“You see? Not much to know. Piece of cake, honest,” Brock said.

He demonstrated the controls again—clutch, gearshift, front brake, rear brake, throttle—and told me for the millionth time to relax, this was going to be easy. Not for one minute did I believe him.

“Ready?” he asked.

Without waiting for an answer he jumped on the seat, turned the ignition key, pushed the starter button. The Kawasaki Ninja 400 sprang to life. Brock left the engine idling in neutral and skootched to the back of the curved seat. His feet were planted firmly on the ground, the motorcycle balanced between his thighs.

I took a deep breath. My turn. I tightened the strap of my pink sparkle helmet and I heaved my leg into the space between Brock and the gas tank. Sitting up front changed everything. Brock’s weight pressed against my back. The unobstructed view was too vast to oversee. My hands on the handlebars felt like imposters. The rubber ridges of the grip bit into the palm of my hand through thin leather gloves. I rolled the throttle toward me. The engine roared.

“Gently!” Brock yelled into my ear.

“Yeah.” As if I hadn’t noticed.

Brock had chosen this quiet mountain road, saying it was better to practice riding without fighting the usual six lanes of stinking Los Angeles traffic. The Ninja stood on the shoulder, its front wheel pointed toward town. I glanced back and watched Brock check for traffic in both directions. There were no cars. I saw that with my own eyes.

“Lifting my feet onto the pegs now. She’s all yours! Pop her into first and let’s ride,” Brock called with overblown cheerfulness. He wanted me to fall in love with riding. He wanted me to take over this machine so he could buy himself the new Ninja 650, bigger and twice as powerful.

My pointed toes grazed the ground on either side. We wobbled when Brock raised his feet, but the bike steadied. I pulled in the clutch lever. My foot fished around before finding the peg further back than expected. With the toe of my boot, I tapped the shifter into first gear. Ready. I released the clutch and twisted the throttle.

The bike lurched forward and stalled, immediately tipping heavily to one side. I threw down my leg and pushed hard against the weight of the machine. We did not fall over, but it was close. Sweat itched my upper lip.

Brock’s boots hit the ground. “Gently! Gently! Didn’t I just tell you?”

I turned to glare at him. Did he think I stalled the damn motorcycle on purpose?

“It’s okay!” he said, quickly. “Happens to everybody, honest. Just let the clutch out slow, slow, slow…here, watch me.” He demonstrated, straightening the four fingers of his fist in the air with microscopic movements, as if demonstrating to someone who was soft in the head. “And give a little gas at the same time. Doesn’t need much to get rolling. Okay? Here, let me start the bike again.”

He reached both arms around me and took the controls. I drooped over the tank and made myself small. The side of my helmet rested on the handlebars and gasoline fumes filled my nose, along with a hint of something more unpleasant, like scorched rubber. Probably my own sweaty armpits.

The bike coughed to life. I bit my bottom lip and tasted blood.

“Let’s do this!” Brock cried.

Straightening, I positioned my hands on the handlebars again. It took me forever to release the clutch in tiny slow-motion increments, but then the motorcycle started to move. On my toes, I duck-walked with the front wheel pointed straight ahead, careful not to over-accelerate. A slight tug on the handlebars altered course and the front wheel bumped onto the asphalt, followed by the back wheel. I cranked the throttle open wide and lifted my feet onto the pegs.

I was riding a motorcycle.

“Coolness!” Brock shouted into my ear, his helmet tapping mine. “Shift up and let’s rock and roll!”

Changing gears on the move was easy and I upshifted until I hit top gear. A bend appeared in the road. My heart pounded in anxious anticipation, but I guided the bike easily along the curve, leaning my full weight into the bend, hips pushed out. I smiled inside my helmet and relaxed the stranglehold of my knees gripping the tank. One smooth mile followed the next. Exhilaration soared through my veins. Brock was right, riding a motorcycle was amazing.

