CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Without warning, my body lunged forward and I discovered I was dripping wet from a tub that had been slowly filling with water. During heavy gasps of both relief and a lingering horror, I could see that the water level rose only a few inches during my slumber—not enough to completely drench me but enough to soak most of the left side of my clothing. My behind, too, was wet but it was that “new wet” that comes from suddenly sitting up in a small pool, instead slowly marinating in one.

It was then that I came to realize my foot must have just barely dislodged the warm faucet handle from the closed position where I had intended it to stay. I theorized, as I watched the catalyst for my subconscious torment slowly circle and eventually deposit itself down inside my drain, that my other foot must have been blocking that drain.

The gun wasn’t able to elude the intrusive penetration of the water either. A mixture of water and gun oil poured out of it, as I raised it up to examine it, alerting me that every crevice of the weapon had been defiled by the damp remnants left behind. I assumed the instrument’s functionality had been compromised—at least until it dried out—but I didn’t much care anymore.

Not wanting to drip all over my floors, I stripped naked inside of the tub, grabbed hold of the gun and walked into my bedroom. Blue was there; he was wagging his tail and waiting to greet me. After slipping on a pair of boxer shorts, I bent down to give him a hug and scratch behind his floppy ears. I then placed the gun on top of a towel and set that on top of my bed, to dry.

Though my curtains were drawn, a beam of warming sunlight found a gap between the independently-hanging pieces of fabric so that it could gently warm my chest. I didn’t need a clock to tell me this was morning sunlight. For a moment, I basked in its embrace and let it rejuvenate me.

Blue allowed this reprieve to last about ten seconds—until his half whimper, half growl reminded me he was waiting below me. I apologized, in language he couldn’t understand but a tone that he could, and strolled down the hall, to the patio door. Once there, I let him out so that he could take care of his morning business.

Instinctively, I began to check my phone, as I waited for him. Another message from Chris. He wanted to know if I could call him later. Of course he did. Trying my best to ignore him, as the sun invigorated me, I opened the weather app on my phone and was pleasantly surprised to learn that, by noon, it was going to be sixty-five and sunny.

There’s a saying in Ohio. I’ve mentioned it already but it bears repeating: if you don’t like the weather, wait a minute. By that same token, however, one could assert: if you do like the weather, take advantage of it quickly, before it changes. I definitely planned on it too—riding, in a euphoric state, on my motorcycle. Like last night, I knew the temperature would drop dramatically by the time the sun went down, which made my riding window—my “escape” window, as it were—small.

From the bay-style window in my kitchen, I peeked outside and confirmed that the snow had completely melted off of all of the side streets inside my trailer park. It was still plentiful in all of the yards around me but that didn’t matter. If the streets are clear, I’m changing gears.

With today’s blueprint now in place, I called my mother, as I was pouring Blue’s food into his dish. After a few hollow rings, I was connected to her voicemail, where I left her a brief message. I finished the call by stating, “I’ll be on the bike so I won’t be able to talk today but I’ll try you again tomorrow.” No need to tell her anything that could tip her off about my ever-declining, muddled perceptions of reality.

Though the troubling and somewhat dystopic events from the last few days were fresh in my mind, they didn’t seem to matter as much today. Somehow, things were looking up. Was it the anticipation of my ride, I wondered? Perhaps it was the fact that tomorrow I’d finally receive the psychiatrist’s judgement on my situation. Maybe it was a culmination of those things. I wasn’t sure exactly but I could feel that something was changing inside of me.

After I hung up, I let Blue back inside, served him his breakfast and began to bide my time, anxiously awaiting noon and the rare, seasonal gift Mother Nature had promised me.

***

Before I knew it, noon had arrived and I was outside, sitting on my front step, ready to embark on my journey. My memory of the hours between my phone call and this moment was hazy but I suppose I must have dressed myself at some point: a long-sleeve T-shirt displaying the logo from an obscure video game I won’t bother mentioning, a gray, riding jacket with crash padding sewn inside, blue jeans, a backwards ball cap on my head, and two mismatched cotton socks. Looking down, I noticed that one was red and gray, while the other had struck a black and red medley.

In my hand, that same abused pair of black Doc Martens boots, which I’d owned for nearly half of my life, was ready to envelop my feet. The brown, incongruent, replacement shoelaces seemed out of place and only served to bolster the “indestructible” nature of the boots that I had been prattling on about for years. The helmet next to me, as well as the gloves inside of it, constituted the rest of ensemble. I was also bringing an unopened water bottle, in case I got thirsty.

