35
When we get to the racetrack, we run into Roberto at the door. He says to wait for my father in the boxes area. I tell Eric how to get there, and he jokes around, accelerating and braking so that I scream and have to hold on to him.
When we get to the boxes, there’s no one there. Once we’re off the motorcycle, I pause to admire it.
“Do you want me to teach you to drive it?”
“Um . . . I dunno.”
“Are you afraid of motorcycles?”
“No . . .”
“Then?”
The sun is hitting my eyes, and I squint to see him better.
“I’m afraid of falling and wrecking it.”
“I won’t let you fall,” he says quite confidently.
That makes me laugh. This is Eric, and he’s just so sure of himself.
Finally, he pressures me to get back on the motorcycle. I look around and see my father is still nowhere in sight. Eric explains that the brakes are by my left foot; he shows me which hand to use to accelerate, where the clutch is, and how to stop. Then he starts the engine.
“Wow, that’s some power!”
“Baby, all Ducatis sound like this. Powerful, like a roar. Now here, first . . .”
I do as he says, but the Ducati dies.
With a forgiving look, he starts it for me again.
“This is like a car, love. If you release the clutch too quickly, it dies. Stay in first, let go slowly, then give it some gas.”
He’s said “love” twice in two hours.
I go into first, let go very slowly, then—bam!—it dies again.
“Don’t worry about it.” He laughs.
He repeats the instructions, and this time, I concentrate. First, I let out the clutch ever so slowly and accelerate. The engine purrs, and he claps as I shriek. I brake quickly, and the back of the bike bucks. Eric comes running.
“If you just use the front brake, you could fall.”
“Got it.”
We repeat the process twenty times; and each time, I get worse and worse. I brake badly, and I’m going to kill myself. Eric is not amused.
“All right, c’mon, get off.”
“No . . . I want to learn.”
“We’ll continue the lessons another day,” he says.
“C’mon, Eric . . . don’t be a party pooper.”
“That’s enough, Jude. I don’t want you to crack your skull.”
“One more time, OK? Just one more time.”
Eric looks very serious, but he gives in.
“OK, one more time, and then you get off, OK?”
“Fine.” But his jaw is tensing, and he’s obviously uncomfortable. “Hey, why are you so worried?”
“Because I need to know you’re all right and that nothing’s happened to you,” he says with a creased brow.
I start the engine again. I go into first, then ease out the clutch and slowly press the accelerator. The bike inches forward, and he follows on foot by my side.
“Eric!”
“Yes?”
“I just want you to know that the anguish you just felt doesn’t even begin to compare to what I’ve been feeling about you for two weeks. Now check this out!”
I go into second, gun the engine, and the bike takes off. I push into third, then fourth, and then I shoot like a rocket out to the racetrack. I see him in the rearview mirror, his mouth agape. I’m delighted to be driving a motorcycle again. I’ve always loved them, always loved the freedom they offer. As I turn on the Jerez racetrack’s curve, I think about him. I think about that worried look of his, and I’m very pleased with myself. I imagine him waiting at the boxes, alone and flustered. I speed up.
Finally, I exit the track and make my way to the boxes. I find him sitting on a step. When he sees me, he stands up. The Iceman has returned, but delighted to have made him suffer for a few minutes, I go right up to him before braking. Brusquely and without turning off the engine, I take off my helmet and give him a Charlie’s Angels look.
“C’mon, Iceman, did you really think that I, a mechanic’s daughter, wouldn’t know how to ride a motorcycle?”
Eric comes up to me. I think he’s going to tell me to go fuck myself, but instead, he puts his hands on my shoulders and gives me an impassioned kiss. I’m still on the bike, but I grab him back with equal fervor until I hear my father’s voice.
“I knew that was my little girl riding out on the track.”
I immediately pull away from Eric. I wink at him, which makes him smile, and I turn toward my dad.
“Papá, let me introduce you to my friend, Eric Zimmerman.”
My father smiles. He knows right away this is the man who has been in my thoughts. Eric steps up and confidently offers his hand. My father accepts it.
“So glad to meet you, Mr. Flores.”
“Call me Manuel, young man, or I’ll have to call you by that weird last name of yours.”
They both grin, and I can tell they like each other. Then Eric looks over at me but addresses my father. “Manuel, your daughter is a bit of a liar. She told me she didn’t know how to ride a motorcycle, and after she had me show her how to use the clutch, she shot out of here like a bullet.”
“You told him that? How could you be so shameless?” my father says in mock horror.
I nod, feeling naughty.
“Eric, my little girl was the Jerez motocross champion for several years, and she’s still winning prizes.”
“Seriously?”
“Uh-huh.” I nod again, really enjoying myself.
Eric and my dad joke around for a while, and I join them. Right now, I’m with the two men I love the most in my life, and I’m very happy. In a bit, my father turns to us as he starts off.
“Follow me, kids.”
When I’m about to go after my father, Eric grabs me by the waist and pulls me to him.
“Little girl, you’re full of surprises.”
I blink and blush and then pretend to give him a punch in the stomach, which makes him laugh.
“Be careful, because she was also the regional karate champion.”
I hear Eric whistle in surprise as my father enters one of the boxes.
“Look what I have for you,” says my dad.
Before me is the motorcycle with which I won all those motocross prizes. It’s clean and shiny. It’s a 2007 Ducati Vox MX530. I’m incredibly moved. I mount the bike. My father’s cell rings, and he steps out of the box. I turn on the machine, and the growling engine echoes all around us.
“Have I ever told you that I love the powerful sound of a Ducati, baby?” I say as Eric laughs and laughs.