Motorbikes and Horses

A Short Story written in 2005

An interesting thing happened today as I drove home along one of my usual routes to Fish Hatchery Road, the route which takes me near Madison’s Zoo, near South Orchard Street, where I found myself aware of being within a block or so of Drake’s house. If I were in this neighborhood anywhere near the time when he’d be headed out to work, I might have kept my ears pricked, as on rare occasion I have seen him in passing, though always from afar. Today, however, my thoughts were nowhere near South Orchard Street, until I happened to glance in my rear-view mirror to notice a motorcycle a couple of cars behind me. With no rationale that it could be him, I dismissed the idea, realizing that it was nearly 3:30 in the afternoon—far too late for Drake to be headed to work, I thought.

But what did I know?

As I turned onto the stretch of Fish Hatch where traffic opens up, the motorcycle pulled up directly behind me, drawing my attention once again. I scrutinized its rider’s reflection in my rear-view mirror. As the bike accelerated to pass in the lane to my left, sure enough:

Drake.

I pulled up beside him at the next traffic light with my window rolled down.

“Hey, Drake,” I said with a smile. I thought for an instant I had not spoken loudly enough to be heard on the city street, until his head turned slowly, and his gaze fell casually on me. A slight smile drew across his face as he took me in from behind his black, oversized sunglasses, divulging not a hint of surprise. “Hi, Laura,” he said. His voice was cool and collected, as I always knew it to have been, his greeting ringing familiar to my ear. “Nice truck,” he said.

“Thanks,” I smiled and shrugged. “Nice motorcycle.” It was an old BMW; beat to hell, and, by the look of it, tough as nails.

“Thanks.” He said back. “I’m going to work.”

“That’s funny,” I said, “I’m going home from work.”

“That is funny.”

We exchanged informal pleasantries as the seconds clicked by until the traffic light changed from red to green.  Drake said something about seeing me a few weeks ago at a show at the High Noon Saloon, though I wasn’t sure if he used the word “good” or “weird” to describe our encounter. That had been the first time I’d seen him face to face in literally years. “Yeah, that was nice,” I replied, just as the traffic light turned green.

Honestly, I don’t know if I would have recognized Drake right off the bat at that show last month, had I not run into his brother earlier who’d told me everyone was heading over from the South Orchard house “en masse” on bicycles, he said. I'd wondered if Drake would be among that masse. Then, sure enough, there he was. I remember thinking how surreal it was to see him after all that time; his hair had grown into long crazy curls which spiraled from his head like serpents, giving him the appearance of some sort of stoned madman or offspring of Einstein, or most likely a combination of the two. I had approached him through the crowd, smiling broadly, and pinched him on the elbow. I’m pretty sure I said “Hi” to him, or perhaps just stated “Drake,” and I’m pretty sure he said “Hi, Laura” in the casual, almost perfunctory way that he does, but the music was really too loud for us to talk at all, if that’s what we’d wanted to do. I’d stood beside him for a moment, and maybe he’d said something more to me, I don’t remember. I do remember turning to him and opening my arms, then noting to myself how foreign he felt as we embraced somewhat awkwardly. The muscles of his upper body were thicker than I remembered, as though he’d been lifting weights, bulking himself up. Building his armor, perhaps. (“Muscle has memory,” he used to say to me.) He held his arms around me politely, but seemingly without emotion. I hugged him sincerely all the same, then punched him good-humoredly in the chest. Smiling, I turned to walk away, feeling tall, balanced, and beautiful. I did not speak with him or go near him for the rest of the night, but was often subtly aware of where he was. I felt Drake seeing me when Dan, an old musician friend, wrapped his arm flirtatiously around my waist, pulling me close. I felt Drake seeing me late that night—walking tall, feeling strong—as I left the club alone.

I remember musing to myself that it did not matter to me what Drake thought, really, and I was deeply grateful for having run into him that night. I was grateful to have some closure after four years; to finally feel without reservation that it truly was for the best that he had dumped me—what an amazing feeling! If only I could have gone back to show that closure to the Me who had been devastated and confused by our breakup at the time, who went through such turmoil over the whats and whys and if onlys of our brief but intense relationship’s demise. The Me who felt utterly wrecked by losing the affections of this man who had claimed to love her, but then had left to marry another.

And now, if only I could show the younger Me our interaction that night! If only I could tell her of all that would transpire between then and now, if I could give her even the quick-version rundown of all that she (I) would learn after Drake and I (she) parted ways.          

Would she have believed me?

Would she have been able to let her torment go?

Would she have been able to just sit back and let the river flow where it might, and to Trust the Universe to guide her?

Would she have listened to me if I had told her:

Oh, my dear—All is well,

My sweet child, it is true that

All will be well!

