Motorcycle - 3 Ways

A certain someone’s poem triggered a core memory. Which then triggered two more.

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I suppose you could categorize my dad as a “car guy”.

But not in the way you think.

Not the machismo, compensating way

(Or perhaps he’s mellowed out as he’s gotten older)

He’s a Fixer; the type to buy a car

A real piece of shit that doesn’t run AT ALL

And turn it into something that Shines

He loves engines and mechanics

He wanted to be an engineer but

couldn’t get through all the pesky math

He’s a real Jack of All Trades

The literal trades - he dabbles in them all.

Carpentry, plumbing, electrical,

HVAC, appliance repair, welding

More, too

And he’s damn good at all of them

But I’m getting off topic

This is about motorcycles

My father has a pristinely preserved red ‘83 Yamaha XJ550

He refuses to sell it despite complete lack of use

It’s collecting dust

“It’s needs a new such-and-such. It’s not ready for sale.”

Sure, dad

(1) That’s the same bike you rode on that day trip with mom.

When you ended up getting stuck because of the weather

Before your marriage

Before two daughters

So scandalous, a unwed couple going out on a date unchaperoned.

We went on rides, too

I remember being so small

Sitting in front with two hands on that red metal belly

You telling me to put my feet right here so I wouldn’t get burned

The roar of the engine

Landscape flowing by so fast

There’s nothing like riding on a motorcycle

Absolutely nothing

(2) I remember a family we liked, from our old lives

It was so hard to meet truly nice and genuine people in that entity

They were good, salt-of-the-earth types in my child-mind

A husband, wife, daughter and son

I really liked them, naturally as little kids tend to like other fellow little kids

They were a motorcycle family, too

It was something the adults bonded over

A group of slightly rounded square pegs

Slipping into their squares holes just fine but with a slight visible deviation

Ripples of rebellion

I don’t remember all the details

I was too young but

You feel things

You feel the change when you’re little

And then, the explanation

Husband and wife went on an outing on their motorcycle

There was an accident and death

The wife was lost

The details were lost

What happened

Whose fault, who was wearing a helmet and who wasn’t

I can’t say

But nothing was the same

They left

The Yamaha made its way into the garage

Only summoned on the rarest of special occasions

I didn’t understand

Why did they leave?

Why are my friends gone?

Why did this happen?

Why?

(3) Fast forward a handful of years

I was still small but not quite as teeny tiny

I played outside while dad worked on something

Suburban front yards are big but

thankfully, not so so big.

A motorcycle pulled up

Enter a man with one of those helmets

that covers your entire head and that

racing sort of jumpsuit thing

The colors lost to time but it was patterned

He said I was such a cute little girl and

asked if I wanted a ride

I said, “Let me ask my dad!”

Ran a short little ways to garage

To ask permission.

Dad was there.

He had to be watching this unfold, right?

Again, details lost but I recall a short

walk to the street, big hand in small one

and a firm

“No. I have a bike of my own. I can give her a ride anytime she likes.”

An anonymous shrug, crank, then push off.

He never removed his helmet.

I can’t recall a name.

But, details are lost to time.

Maybe it was an innocent encounter.

Something I magnified in my head.

Dad says I lean into melodrama.

I don’t disagree.

But something tells me

Deep in the creases of my grey and white

Smack in the middle of my marrow

That this was patch of gravel we missed on the road.

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wonderful

work