Road Rush
Many thanks, as always, go to maineac.
Like most beauties she can be a pain, at least on a bad day. Literally. And for him, most days have been bad days lately.
On a good day, it's like nothing else.
He knows there will be days when he won't even be able to lift his leg over. He has trouble keeping the motorbike steady; you need two good legs for that. But after that first drive, as painful and exhausting as it had been, he can't let go. He is hooked. He is hooked on the speed, hooked on the exhilaration, hooked on the short moments of freedom it gives him.
Flying.
Weightlessness.
Almost.
Not carelessness because he knows that you've got to have all your senses together for this. No distractions. You need to be there in that moment, all your attention on the road and the bike, calculate wind shear and anticipate the behavior of other drivers. He is no newbie.
That first test drive he took after he walked out of the hospital following the little girl's advice, it was pure luck he didn't crash the bike. The dealer would have billed him full whack for it. He had not driven a bike in years, since long before the infarction. It should have been like riding a bicycle, but it wasn't. His leg made sure that it wasn't. He had been lucky all the traffic lights were in his favor and he made it back to the dealer within twenty minutes. He had been soaked in sweat, exhausted and resolved to never even look at a bike again.
He tried to forget the rush of adrenaline as he had eased open the throttle. The flutter in his stomach when he leaned forward just a bit more, ignored the scream in his thigh and felt the roar of the engine between his legs.
He had lasted a week.
One week.
One miserable week.
Then he had deliberately passed by that same dealership again, but told himself he would remain a voyeur. Just a look, that's all this was. The second week he had a blank check in his pocket when he came in through the door – and a set of keys when he walked out.
The bright orange Honda was meant to be his, not the sleek beauty he had driven on his first ride. No, this was his break for freedom, his rocket; this wasn't the time for elegance and understatement. There was nothing sweet about this machine, she was loud and mean and looked the part. She was still beautiful but not in a polished, conventional way. This was a showy bike. If he was going to do this, then he might as well go all the way. Besides, the dealer had trouble getting shot of her simply because she was so bright and flashy.
He left without her so the guy in the backyard shop could fit a holder for his cane. That request had not even raised an eyebrow but had been met with a knowing smile instead. One addict to another. When he came back the following day his personal rocket was complete. She would never be an all year round mode of transport. Heck, she wasn't transport at all. She was a sports bike, not a commuter ride.
He spent the rest of the day testing her in an out-of-the-way parking lot. That first ride a week ago had left him feeling both exhilarated and scared. He hadn't been prepared for how much more difficult riding a bike would be now. But there were ways around everything, you just had to find them. Back to basics, he went through everything a new driver would have to go through - with the difference that he had no instructor. He had to make his own mistakes and figure out ways to avoid the problems he came across. Starting and stopping, leaning into bends. And repeat. By the time it got dark, he had most things figured out.
He bought her on a Thursday, took her home on Friday and trashed her on Saturday.
He had decided to take advantage of the good weather and take her out for her first proper ride. It being Saturday morning, there was little traffic, so the ride out of Princeton was uneventful. Half an hour outside of town, about halfway to the coast, he decided to stop for breakfast. In his excitement he hadn't even had coffee at home. He pulled into the rest stop, still nearly deserted at this hour, and made his first big mistake. Wilson would argue the first mistake was buying the bike in the first place, ha. He was just lucky that, having slowed down on the exit ramp, he was barely above walking speed. He was also lucky that he instinctively remembered a lesson learned half a lifetime ago – let go of the bike if you feel you're losing her. Do not cling on. So he watched her slide away from him on the gravel, dusted himself off, winced at the pain in his right elbow and pretended not to see the sneering face of the trucker who just pulled out of the rest stop. Except for his pants, he came away with no lasting damage. The pain in his arm was nothing compared to the increased stabbing and the scrapes and bruises on his right leg. The bike was left with some severe scarring, though.
He never made it to the coast that day. Maybe that plan had been a bit ambitious. That's what the bike did to him.
Any reasonable person in his position would have looked at the bike and thought twice about buying it. But he's done with reasonable. He's done with being patient and acting appropriately and considerately and taking care of himself. He's been trying to do this for years now, and he is bored. Bored out of his skull. He misses the fun, the rush, the excitement in his life. Yes, work still gives him that occasionally, but there used to be a time when work was not everything. There used to be other things in his life. Sports. Concerts. Running. Golf. Hiking trips. Trawling through book or record stores for hours on end, on the lookout for treasures. But mostly sports.