Sometimes I wonder if there is a future Me who whispers such assurances into my present-day ear¼And if that’s true, do I listen to her now? Sometimes she speaks more loudly than other times. It’s true, too, that sometimes more than others,  I am more receptive to hearing.

And so, back to today.

Today, interestingly enough, Drake looked beautiful to me.

At the next traffic light, I pulled up beside him again; he turned to me immediately, perching his oversized sunglasses atop his head, saying, “So where are you working now?”

“Still my Pet Care business.”

He nodded approvingly.

We continued to chat until the light turned green again, when he launched away on his motored steed like a racehorse out of a gate. Yeah, I thought, that bike’s got a lot more power than my wee pickup. It made me wonder just a little if he was trying to get away from me as quickly as possible. I wondered just a little how it made him feel to see me.

I drove along the damp road a ways behind Drake and his noble mount, with several, then two, then one, then no cars between us. I watched him maneuver his bike with the ruthless assuredness of someone who has been riding for years, through all types of weather, and who carries with him the conviction that, if this is how he’s gonna go, then this is how he’s gonna go. I remembered all the times I’d ridden on the back of his previous motorbike, and how such rides drew me from one end to the other between elation and terror. I thought of how Drake would say to me, “You have a lot of Fear, Laura.”

And it was true; though I was seduced by the feel of his hips between my thighs, the vibrations of the bike beneath my seat, the rush of air around me as if given the power of flight, at the same time I was plagued by images of a gust of wind carrying us off into the ditch at flesh-tearing, skull-smashing speeds, or of a car not seeing us and crushing our fragile bones to smithereens. It has always been this way for me with motorcycles, as it continues to be: I am drawn to them again and again, but my respect for their ability to inflict great mortal damage brings me to the cusp of terror. Therein, I’m quite sure, lies part of their enticement; their appeal sealed by the thrill of facing one’s mortality.

I feel the same sort of fear/exhilaration when horseback riding, and in fact have often thought of Drake’s declaration of my fear while riding bareback on my Quarter Horse, Jack. I am plagued by images of him bolting or spooking and sending me barreling to the ground, or to impale my skull upon a nearby post. A tad dramatic, yes, I know, but back when Drake and I were dating, I would see these images in my mind regularly.

I remember distinctly the first time I galloped Jack up the back pasture to the gate and was not afraid—this lack of apprehension was a markedly new sensation for me, and I reveled in it. I felt as though an enormous, smothering cloak had blown off me, leaving me exposed to the warm wind and sunshine—to LIGHT. To blessed Life. I remember writing about my experience that day; how possibly for the first time ever, as the wind whipped through my hair and tears streamed from my eyes, as I smiled and cooed to Jack and felt his muscles rippling with the immensity of his strength surging beneath me, I had experienced the overwhelming sensation of the complete and utter absence of Fear.

The experience was profound, to say the least.

And, of course, not without end.

The balance between peace and fear is something I find myself seeking very tangibly time and again on Jack, as I wrote in my journal recently:

April 30, 2005

We walked, mostly, he being wary of scary things in the

bushes, and of things rattling in the wind. We did a little gallop along

about half of the grassy stretch which runs beside the big field. I was cautious at first, reluctant to let him out fully, but by the end of the run I felt as though I wanted to keep going; I wanted to go back to the start and let him run the entire length as fast as his magnificent muscles would carry us, as fast as the blood of his racehorse ancestors would compel him to go. I wonder if I would be so apprehensive about galloping on a horse who was more sound than my dear Jack, he with his goofy shoulder from that mysterious accident years ago. I always felt distracted by concerns that he might stumble or fall. Or perhaps if I were riding with a saddle instead of bareback, then I would feel more secure with stirrups to brace myself against in case of any mishap. 

As we turned to mosey back down the path we'd just come thundering up, Jack breathed heavily and smacked his lips with content. I smiled to myself, looking up at the beautiful blue sky, decorated with expressive clouds of countless shapes and sizes. I thought about how blessed this moment was, and I thought about the nature of Fear, and I wondered how exactly it is that we can go about living our lives the most fully without being reckless, without everything going to hell....     

Fear is a loyal companion, I find, despite my every attempt to dissuade it from accompanying me to places where I know I would be better off without it. “Oh, no, no, I’m fine—you go on without me,” I tell it, but it will hear nothing of the sort, and waits for me every time.

