I have a place to stay and a job to go to. I need to quit whining and suck it up. That’s hard to do, however, when the treasured motorcycle I owned and rebuilt myself as a teenager is staring at me right now.
Straddling it, I love feeling it beneath me. The seat contours to my body. The paint finish is still glossy because Uncle Karl kept a cover over it. The chrome parts glint in the overhead lights. My left hand wraps around the left handlebar, the grip molding to my palm, as I lean forward a bit. I tighten my hold and imagine zipping down the open road.
I reach for the right handlebar with my right hand. The grip hits my palm, but my fingers won’t close all the way around it. My entire right arm shakes at being stretched out. There’s absolutely no way I can steer this motorcycle ever again.
I slam my left hand into the handlebar and get off the bike. The urge to kick the thing onto its side is overwhelming, but I get rational at the last second and refrain from doing so. Instead, I drape the cover back over the motorcycle.
Out of sight, out of mind.