He's fed up with the trade offs, fed up with being cooped up and restricted to the hospital and his apartment. What else is there? His world used to be so much bigger. And he wants that back. At least a little piece; he knows he'll never get it all back. He isn't greedy, not anymore. He isn't shooting for the stars. But even just a little will be better than what he has now.
And the bike gives him exactly that. His world opened up just a little bit that first day, just enough to glimpse through back into normal life – and pretend to be a part of it.
Once he's figured out how to do it, he can now pull up at a traffic light next to anyone and just be a regular biker. It took him hours to work out a way of doing this without falling over – and it's still painful. You need two good legs to do this properly. It is then that he remembers that in Japan you need to be able to pick up your bike from the ground before you can even progress to the actual driving test. Fortunately, he doesn't live in Japan anymore or he would never be allowed to drive and pull up at a light and flirt with the woman in the car next to him. It turns out Princeton women are not averse to a quick flirt at a red light.
But all this, the flirting, the fancy starts when the light turns green, the childlike joy at the roar when he accelerates, all this is insignificant to what happens when he manages to leave the city traffic behind. There is a rush, a kick, a little taste of freedom – almost as much as he used to get from running. It also comes near the physical exhaustion when he returns home because it's tiring and painful to keep the bike steady.
The bike gives him speed and agility and, under the roar and vibrations, an inner silence, things he doesn't have at any other time in his daily life.
And then there is that quick flash of something, that memory of what it felt like to be whole. Maybe this is what he craves the most.
It is a trade off. But then, everything in his life in the past few years has been a trade off. He pays for a night at the movies - he can't even recall when that last happened - by being unable to sleep at night because his leg keeps him awake. Grocery shopping with several bags to bring back to the apartment? At least a half hour soak in the tub afterwards. So he orders in most of the time. Everything that involves walking more than a couple of yards or being stuck in one position for too long he has to pay for.
The morning after that spectacular first outing it isn't just his leg that hurts. No, everything is sore. It comes as a bit of surprise and brings up memories of long runs and sore muscles the morning after – something he had thought long forgotten. It takes him nearly an hour to get going. But he is used to needing a lot more time in the mornings now. His team sometimes jokes about their boss not coming in before ten most days – he has decided that joining in the joke is the only way to handle it. What do they know about how many times his damn leg wakes him at night? What do they know about having to wait until the first Vicodin dose hits before he can even set his foot on the floor? What do they know about sitting hunched over his leg for what seems like an eternity, willing the muscles - what's left of them - to finally relax, so he can make it to the bathroom? What do they know about that moment he takes that first step, anxious and afraid of how hot the poker will drive through his leg? They know nothing of it, and they shouldn't.
Wilson, however, is a very different kettle of fish. He knows, but he chooses to ignore that knowledge most of the time. Wilson is the star witness to how much his life has changed – and he would be completely useless in any court.
Wilson was not around when he bought what he will surely term 'The Death Machine'. Sitting on his couch on Sunday night, contemplating the road rash on his arm and his leg, he has a brainwave. Making Wilson pay for the bike will make the conversation they will inevitably have about this purchase a whole lot more interesting. And it might distract a little from the truth - that it was in fact a stupid, crazy, unreasonable idea to buy that bike. But it is one that makes him feel a million times better, more alive, than he felt only a week ago. Even with the bruises.
He will ask Wilson for a 'car' loan tomorrow. It will mean leaving the bike at home another day. Which maybe isn't such a bad thing, considering the state even his good leg is in right now. He will bring the bike in to work the day after.
He doesn't need that loan. But it has been entertaining to make Wilson pay for things lately. Like so many other games, this has evolved out of boredom.
It will be fun to see where Wilson draws the line in their friendship. The financial line, that is. Four or five grand sound about right. This is what might tip Wilson over the edge. But whatever happens, it should be fun to watch.
The one thing still on his mind is whether or not he should get the bike's paint job fixed. The scrapes are pretty bad. It would cost him a packet. He could use Wilson's money for that. If he doesn't get it fixed, he'll have to come up with a good explanation, because no way is he going to admit that he laid down the bike on the first day. But somehow he can't bring himself to take her back to the dealer or some other shop.
So she's got scars. So does he. They are made for each other.
He can't help but smile at the idea. No, he has marked her now, she is his.