Fear gets the door for me, Fear helps me choose my clothes for a date, Fear fastens my seatbelt and hops in the passenger seat, calling “shotgun” every time. Fear walks my dogs with me and rides tandem with me on Jack, clutching me tightly around my waist, whispering warnings into my ear. Sometimes, if I’m not quick enough, Fear answers my telephone and tells people I’m not home. Fear feeds me comfort foods late at night, then stands beside me on the scale in the morning, chiding me for damage done. Fear scratches absent-mindedly at my skin when I’m stressed or thinking too hard, wreaking havoc on my complexion.

Fear is a pest, there’s no two ways about it, and many a time I have pointed my finger toward the door, scolding it, “Out, out, OUT!”

But Fear has wily ways, and often masks itself as insecurity, or it throws little temper tantrums, or it wails and cries until I break down and let it back in, telling it that it must behave, that we can work together, just quit freaking out and messing everything up. And so I pacify Fear; I give it something tasty to eat (it likes chocolate best, of course), and I read it a poem or two, and I tell it how important it is to me, that it needn’t worry, I won’t throw it out again. As long as it’s good, I tell it. As long as we can work together on this.

As I headed south on Fish Hatchery Road with Drake’s straight back and squared shoulders in view, Fear sat beside me not saying a word, but poking at me gingerly. When I had approached Drake’s side at the first intersection, Fear had been squeezing my stomach into a tight knot, but I ignored it as best I could, and it more or less let up as soon as Drake and I had greeted each other. Now I even mused at Fear’s prodding, telling it to knock it off, that it really didn’t matter anyway whether Drake was trying to outrun me or not—I was over him, man, looong over him. It had been proven to me that night at the show, after all, right?

Right.

Fear looked at me pathetically.

Drake had been driving the speed limit for the last couple of miles, and when he signaled to turn off toward the subdivision where he worked, I slowed and signaled as well. A half block or so ahead of me, he must have been watching his mirrors, because his brake light came on as I pulled onto the street. He did a big U-turn, stopping by my open driver’s side window. We picked up our conversation where it had left off at the last intersection, and after a moment, he turned off his grumbling engine.

“I’m driving to Colorado on Monday,” I told him.

Drake laughed.

“What?” I asked.

“I went to Colorado with you once,” he said.

“I know you did,” I smiled, remembering our trek out west for my older sister’s wedding. “I’ve been there a bunch of times since then. I’ve been trying to make it out a couple of times a year.”

“Did they ever build a house on that land?” he asked.

My mind flooded with images I’d forgotten, of Drake and me standing among the sage brush and pinion trees where my sister’s log home now stands, surrounded by 360 degrees of mountain views.

“Yeah,” I said, “now they’re selling it and moving to Montana. I get to take care of their horses next week when they go up to Billings to close on the new place.”

I turned off my engine, and we talked and laughed for a while about being grown-ups and business owners, and how absurd and unreal it all seemed. He told me that he owned a building now, and how weird it was to be dealing with building inspectors and all of that. He told me that he turned thirty in December, and I laughed about how I’d just turned thirty-five in March. “That means my next big birthday is FORTY!” I said. “That’s ridiculous!”

We agreed that age is all relative anyway.

Fear sat quietly beside me and rolled its eyes.

I asked Drake about his building, what he was doing with it, what his plans were, and all. He told me that he’d had big plans, but then everything changed, and now he wasn’t sure exactly what he was doing with it.

What Drake didn’t know was that I had already heard about his building, which was described to me as a small warehouse, of sorts. I didn’t tell Drake this because I didn’t want him to think I’d been keeping tabs on him, and also because my source was someone tied to his wife, who I also knew was now his ex-wife. For a city with a population of over 208,000 people, Madison is a small, small town, and the grapevine grows thick with coincidences and overlappings.

My informant, Leo, was a handsome young skater fellow who worked at a small pet food store in town, and we’d become friendly acquaintances. At Leo’s encouragement, I also began working at that store, though only one or two days a week, and for what ended up being only a few months. Leo used to hang around and chat with me while I was there, in theory to help me learn how to run the place. After a few days, though, I got the impression that he mostly liked hanging out and chatting with me, and I certainly had no complaints.

We must have first made the connection to Drake because of the whole skate-boarding thing, as skaters seem to know each other in any given community, with both Leo and Drake being a part of that scene.

It was Leo who had first confirmed that, yes, indeed, Drake had married Jenny, after all. And it was Leo who told me about Drake’s building, and about how Drake’s Volkswagen bus had gone up in flames, for the second and presumably last time. It was Leo who told me earlier this spring how Jenny was “all over him” when social circumstances brought them together¼at which point I got confused.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “I mean she’s frikkin’ married, right?”

“Oh, no, not anymore,” he said. “They got divorced a while ago.”

I could hardly believe my ears.

