by Medusa
© 2002 B. Howard, all rights reserved
I remember a man, a five year old little girl, and a blue dirtbike. From my vantage point, stationed behind the handlebars, those thrilling races seemed like flying. When we slowed for turns, sending brown pine needles flying everywhere, I always turned to peer at him through my helmet visor, squealing "Faster, Daddy, faster!" That must have been the trigger for my adoration of motorcycles, and the reason I rejoice in speed, because that memory is one of the very few in which I had a connection with my father.
Sometimes, the thought crosses my mind that, if the old dirtbike's engine hadn't blown, the father/daughter relationship might not have broken down so completely. He and I seem to dwell on opposite ends of the human spectrum, and there is no other mutual connection. Twenty years later, the dirtbike long forgotten, there is a thin vestige of civility that we both try to maintain, but little else.
He retired last winter, and I was shocked when I saw the retirement gift he had purchased. The hunter green, chromed out, leather saddlebags, Harley-copy, nearly made me swoon. I was walking around the bike, getting pretty mushy over it when he stepped into the garage. "It took you twenty-five years to do something I agree with!" I exclaimed. He offered to take me for a ride when the weather warmed up. I behaved like a five year old again. I pouted. "But I have a jacket..." I cajoled.
The wind slapped me in the face, but I felt no discomfort, only living. As the engine roared, my heart echoed it. My arms were wrapped around my father's waist, and he covered both my hands with his gloved one, trying to keep them warm. This made me smile, because I didn't feel the cold for the pure exhilaration. As we leaned into the curve, I yelled in his ear. "Faster, go faster!"
My father and I don't get along. Our constant war is made up of personality conflicts, and battles of the will. We have nothing in common. Except for the Victory.
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