Then, from out of my shed, I produced my prize: a European, midnight black, two-wheeled piece of modern engineering that brought me joy every time I saw it. It wasn’t the fastest bike I’d ever owned, nor was it the largest—far from it actually. As my life crumbled around me, however, it was one of the only material things I’d been able to retain and I loved it as much as any non-deranged human being can love an inanimate object.

For the duration of the winter, thus far, it had been on a trickle charge so that the cold couldn’t drain the life out of its battery. I undid the connection, inserted the key, held in the clutch and hit the starter. First try and that fuel-injected piece of art was humming inside of my shed.

After a moment, I backed it down the ramp and let it sit, in the sun, in my driveway, giving it time to warm up both internally and externally. As it did so, I checked the tire pressure. It had lost a couple pounds but not enough to warrant any concern. I then found and affixed a pair of sunglasses, banished my hat and water bottle to the tail bag, tightened my helmet, threw on my gloves, zipped up my coat and shamelessly gawked at one of the last remaining idols in my life.

There was comfort in knowing this would be my literal and figurative vehicle for escape today. I’d been riding for nearly two decades but I very rarely rode for the sake of transportation. I rode specifically to escape.

I had a couple hours to dispatch before the temperature would begin to wane so I considered the routes I might take. How far away could I get within the time that had been given to me? Where should I go? South? South. The answer was almost always south.

Going south meant getting away from traffic, from buildings, from life in general. There was the occasional motorist or horse and buggy to dodge, when traveling south, but doing so was easy. Double yellow lines were more of a suggestion where I was going—at least to me they were. I suppose speed limit signs were as well. But that’s the way I’d always ridden—as if I had a kilo of cocaine in my tail bag and there was an officer in pursuit. I liked to push myself. Hit that gear quicker. Cut that corner tighter. Give me a thrill. Give me some sense of life.

When I was alone (and I usually was), I rode like tomorrow was a foreign concept. Other riders couldn’t, or more likely wouldn’t, keep up with me and most of my potential passengers usually seemed to have something better to do. That’s okay, though. I liked riding alone. I felt as though I was less obligated when I was alone.

I was much more reserved; in fact, I was a completely different rider when my pillion was occupied by Fisky or, for that matter, by anyone of the opposite sex. For some reason, I valued their lives much more than my own. They calmed me; they unknowingly coerced me into obeying traffic laws I would otherwise ignore.

Dying on a bike was a risk I was willing to accept for myself but I couldn’t bear it if I was somehow culpable for ending the life of a fellow voyager, gently hugging my hips behind me. If I was doing anything reckless when that happened, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself (regardless of how I myself fared in my hypothetical accident).

Today, though, wasn’t the time for those thoughts. As was the case most days, I didn’t have to worry about that distraction. Today, I only concerned myself with my own life, which I have already admitted was much less valuable than others’. That’s not necessarily a bad thing though. When something isn’t as valuable—that’s when it’s sometimes easier to have a lot more fun with it.

When I’m romping around in the muddy woods, for example, I don’t wear my good shoes—the new ones I just got and still haven’t even paid for yet. I wear the old, tattered pair of boots that I don’t mind getting muddy, scuffed or otherwise destroyed. I wear the Docs that I love and I have more fun doing so because I’m not worried about what happens to them.

This isn’t to suggest I’m completely careless though; after all, I’ve been doing this for a long time and I’ve never had a single accident. And so, despite my sterling and blemish-free history, I still took moderate care to somewhat dress appropriately, as I’ve already begun to explain.

Because I don’t want my toes ripped off, you won’t catch me wearing flip-flops, like some of those dude-bros I see around town (boots are always a must) but I’m not decked head to toe in leather either. That leather-heavy “Mad Max” look, however, seems to be the pinnacle of fashion for most of those “American Pride” riders who I whiz by, while they pretend it’s Halloween and they’re on their way to some secret pirate-themed party somewhere.

It’s somewhat ironic to me how so many of those leather-clad fashionistas fancy themselves as rebellious, or at least “unique,” all while taking such special care to make sure they conform to a very particular type of look. It’s by donning some variation of the “biker uniform,” as it were, that these individuals self-affirm their memberships to this very stylistic group—a group they so ferociously and passionately venerate.

This isn’t an issued uniform, though—like the kind distributed by sports teams, businesses or the armed forces. It’s not “required” by any higher-ups, that is. In the biker club, the members choose to wear their uniforms.

