts to whip in the wind, I coast to a stop at the intersection. An Asian girl walks across the street wearing a simple sophisticated white dress with matching flip-flops. She smiles. Before she reaches the crosswalk I increase the gas, let off the gas to grasp the clutch to shift into second, into third, into fourth, and finally into fifth.

Eventually, I steer to an open road. The steady vibration of the engine permeates my jeans and seeps into my legs. I no longer think of leaning with the bike as I curve around another barley field. Tears streak backwards parallel to the horizon because the wind sweeps behind my sunglasses. A helmet would prevent the tears.

Soon, rather than two yellow lines separating me from oncoming traffic, there is a median; I ride a little faster on the highway. I smell the Idaho fragrance of cows before I hear their faint mooing through the rushing wind. Riding on the road stuns the senses in a way that driving on the road simply fails to do. I taste the sweetness of the ripening harvest in the air.

I round another bend in the road and notice the fresh ruts in the median carved by tires. The tracks streaked like a mudded finger painting across a grass canvas. I wonder if someone died making this art.

What would happen if I tried to make art like that?

I never considered suicide seriously, but I wouldn’t be honest with myself if I said that I never considered it at all. Sometimes it seems to be the most perfect solution to any problem I don’t want to face or tire of facing.

Could I pretend my art was an accident because I forgot my helmet? No. I don’t think there is pretending when it comes to accidents I might hope to happen. It would need to be a real accident. I feed the engine more gas, and I snap my head forward to catch up with the bike wondering if there are any loose bits of sand-like gravel scattered across the road like the corner of the Harris Hall parking lot.

Is feeding my motorcycle more gas any different than loading a gun? I think it is if I think about it.

A passing car tears me from the thought. My eyes follow the car until I see a small mountain. The clouds slide over the ridge and down the mountain like Elmer’s glue drying on a diorama I made in Mrs. Fenton’s third grade class. The clouds disappear once they collide with the sage brush. I find a place to turn and ride on a different road.

A few weeks later I drive, not ride, to work. “Dude, why didn’t you ride your motorcycle to work?” Caleb asks as I walk through the double doors of the Verizon store next to the Subway by the roundabout.

I respond flatly, “I sold it.”

“That’s lame. Why’d you sell it?”

“Eh, I didn’t have a place to store it for the winter.” I walk into the back room and toss my blue collared jacket onto the vacuum.

I didn’t sell my helmet though. It’s on my shelf in my closet ready to not be used.