The road snaked steeply downhill. The bike tipped forward and gained speed like a boulder plummeting down a cliff, headwinds wailing around my helmet and crushing my chest. My fists tensed around the grips.

A rusted minivan wheezed its way uphill on the other side of the lane divider. Small faces pasted against the windows stared at me wide-eyed. The wind lulled when I drew up to the van and slammed back after passing. Sudden changes in pressure made the bike lurch and I jerked the handlebars to adjust. The road zigzagged downhill to the vanishing point and we continued to accelerate.

Panic squeezed my lungs. I fought to stay in my narrow lane, the bends tight and close together. If I didn't slow down, I would lose control and we would soar into the abyss. I tapped the brakes and the back wheel locked, the bike sliding dangerously close to the flimsy roadside barrier.

I released the brake and pulled in the clutch, downshifting with a quick stomp of my foot. The bike bucked from the sudden screeching engine brake. Brock slammed into my back and my arms strained to avoid collapsing. He hauled himself upright using my shoulders, leaned over me and covered my hands, pulled in the clutch and bellowed, “Shift up now!” I did. The howling engine quieted. Brock stood over me and steered the bike until the road flattened.

He plopped down on his seat, roaring, “Son of a bitch! Who the hell downshifts on a downhill?”

My confidence evaporated. Forget dreams of easy-riding road trips and exotic sunset destinations—all I wanted now was to park this motorcycle forever. My wrists and arms ached from clenching the handlebars. My butt hurt. My legs shook so hard I wondered if I would fall over when I stepped onto solid earth.

The road turned toward the coast and familiar tall swishing palm trees calmed me. Almost home. The driveway to my apartment building came into view. A gap appeared in oncoming traffic and without overthinking the matter, I leaned on the throttle and shot through. The bike bolted across the street, just clearing two oncoming cars. I raised my eyes and saw we were angled away from the driveway. I was going too fast to correct course.

Massive hedges hurtled toward me. My brain stopped working. I released the handlebars and pushed out my arms to break the impact. The front wheel plowed into the hedge and kept inching forward, as if determined to plod through to the other side. Sharp twigs tore at my arms and tiny dagger-shaped thorns grabbed my t-shirt and jeans. I put my toes on the ground and leaned back hard, trying to pull the bike out of the hedge.

“Switch it off!” yelled Brock. “Switch off the engine now, for pity’s sake!”

I did not remember how.

Brock leaped to the ground and reached into the hedge. The engine stopped. He turned to face me, holding the ignition key over his head like a trophy.

The bike was trapped halfway inside the hedge and I ripped myself free of its branches. Tough waxy leaves dropped inside my shirt and scraped my skin. Thin strips of blood seeped from a dozen scratches on my arms. My favorite pair of jeans was shredded. Damn Brock and his miserable motorcycle. I tore off my helmet and gloves, slammed them on the seat, and left.

“C’mon Eliza! Don’t be like that!” Brock called after me.

I whirled around. Brock was shaking with laughter, not even trying to pretend he wasn’t.

“Shut up, Brock!” Tears stung my eyes and I blinked them away. “Just…shut up. You have no idea how terrifying that was!”

“Oh, lighten up. You’ll be riding like a pro after a few more sessions.”

“I am never, ne-ver riding a motorcycle again, do you hear?” I shouted at the top of my lungs.

After letting Brock’s calls go to voicemail and dropping in bed early to sleep off my evil mood—I opened my eyes to a new morning and the realization I might have overreacted. To be fair, Brock hadn’t done anything wrong. Except the laughter—no excuses there.

An XL chocolate milkshake from the corner diner always made me feel better. I picked one up and went to sit on the wooden bench beside the parking lot. It was pleasant in the shade of the magnolia tree; today was the first day of summer and it promised to be a scorcher.

The deep thumping of a motorcycle interrupted my reverie. It was Kate from eighth floor. She parked in front of me, maneuvering the enormous motorcycle backwards into a slot as if it weighed nothing. I was not in the mood to chat and tried to make myself invisible.

