RUN SHEET
02/09/13
So there I was, a mid-September evening. Things at home were shitty, really shitty. Too many things to explain, and no real interest in explaining them. Suffice to say things were shitty.
My friend Big Bob arrived just then, big of body and big of mouth, big of mustache and just plain big. Tonight though, he was big of joy. He was riding the bike that he was about to buy.
Let me tell you, it was quite the bike to see, a ’94 Harley that rumbled low like a vicious dog as it idled there in my driveway. He was test-riding it with its owner and wanted to know what I thought. I looked it over and found very little out of place, a lot cleaner than my old pan, and a lot newer, black with red flames, a tight, stroked engine that crackled and barked when the throttle was twisted.
I sat astride it, felt it throb through me, ran it up and listened for rattles, squeaks or grinds, heard the steady hammering and looked over at the owner, “Mind if I take her out?” I asked, my heart picking up speed a bit at the thought.
Now don’t get me wrong, I love my bike, my old pan is a nice ride, steady, classic, and reliable. She’s a fine old bike and I wouldn’t trade her for anything, ever. But jesus, this black writhing jezebel that I had under me was too tempting to resist.
“Go ahead” the owner said. He wasn’t my kind of guy. I can never understand anyone who would let a stranger ride his bike. I guess to some people they’re just machines. Not to me though, my bikes are both the result of long, hard work and saving, wishing, and planning. No one rides my bike but me. If I let someone ride my bike, they would have to be someone I loved and trusted. This guy obviously only saw bikes as machines. I can’t grasp it.
Either way, I dumped her into gear and twisted the throttle hard. She responded with a violent acceleration that was both terrifying and thrilling at the same time. I’m not accustomed to a hand clutch and foot shift because my old girl is foot clutch and hand shift, as all the old ones were. It didn’t take long though, and by Christ it’s a good thing because I needed both hands to hang onto that banshee.
I hammered her through the gears and kept the throttle taped open. I blasted her up the road and spun her around at the end. Ahead of me stretched two miles of smooth, almost new asphalt.
She howled under me like all the demons of hell as my foot hammered the shifter and my fingers popped the clutch. At a hundred miles an hour things begin to float a bit, and time stops.
On a hot September evening, with the sun slanting golden behind you, a strong bike underneath you and a hundred miles of wind embracing you, things become very clear. All the bullshit and daily crap is swept out the door; all the petty concerns are eliminated. Marriages and relationships become pointless, schedules are a mile behind and can’t catch up. All that exists is cold, echoing clarity. Simplicity, and understanding.
Somewhere over a hundred miles an hour when there’s nothing around you to even suggest protection, you know that if anything goes wrong you’re dead. Quicker than you can think, you’ll die, and you don’t care a damn. It’s time to ride, and it’s an insult to a bike like that to go any slower.
Once I finally slowed down, and
pulled into my driveway, I shut her down, dropped the kickstand and said
to Bob “buy the bike”