Twilight Rides
Dad lit up a Marlboro with a quick snap of his sleek silver lighter and drew a deep breath in, gazing beyond the ragged edge of our front hedge to the suburban lane that seemed to begin at our front door. I watched the smoke meander across the twilight sky as he slowly exhaled and cocked one ear to the muffled voice of David Brinkley reading the news inside on the television.
I knew I had to be silent and wait. Dad was only twenty-seven, but he was, after all an adult. You had to give adults time to make the right decision. They weren’t impulsive like kids when it came to fun.
"Wanna go for a ride?" he asked nonchalantly, not looking at me but smiling from ear to ear as the first streetlight began to weakly glow.
I bounded to his battered Harley without a word, climbing up the side as if it were a jungle gym and scooting up close to the hot handlebars to give him more room. He gave a short laugh and swung his own leg over the seat in one flowing move.
This was our time.
At least twice a week during the summer Dad would "step out for a smoke" after our early dinner. If I was lucky—and my baby sister cooperated by falling asleep quickly-- I too could escape. I’d wait ’til the last of the dishes clinked wetly from the sink, listening for the sound of my mother’s steady humming as she lowered her head under the faucet for her nightly shampoo. Then I’d scoot for the door before she could call us both back.
But Mama was also an adult and thus given to extra sensory perception. Already her disembodied turbaned head was bobbing up from the kitchen window, searching us out. But we knew we were safe: She would never venture into the front yard in her robe and head towel. It just wasn’t proper. Her voice rose with a command but was lost to the heightened growl of Dad’s bike. The only intelligible words I could make out were a frustrated, "Oh that man!"
"We’ll be in trouble again when we get home," he laughed. He blew her a kiss, as did I, and we were off.
Not that we went very far, or very fast, really. The first stretch of our ride was a mere putt-putt through the neighborhood. I could look from side to side at the houses of friends, babysitters, and ornery neighbors who felt no kinship with the iron horse we rode.
Old Mr. O’Reilly, for example, was always there at the front of his yard stooping cautiously over his roses with his molting terrier, Alexander. Mama said that only birds could molt, but I had my doubts. There, after all, leapt the crazed Alexander, alternately running around in circles and barking at us as large clumps of fine black fur alighted from his tiny body like dandelion fluff in the wind. Lord knows what assaulted that poor dog’s body to cause him such grief, but the result was a 3-D checkerboard of black fur and raw skin.
Mr. O’Reilly seemed sure it was a direct result of frequent Harley exposure.
"Alexander, no!" cried Mr. O’Reilly in horror as a larger than average tuff escaped to find shelter in a nearby shrub. "Stay calm…" He turned to our fleeting forms.
"Damn you, boy!" He shook his pruning shears at us with enough vengeance to make me duck close within my father’s open jacket.
Dad just gave Mr. O’Reilly a friendly wave, then revved the motor with a look of shocked horror on his face, as if he had no real control over the machine.
His boyish dramatics were not lost on Mr. O’Reilly, who often threw his shears to the ground as he scooped up his ever-shedding dog. But since he never called my mother — or the police — I have to wonder if this recurring scene was actually a source of entertainment for the old man. We would never pass his home without this interaction…nor see his dog in any other condition.
About eight blocks from our home the neighborhood gave way to a stretch of unincorporated land. Houses were older here and spread further apart at the end of long driveways, and a few even had pastures in front, though no horses or other animals grazed there to my recollection. It was here that Dad would flick his cigarette away and breathe, "Get ready Sheshybell!"
This was my cue to pull in tighter to Dad’s warm belly and grip the bars with all my might.
The straight stretch of road gave Dad permission to let it rip. Surely we couldn’t have been going much over forty down this short mile-long stretch, but to an eight year-old this was equivalent to a Gemini lift-off. I would tuck my head down to my neck in a vain attempt to avoid the wanton insects lacing my hair, closing my eyes to better feel the power of the wind.
In my child’s mind, we were standing still. It was the wind that carried the roar of the engine in its voice and reared its face before us. It’s bulbous cheeks blew a myriad of summer scents our way: rye grass and rosemary, chicken barbecue and motor oil, wet towels on the line and the heaviness of oleander. It’s breath came thick and warm and exciting as it passed us in the growing night, our hair following its siren call. My hands vibrated with the combined power of wind and machine; my body hummed. I was the warrior on the hill; I was the enchanted damsel watching the moon from the parapet. Within the strong arm of my father on his bike the world was alive and full and spun upon my finger.
And then it was over. The grip of his right arm lessened as we returned to cruising slowly, banking left into another suburban neighborhood and circling back for home in the dark. Mama would be folding clothes in the false light of the T.V. when we returned.
"Bath and bedtime," she’d say sternly from the couch, sending me on my way with a warm towel.
"Me, too, Mom?" my dad would always tease as he scooped me up like a squirming puppy and swung me reeling into the hall. He’d usually get a rolled sock on the head for that, but there was little danger to her anger, which quickly melted to laughter under my father’s spell. In a few minutes she’d be with me, pouring Mr. Bubble into the tub, scrubbing my ears and nonchalantly asking about our little adventure amidst Eskimo kisses. Every detail would rise to my lips, my voice trying to recreate all that I had felt and seen with my limited means.
"And Daddy went so fast!"
"Oh that man!" she'd say with a smile.
Sheree ShownÝ 6/26/03