Despite any collective delusions inherent within this community, however, an outfit alone won’t liberate someone from the clutches of modern society (no matter how much leather that outfit might contain); moreover, those who allow fashion to dictate their lives, are actually conforming, on a much higher level, than even the average non-bikers, from whom they try so desperately to separate themselves.

Bikers do it; frat boys do it and, in high school, I did it too. During my teenage years, I did it throughout my “punk rock” phase—complete with its own attire requirements—but, at least for me, a desperate need to show I fit in only lasted throughout puberty.

I’ve known a lot of these folks and, at least in my own experiences, the majority of them are most concerned with finding the closest bar, sitting on one of its stools and immersing themselves in a sea of similarly-dressed peers. That’s not to suggest these are bad people though. Quite to the contrary, I typically find this group to be helpful and polite, as long as I don’t admit that less expensive and vastly superior, foreign-made bike outside is mine.

It’s just that they’re almost always more concerned with how they present themselves at the fashion shows they throw for themselves, at their local pubs, than they are with actually riding. I’d even go as far as to assert, at least from what I’ve seen, that the harder an individual tries to prove he belongs—via his outfit—the less two-wheeled miles he typically logs each year.

Many of them, if questioned about their fashionable attire, would try and make the excuse that their orange and black leather vests are for safety. I find that explanation comical, however, when the person giving it chooses to wear a cloth bandanna over a DOT-approved helmet.

While I’m on the subject of helmets, I can say, without question, I’ve always preferred a three-quarter helmet with a flip-up visor in front. It’s much more comprehensive than a half-shell but it’s not as stifling as a full-face because my jaw and my chin are not encumbered behind a fiberglass shell. The helmet will protect my head in a wreck, yes, but its true and more pragmatic purpose is to keep the wind out of my eyes and to prevent golf ball-sized welts from the bugs that slam against it, at 100 miles an hour.

That’s one nod of respect I’ll definitely give to a very small group of folks I see who don’t wear helmets. I would say that 90 percent of the time, they’re not going very fast, for the reasons I just mentioned, but every now and then, I’ll see someone on the highway, no helmet, getting after it. It’s rare but I can respect it, when I see it. “Get it, son!” I’ll yell out to no one but myself, as we give each other the wave, from across the divided highway.

Because I don’t want bugs finding their way into my underwear, I’ll also never wear shorts. Always jeans. Always fingerless gloves too (full-fingered gloves when it’s colder, like today), though they’re more of a crutch than a safety precaution; I learned to ride with them and I simply don’t feel comfortable without them. In summer months, my dark brown forearms, juxtaposed against the vampiric white of my wrists and hands, can provide all the visual evidence one would require to prove I never ride without them.

My normal preference is to avoid the highway and there are three main reasons: (1) it’s boring (2) most people don’t seem to understand the concept of a passing lane and (3) there are too many distracted drivers. Whether they’re millennials on their phones or blue-haired boomers who can’t see over the steering wheel, I’ve lost count of how many times someone has come unabated right into my lane and nearly crashed into me.

Today was an exception, though, and the highway beckoned. Most of the side streets still had too much gravel, which the snow had carried and deposited there, in the middle of the road. The highway would be much safer, in that regard. With that in mind, I straddled my ride, kicked the stand back behind me, pulled in the clutch, knocked it down into first and pulled out onto the street.

The weather was accommodating and I was thankful for the momentary reprieve it had granted me; however, I was far from comfortable, as I sped down the interstate. Sixty-five degrees, on a windshield-less bike, feels more like forty-five—especially when moving at a good clip and I was virtually always moving at a good clip. Still, the gloves, jacket, helmet and sun provide just enough warmth to keep my expedition enjoyable.

The speed limit, like the temperature, was sixty-five but the semi-truck in front of me, in the passing lane, didn’t seem to feel the urgency to do more than fifty-five. Nonetheless, the left lane was where he’d decided he belonged. Without being too overtly obnoxious or unsafe, I tried to make my presence known, in his side mirrors, emphasizing, as best I could, that I’d prefer he speed up or get over.

He couldn’t get over though. On the right was a motorcade of American-made, cruiser-style bikes, riding two bikes to a lane, stretching at least twenty rows deep. Unfortunately, the two lead bikes, as well as everyone who had fell in behind them, seemed unbothered and completely content to also maintain an eye rolling pace of fifty-five.

Most of these vehicles were piloted by leather-clad pirates with beards that would have made Santa Claus jealous. Throughout their massive crew, I didn’t see a single one of them wearing a helmet, which suggested, to me anyway, that they were likely resolved to maintain this slow pace indefinitely. Again, it’s difficult to ride—not just to putt around but to really ride—without a helmet.

