Joey

I’m sure many would have found the heat unbearable, the noise intolerable, or the wind simply too brutal.

I, on the other hand, viewed everything about riding as rewarding. Traveling in a car was quiet and simple. A sense of taking part in the journey came with riding on the back of the motorcycle.

It was as if I was earning each mile I traveled.

I leaned against the backrest with my hands folded in my lap. As much as I wanted to hold onto Percy’s waist, I’d realized I didn’t need to. At least not on the highway. Our steady speed made any movement of the motorcycle quite predictable, leaving me comfortable in my relaxed state.

He tapped my leg with his left hand. “We’ll be stopping in Mesa. About five minutes.”

“Okay.”

I found the thought of stopping unsettling, but knew we wouldn’t be stationary long. Mesa, Arizona was one-fourth of the way to Kansas. We’d traveled 350 miles, yet in many respects, I felt like we’d only begun.

He pulled up alongside the gas pumps and shut off the engine.

“Stretch your legs,” he said. “Next stop will be Holbrook.”

“I’ll just sit here.”

He pushed the kickstand down and stepped off the bike. “You should probably take a piss.”

“I’m good.”

I gazed across the highway. The desolate land was nothing but uninhabited desert. An occasional cactus and a sea of sand were all that was offered for scenery. In the distance, a few hills gave some shape to the horizon.

From my vantage point it was beautiful.

“You sure you don’t need to piss?” he asked.

“I’m sure.”

He filled the tank with gas, went inside, and then returned holding a bottle of water. “Sure you don’t need anything?”

I grinned at the sight of a tumbleweed rolling alongside the highway, then turned to face him. “The wind on my face. That’s all.”

My response made him smile. He reached in his back pocket, and then handed me something.

“What’s this?”

“Jerky.”

I turned the package over and studied the contents. “Looks like a random piece of meat.”

“That’s what it is.” He chuckled. “You’ve never had jerky?”

“I’ve heard of it. I’ve never had it, though.”

“It’s part of traveling,” he said. “A biker staple.”

I wondered if my father ate it when he rode.

I questioned whether he’d ever been on the stretch of highway we were on, and, if so, if he’d ever stopped for gas where we’d stopped.

“Do all bikers eat it?”

“Every damned one of them,” he said with a laugh.

I peeled the package open and took a bite of the salty meat. After I swallowed it, he handed me the bottle of water.

We sat in Arizona’s summer heat and ate our beef jerky. It seemed I was being drawn to him even more, and I couldn’t quite understand why. I was attracted to him, not doubt. But what I was feeling wasn’t sexual. It was as if we were the closest of friends.

Different friends than what we’d been in the past.

He tossed the wrappers in the trash when we were finished. When he turned around, his mouth curled into a slight grin. “Ready?”

I gave a nod. “Yep.”

Halfway to Holbrook, I realized what it was about riding that I enjoyed the most.

It was being an integral a part of everything around me. The motorcycle. The road. The horizon. The sky. The weather. Even the bugs that gave their lives to become a semi-permanent part of my wardrobe.

I wasn’t hiding inside the confines of a car. I wasn’t hiding, period.

I tilted my head back and looked up at the sky. The dark marshmallow-like clouds looked like they could spit out rain at any minute.

I glanced down at the road.

The asphalt rushed past us, mere inches from my feet.

I glanced up and focused on the mountains along the horizon. A raindrop hit me, stinging my face much more than I would have expected.

Then, another.

Within a few seconds, it began to pour.

He slowed down, and then signaled that he was going to pull over.

I leaned forward. “What are you doing?”

“I’ll grab you some rain gear out of the saddlebags.”

Raingear would have changed everything. As far as I was concerned, it would have ruined the experience.

“Keep going,” I shouted.

“You sure?”

“Positive,” I responded. “I bet my dad didn’t even own rain gear.”

“I bet you’re right,” he said.

He cancelled the turn signal, checked over his left shoulder, and twisted back the throttle.

The raindrops hit me, one after the other, until I was soaked. When that moment came, I stretched my arms out to the side and closed my eyes.

I was no longer a parentless child.

Nor was I a burn victim.

Or the girl who was being abused.

I was simply Joey.

And, I was free.