Why Bikes Rock, Always

by Melissa
(Vancouver, BC)

Shiny Green Harley FXR

The girl walked by my shiny, metallic green Harley and smiled. "That bike rocks", she said, pumped her fist and then walked away, her youth shining around her like a golden aura. Well, yes, yes it does rock. Bikes rock, always.

Like most women, my bike-affair came to me at a young age. I was seriously crushing on the boy down the street, several years my senior. He traded in his beater of a car and bought a dog of a bike, a roughed up, throttle sticking, will-it-make-it-up-the-road bike. As much as I thought I loved that boy, I really had it bad for the bike that should have been, well, helped. Every day, he would push it out of the garage to work on it, usually ending up with his shirt off, sweat making his hair cling in little ringlets to the back of his neck, little rivulets of oil on his face as he worked. It would have been apparent to anyone who was not love struck blind that the kid did not have a single clue, but whatever. I sat there, ogling him as he worked, writing my initial and his in chalk on the sidewalk and then furiously spitting to erase my puppy love.

He would never have acknowledged me even if I burst into flame, but I had an idea in my little head. I went to the library. I guessed at the kind of bike and the year (I was very young, after all.) and got a book on repair. I hefted that book all the way home and then after carefully spritzing myself with Love’s Baby Soft and slathering on some Bonne Bell lip gloss (cherry, mind you) I wandered down there, clutching the book to my chest, hoping it would keep my heart from pounding right on through. I didn’t say a word to him, because what do you say to a dream come true? I laid the book at the side of the bike and walked away.

An hour later, he pulled into my driveway, the book in hand. The bike was far from running perfectly, of course, but it did sound like it had a few more summers in it. He gave me the book and then started to drive away. He looked back and asked if I wanted to come, too. Part of me thought about asking Mom but the rest of me told that goody- goody to shut the hell up, sit down and hang on. By the time he brought me back, I still loved him but I loved that bike even more. That bike ride rocked, always will.

I don’t seek out guys who ride. That is not a make-it or break-it for me. They have to be okay with me and my bike, of course, but they don’t have to want to. That’s fine. But there has to be something that rocks for him like bikes do for me. Something that will have him out there, sweaty ringlets clinging to his neck, shirt lying in a sweaty pile beside him. And, if he wants to come along, then he has to keep up with me and my roaring beast. If he wants to wait, then he can wave as I roar away, my heart still pounding in my chest just like the first time.