Bent Words

Bent Words

April 29, 2006

I just got that song in my head --

"Here I am at, six o'clock in the morning, still thiiiiiiinking about you..."

Probably because it is six in the a.m. and I'm actually awake. But that's okay because today is the FIRST motorcycle race of the season that I'll be attending. Boner.

Or it's because I had this goofy dream about him last night.

It was nighttime -- very dark and completely foggy and I had no idea where I was. The group I was with had little clue as to where we were either and yet they plodded forward, obviously with a particular destination in mind.

We arrived at an on-road motorcycle track, much like Blackhawk Farms in Illinois, and quickly proceeded to ride our motorcycles hard and fast in the dark on the track. I was hesitant. I watched the people I was with head onto the track, gaining speed and splitting the fog like ghosts. One by one these brave souls hit corners and gained speed coming out onto the straightaway.

It looked dangerous.

Someone went down. A low-side crash that seemed as silent and smooth as though they were skidding across a track made of silk.

It was me! I went down on the track!

I pushed the motorcycle off of me and tried to get up but I couldn't. I looked down and I looked around me but everyone else was just whirling by as though I did not exist. I continued to watch myself in this odd and separated way. I was standing at the edge of the track, but really, it was me out there who had just crashed.

Finally, someone picked me up and when I looked down at my legs, I realized that my freakin' feet were gone!

Well, that's just great. How am I going to get to work on Monday?

Whoever had picked me up was kind enough to deposit me at my parents house on the Lake. My parental units were a little less than pleased. No feet, they likely thought, what good is a daughter with no feet?

I found a pair of crutches and somehow managed to get around on those with my new, stumpy legs.

Then, there was Shane handing me a new set of riding leathers. They were his and when I tried them on, they were too big.

"Here," he said, "wear these and you won't get all fucked up like you did today."

"Oh thanks -- you couldn't have presented those a little earlier, huh?" I shot back.

He just stared at me and then finally made with a reply,

"Yeah, well, my wife was using those."

And he looked down at his own leathers, which he was still wearing for some ridiculous reason, and I noticed all the rips and tears and tattered fabric that was his 'protective' leathers.

He turned to leave and I watched him walk away. He headed up my parent's steps and up to the road where it seemed a million cars were parked. It was still dark outside. I watched him get into a split-level bus and, when I made my up to the street, somehow, I watched him as he waved good-bye with a grin plastered to his face. He was wearing a long-sleeved blue shirt then that seemed to set off the blue of his eyes and I could not tear my own away. I just stood there, waiting for the occupants of the bus to leave.

And as the bus began to depart, moving backward down my parent's street on the Lake, I waved back, tilting my head up to watch as he disappeared into the fog.

My childhood dog, a black Standard Poodle named Max, who had a retarded tendency to chase buses, bolted off behind the bus but not before I had a chance to ruffle the thick, curly fur on the top of his head.

"Bye, Max. Good-bye, Shane."

Written at 6:28 a.m.