The man with the bike

03 Mar The man with the bike

Mel’s diner.  Yesterday.  A white pick-up truck.  My son.  Me.  Chocolate ice cream in mind.  The motorcycle charred.  Beyond recognition.  My son walked by it and said “Bike has an owie momma.”

 Beautiful men.  Two of them.  Just happend to be sitting behind us.  Sebastian asked them about their bike.  (How he knew it was them I don’t know.)  A story.  A new italian bike.  a friend.  a fall.  an ignition.  Burned beyond recognition (the bike, the friend is totally fine) except for the giant massive tail pipes.

We talked about bikes.  “Will you let him ride?”  I’m not sure.  My brother died on a bike.  It is a tough call for me.  I remember the salt air in my hair as I rode my bike.  Too difficult a decision right before ice cream and right after a search for the Lorax at Muir woods.  He speaks for the trees you know.

I remember.  My dad.  A motorcycle enthusiast.  Many bikes. Nortons.  Indians.  Hondas.  (Anything but a hog he said.)

He rode his bike to the nursing home.  Picked out the one he wanted.  before he needed.

 Another man.  A stranger.  A son.  He came to visit his mom every week.  On a Harley.  He found out my dad liked bikes.  For months he visited.  He helped my dad outside every week and started up his motorcycle for my dad.  My dad feigned interest in the Harley and secretly LOVED hearing the bike roar.  He lit up in ways I could not create for him.

 This man.  This stranger – did.

The man continued this once a month.  Long after his mom died.  He visited my dad.  No discussion.  No talking.     No fan fare.

I thought of this man last night.  For the first time in a long time.  These silent little things that people do with out the ticker tape parade.  I’d do anything now to know who he was.  To tell him how much it mean to my dad to be important enough for that little piece of grace.  That gift.

 The boys with the motorcycle last night took a moment to spend with my little two-year old.   

I don’t need a politician to make me proud of being from this great nation of ours.  With all the stress, fear, anger and all the things that make us different- we are all the same.  Beautiful. 

You are too.  All the weird stuff we do to survive in this world- we are still.  Beautiful.

Thank you motorcycle men.  I love you.