Bike Poem for my Father
My dad put away the bike he loved to ride when my mom got preganant, he wanted to keep his new family safe. But when i was 11 years old a 1975 Hoda Supersport CB 400 made home in my driveway. My uncle Danny had gotten himself into a bit of a jam and couldn't afford to pay my father back, so he disappeared, leaving behind his sole possession in the tied hands of my father. Dad gave in, started to ride, & cautiously began carrying me and my brother behind. Just down to the store or to drop us off at the movies, but it was enough. I would sit on that cold machine with the lights off in the garage, a little scared it would tip a little frightened that the day would come when I would insist on riding it too. I knew that it would, for the wind and the speed and the sway was building up under my skin as I cruised around in a dopey white helmet behind my father's warm back. I was so safe when he was in control. I heard nothing but the humm of the engine and the rhythm of his ribs expanding then easing into the sloping curves. I saw nothing but the blur of flowers and street signs smudging the grip of my vision and solidifying the fact that one day I too would grip the handles and drive. Years later, he quietly begged me not to go, offered to chip in for a car or please a plane ticket out west, but we knew it wasn't the same as riding from the Atlantic to the Pacific and back again. He swore never to teach me in the first place, so I swore I'd learn how elsewhere, threatend to hop on the first bike that came my way 'til he agreed to put me through his personal boot camp. I did cirlces in the driveway endured lectures on physics and safety until the day came when i'd earned ten minutes alone on the road within one mile of the house or he's set out after me. I came back at nine and a half. Now that I'm cruising solo, about half way between home and the far coast, I carry a cell phone just in case and I call him every couple of days but i don't tell him about the dairy truck that nearly swiped my life from the highway or how cold it gets in my tent at night. I just speak of the grand canyon at sunrise and the badlands in a misty fog. But I think he understands, as he struggles to keep his voice from cracking three thousand miles away, that it would kill me to break his heart, that to hurt myself is to hurt him and that's the way I got to ride.
Copyright © Samantha Barrow
All rights reserved.
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