He’s right. Of course she can. My mouth opens and closes as I try to think of a reason why I can’t, dismissing any before I voice them, already hearing his comebacks in my head. Reminding myself he’s gone to the bother of putting a passenger seat on his beloved bike just for me, in the end I think, what can it hurt? Just a quick ride around the block and then I’ll be able to tell him, for me, riding doesn’t work.
Suddenly I find what I’m searching for. “I haven’t got a helmet.”
But this, too, he has an answer for. “Sure you have, I brought a lid for you.”
Of course he has.
He prods me in the back. “Go, grab a jacket. Tell Alicia we’ll be gone half an hour tops.”
I’m Mary. I’m a middle-aged mom. I don’t do anything spur of the moment. I think everything through carefully first. Riding a motorcycle is dangerous, everyone knows that. I already know I’m going to hate it. I’ll feel vulnerable and at risk without the comforts and safety of a metal cage wrapped around me. I’d chosen my car because of its safety rating.
But seeing the set expression on his face, the raised eyebrow in challenge, I know he won’t let this drop.
I grimace, allowing my distaste to show, then capitulate. “Once around the block?”
He visibly relaxes. “Go tell Alicia.”
I go first to my bedroom, dragging an old denim jacket out of the back of my closet. It’s years’ old, and heaven knows why I kept it, but I hope the material is thick enough to afford some protection in case we crash. Then, I change my work pants for a pair of old jeans. Finally, seeing the lack of appropriate footwear, settle for a pair of tennis shoes.
When I get to my daughter’s room, I’m ready for an inquisition.
“Alicia. Grumbler and I are just going out. We won’t be long.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He’s taking me on his bike.”
“Uh-huh.”
Her lack of reaction puzzles me, and I take a step inside her room. “You don’t mind?”
“Why the hell should I? I’ve ridden with Grumbler before.”
I suddenly wonder how. “He had no passenger seat. How did you ride with him?”
“It wasn’t far.” She glances at the screen of her laptop and scrunches her eyes. “He edged up on his seat, and I squeezed on behind him. I’m small.”
Does the fact he’s got me a special seat mean I’ve got a big ass? I suppose, in comparison with my slim-as-hell daughter, I have.
“I’m busy, Mom. Enjoy your ride.”
Why hadn’t she objected? If my daughter had begged me not to go on such a dangerous machine, I’d have had reason to refuse him, but the last obstacle has been cleared.
With trepidation, I follow Grumbler out to his ride. Despite my apprehension, I still have to admire it. It absolutely gleams. Even the passenger seat he’s added seems to enhance it, the rest at the end, hopefully which will stop me slipping off, has Live to Ride, Ride to Live, emblazoned on it.
He hands me a helmet, taking a moment to tighten the straps to his satisfaction, then gives me a pair of sunglasses I hadn’t thought to bring. Then, he puts on his own helmet and shades, slipping his hands into gloves.
I watch as he swings his leg over the saddle, looking all at once at one with the machine. When he holds out his hand, I grip it hard as I try to get myself onto the seat. I manage, but I’m sure I’m more awkward than fluent.
“Arms around my waist,” he instructs. “Hold me tight. Budge up the seat so I can feel you behind me, babe.” He helps by yanking on my hands, making me slide down toward him. “If you need me to stop, tap me on the shoulder. Just go with the flow, lean when I do.”
I don’t need his instruction. Even with the engine off and us not moving, I’m holding him with a death grip. When he starts the engine and the bike begins to vibrate, I squeal.
He’s backed onto my drive, so once he kicks up the stand, making me feel unbalanced, he’s only got to put it into gear to start us rolling.
We must be going at a walking pace, but I’m scared. Terrified. My heart is in my mouth. Once we gain a little speed though, the bike feels steadier.
This is Grumbler. He’s been riding for years. He had a crash a while back. Is he really safe?
Just once around the block, I can do this.
But Grumbler ignores the turn that would make the circuit short and heads out along the main road.
It’s his bike, not us, that attracts attention, I tell myself, as kids lean out of cars and wave, while some adults watch us with disgust on their faces. I try to convince myself it’s not that a woman my age has no excuse riding on such a bike.
Grumbler eases his way through the traffic, and for once I’m not stuck waiting in a line of cars but making my way past them. For some gaps I close my eyes, but Grumbler seems to know what he’s doing, and despite myself, I begin to relax, admiring instead his competency handling the big two-wheeler. Quicker than I would have made it in my car, we’re coming to an open piece of road. When Grumbler opens the throttle and the bike leaps forward with a roar as though excited to show off its stuff, I shriek, and hug Grumbler even tighter.
The vibration of the bike, the feeling of the cooling breeze on my face, the sheer thrill of being part of the countryside makes my nerves slide away. Instead of worrying about the ride, I’m now consumed by thoughts of the man who’s in front of me. My hands on his chest loosen slightly as I realise I don’t feel in danger. Riding with him, I feel