It seems awful, and I probably should not admit to this, but I had a hearty chuckle over the news—and about Drake’s bus going up in flames again, too. It’s terrible, I know. It’s just that some part of me felt morbidly amused, and more importantly, somehow vindicated. It was as though Drake had been served his just desserts for breaking my heart that summer, and for going back to Jenny, as had been my most gut-wrenching fear at the time. It’s as though he got what he deserved for saying to me (as I searched desperately for some tangible meaning in his abandonment of our ship), “I never said that I was stable.”

Fear sat beside me in my truck, quietly remembering all of this, as Drake and I talked and laughed.

 Journal Entry, November 11, 2001

Worthy of noting:

Night before last I had a dream about Drake.

In the dream, Jenny had died ...That sounds drastic and horrible, I know, but it did not feel tragic as a death, really, more just that she was gone permanently from Drake’s life. I don’t remember the dream very clearly now. I remember the imagery being somber; blues and nighttime, and an art gallery in a city warehouse.

I remember feeling bad for Drake, feeling his sadness, but also feeling that he was emotionally shut off from me. He wanted, even needed, my friendship, my presence, but still kept me at a distance. I felt empathy for him but did not feel compelled to push him to open up. I felt that I could be safe just being there for him in whatever capacity he allowed himself.

Still, a part of me ached miserably, tucked away inside....

There is a funny thing about Fear, which I forget sometimes myself, and I'll tell you what it is. It runs along the lines of the truth that for every dark there must be a light, for every down there must be an up, and so on. So I tell you this: for every time Fear has sat beside me, if I don't allow myself to become too distracted by its anxious prodding, I find there is another presence with me, as well.

The presence, of course, is Love.

I almost want to say that Fear is Love's evil twin, but the amusing thing is, then I become aware: that's Fear talking, and Fear thinks it'd be pretty cool to be referred to as the Evil Twin. Fear is used to getting its way a lot—it's pretty stinkin' pushy, and then there's the temper tantrums and all. 

The thing about Love, is that Love does not push. Love does not seem to feel the need. Love sits quietly by, observing all with a gentle reverence, and will only open its vast array of wisdom to me if I turn to it as counsel, if I ask it outright for guidance. Love waits with utmost patience, with sweet and sincere empathy for me, through all the trials I allow Fear to run me through. When I throw my hands up in the air in exasperation, Love whispers softly to me that in this, too, there are lessons to be learned and balances to be gained, if only I choose to seek them. Sometimes Love speaks so softly, so gently to me that I can hardly hear it over the din of Fear, who effectively marches around banging pots and pans together like an unruly child.

Love reminds me that Fear is my child. Treat it as such, Love whispers. Most importantly, respect it as such, as children are possessed of a wisdom which we sometimes do not allow ourselves to fully realize.

It's true I don't have the easiest time with this one, when I find myself acting out of anger and frustration. When I finally calm down and let myself listen, Love whispers to me that these are tremendous opportunities for insight and growth. Just breathe, Love tells me, and think of how you’ll choose to handle the situation next time. Because, rest assured, you will be given an opportunity to try again, in one form or another. These experiences are what Life is all about.

So, next time, will I choose to act out of Fear, or out of Love?

Talking with Drake after all this time felt good to me, and yet I was aware of a small part of me which echoed feelings of times past; the part of me that wanted his approval, wanted him to admire me just a little bit (or more). The slightest inflection of a compliment from him made me shine, as I knew him not to be one to throw compliments around. I remember that feeling from when we were dating, how I grew to where I craved compliments from him, when they were so few and far between. It's sort of a catch-22, isn't it? Because if someone offers compliments too often, it begins to feel gratuitous and insincere. However, if someone offers compliments too rarely, one may begin to feel that they don’t appreciate you. Maybe not everyone is this way—I'm sure some people desire compliments more than others. Maybe it's just my insecurities having their way with me when I feel gratified to have someone I admire tell me they think I'm smart, or that I do something well, or that my butt looks really great in those jeans…Yes, maybe so, but still, I think few people could honestly deny that it feels good to be appreciated.

I grappled some with my insecurities as I spoke with Drake on that street, but for the most part I felt good, and secure. As we prattled on about our current lives and undertakings, Fear kept itself quietly in check, and I believe it was Love who whispered to me of how beautiful Drake looked; it was Love who pointed out the little quirks of his speech and manner which at one time had all been so familiar and endearing to me. It was Love who reminded me that it is of no consequence what this man thinks of you, what matters truly is only how you feel about yourself.

It was Love who showed me the intricate beauty of the struggles Drake had

faced, and of the joys and challenges that he continued to face in his own life.

It was Love who looked after Fear as Drake and I spoke, keeping it hushed and pacified beside me, singing to it softly:

“Oh, my dear —All is well      

My sweet child, it is true that  

All will be well.”