“Hey there!” Kate called. She walked lightly to my bench. Kate from eight, fabulous girl rider, casually confident, master of her own badass motorcycle.

“Hi,” I said without enthusiasm.

“Are you okay?” Kate asked. She looked the part of a biker from her tight Harley Davidson t-shirt to the thick metal-studded boots on her feet.

“Shitty day,” I said, eyes locked on my crimson acrylic nail tips gripping the milkshake.

“Well,” she said, flicking thick auburn curls away from her face and relaxing against the bench with eyes closed. “That all depends on perspective. I got up at the crack of dawn and rode into the hills. Tore up and down those beautiful twisties until I almost ran out of gas. Gorgeous day.”

It sounded amazing.

“Do you remember when you first started? Riding, I mean?” I asked.

Kate nodded.

“Were you scared?”

“Scared? Well, I guess, a little. Handling a bike takes a little getting used to.”

“Who taught you?”

“I had a little dirt bike when I was a kid. Tore around the hills and fell a thousand times and picked myself up and tore around some more. When I got my Harley, I rode around the parking lot a few times, figured I'd learn the same way. Trial and error.”

“Whereas I literally can't keep the damn thing on the road,” I muttered.

She sat up. “Cool, you have a motorcycle?”

I swallowed my pride and told Kate the whole dismal story.

“So what? That’s nothing. Listen to this.” She laughed and shook her head. “The other day I was downtown, hanging with friends, and suddenly…boom! Claps of thunder and flashes of lightning. I sprinted to my bike; didn’t want to get stuck waiting out a freak storm. Just a few drops at first, but then it came down in buckets.”

I nodded. Last week’s downpour had come out of nowhere.

“Did you take cover?” I asked.

"Now, that would have been smart. But by then I was stuck on the 405.”

It was, in a city feared and famous for its aggressive drivers and relentless traffic jams, the absolute worst highway of all.

“Ouch,” I said.

Kate nodded. “It was bad.” She paused dramatically.

“What happened?”

“My engine drowned. I stood in the middle of six lanes of traffic in a pool of mud covering my ankles, wet to the bone, blind with steamed-up sunglasses, and my soaked hair weighing a ton. With a million cars honking and people shaking their fists at me.” Kate grinned. “It was not pretty.”

“How did you get out?”

Kate shrugged. “Walked the bike to the median and hitched a ride home. Waited for the sun to work its magic and dry out the sparkplugs. When I got back, she started without a hiccup. Learned my lesson, too.”

“Which is?”

Kate grinned. “Always wear a helmet to keep your hair and sunglasses dry.”

I glanced to see if she was joking. “That’s what you take away from this?”

“Of course. What else? Nothing’s going to keep me from riding my motorcycle, I assure you.”

Kate hopped up, waggled her fingers in a jaunty goodbye, and pranced into the building. I took another sip of milkshake, but it was lukewarm and I chucked it into the bin. I dragged myself to my feet and walked slowly to the sliding glass doors.

A tinny revving engine ringtone sounded in my purse. Brock. I dug up the phone and listened to it ring twice before making up my mind.

“Hi,” I said.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Look,” Brock said, clearing his throat. “I apologize for yesterday. I thought I knew what I was doing, but now it seems this...'riding lesson' wasn’t planned very well.”

A circus, more like.

“I’ve been riding since I was seven years old, can’t really remember what it’s like to learn. So maybe I forgot you can't automatically know everything.”

Such as not downshifting on a downhill.

“Besides, you did really well up there in the mountains. Those turns were tight and you hugged them like a pro. And those hedges? Even I’d have trouble avoiding them, the way they jumped right in front of the bike.”

He was laughing again. The whole episode was probably amusing to someone who hadn’t been stabbed by a million killer thorns.

“Eliza?”

“Why don’t you come over,” I said. “Maybe I’ll take the bike for a spin around the parking lot.”

PINK SPARKLE HELMET

RECENT POSTS