A lot of them were wearing various facial coverings, to protect themselves from the cold, which I found comical due to the fact that a helmet would also satisfy this concern. Additionally, it would protect their heads from a crash and keep the wind out of their eyes so they could actually do the speed limit, which, in turn, would also make them safer on the highway. As with most biker gangs, though, fashion almost always triumphs over reason and, as such, they had succumbed to wearing bandannas around their faces instead of helmets on their heads.

Helmets didn’t seem to be a concern of theirs, just as the truck driver didn’t seem concerned with the responsibilities inherent with occupying the passing lane. The bikes and the truck had thereby trapped me. Together, they had created a sort of moving wall, slowly trudging forward, two car lengths in front of me.

The truck was blocking my view so, as I pressed him, I instinctively followed the same path as his left back tires—concerned that if I were to ride in between them (in the middle of my own lane) an animal carcass might just suddenly appear in my path.

As the journey progressed, it was becoming more and more clear that the truck operator didn’t seem to care that he was in the passing lane. He was content moving at the same speed as the procession of bikers to our right. Eventually, I backed off a bit more and gave the truck a wider berth so that I could safely swing over and get behind his right tires. Nothing was in the road and I made the transition without incident.

As my impatience festered, I drifted even further out so that I was occupying the empty lane between the truck and the closest motorcycle. I knew that, in a flash, I could zip through it and continue my ride without having to consent to the will of the inconsiderate motorist in the truck who stunted my progression and hindered my vision. In parts of Europe, people use that lane between lanes all the time. Driving through Rome was nerve-wracking, it happened so often. I didn’t want to elicit similar feelings in the slow-moving gang next to me but the lack of vision—the lack of an escape route—was weighing too heavily on me.

Because I’d traveled this stretch of highway many times before, I furthermore knew that, in only a few miles, the road would cease to function as a four-lane highway; with nowhere else to go, all of the traffic would be forced off an exit ramp and we’d all be subject to a double yellow, two-lane road. I’d have my lane on the right and oncoming traffic would have its lane on the left. That’s it.

At that point, I decided that I had two choices: slow down to a crawl and fall way back, behind the procession of bikers, thus relegating myself to a painfully slow pilgrimage across the plains—one which could last for twenty miles—or zip past them recklessly, for a moment only, and then be on my way. To the surprise of no one who has ever seen me ride, I chose speed.

I was in fifth gear but that was only so as not to overstress my motor. At this speed, fifth was more of a comfort for the bike than a necessity for travel. For the maneuver I was planning, however, it’s better to have some pop. My uncle taught me that: “You always want to have something left in the tank—you want to be able to shift into a higher gear—if you’re going to be passing someone. You never know what could happen,” he wisely instructed.

I remembered his sage words, as my full-fingered, gloved hand pulled in the clutch and ordered my transmission to be alert for my upcoming command. Less than a second later, I gave it when my left boot kicked my shifter downward into fourth, where it belonged. The sudden change caused my RPMs to spike and my bike lurched forward. That’s what I wanted though; it gave me that redline-worthy pop I desired. Without hesitation, I ripped the throttle back and my bike screamed forward between the congregation of leather-clad, helmetless pirates and the clueless truck driver on my left.

I was already beyond the lead bikes in the motorcade when everything around me instantly faded to gray. The sky, the truck, the bikes, the road, the trees—all of it. It all lost its luster. Inside of my helmet, I heard a familiar voice tell me to “DO IT!” but, in an attempt to outrun it, I nudged the bike back into fifth and laid on the throttle. The tachometer breathed a sigh of relief and the sudden abundance of newly available, unused power propelled out of the gray world and back into the more familiar one.

As if I had rocketed past an invisible line of demarcation, everything around me instantly filled back up with color; what’s more, the voice inside my head fell silent. All of this happened at the same time that I was whooshing by the biker gang, which only made my usurping of their position all the more pronounced. It was in that brief moment that something sounding like a baseball crashed against my face shield.

As my eyes readjusted themselves to the colorful world around me, they showed me the splattered carcass of a wasp, pasted across my face shield, just above my left eye. Its head was still intact and the wind was animating some of its legs but the gooey stain in the middle of my visor, where it first made contact with me, told me it wasn’t not long for this world, if it was even still a part of it at all.

Little did I know that, for the next several minutes, my fate was about to become inexorably interlocked with his.