Ride It

The day I finally get my first ride on a Harley Davidson

Is just like I dreamed it would be. A flaxen-haired me

On the back of a hog – arms wrapped around

A lean rebel of a man who drives me crazy.

Springtime in the Rockies – wind pushing tears

Out of my eyes – roar of big engine obliterating

Everything – hell – even the tulips bend back

In the gust created by our passing.

Only problem is – that rebel? It’s my dad

The retired math teacher – more Henry Fonda than Peter

In the midst of a midlife crisis about thirty years late.

At 70 he saved up his pension checks

For the bike and all the accessories. He’s got

The black leather jacket with the flaming orange logo

Emblazoned across the back

And the official HD bandana he can wear 
Gypsy style to keep his hair impeccably in place.

He removed the Sportster’s muffler

So that when he peels out of his driveway

He can be sure every one of his neighbors turns

To check him out. Of course they look – he lives in

A retirement village – they’re making sure

He obeys the speed limit of 10 miles per hour.

But we are off on a sunny blue highway

Helmet-free – rumble of big engine between my thighs

The smell of suede and Russian olive trees

That line the Gunnison River in my nose

And it is perfection.

NOT REALLY. I always wanted my first ride on a Harley

To involve a guy named Thor with long hair and earrings

Beefy biceps and a fringed leather vest.

We’d meet in a bar called the Salt Lick

Our eyes would lock over shots of Jack Daniels 
We’d split together on his big loud chopper

In some Easy Rider reverie bound for New Orleans.

Then my dad pulls over in a deserted parking lot

Climbs off and says in that tough guy voice 
He’s been cultivating “Stay put, kid. It’s your turn.”

He shows me the clutch – and the throttle – and the brake
Then how to shift and I’m thinking

What? You want me to … what?
But oh yeah    this is the man who
Took the training wheels off my first bike

And pushed me down the driveway

The one to recognize my fears

And insist I overcome them so….

First – I do a couple of slow elaborate figure-8s

Stall twice and almost lay it down

But then I’m ready for second gear.

I surprise myself with the pop of the clutch

And the rev of the engine and the speed –

I’ve gotta be doing at least … 20 –

And my hair’s streaming back

And there are tears burning my eyes

As 400 pounds of steel and leather feel

As light as the puffy clouds on which I’m soaring.

I don’t need Thor. I’ll ride myself to New Orleans.