Achilles in the Amazon
I flew around a corner and the bike tipped over, just enough, so that I didn’t fall. The highway spread open along the river. I approached a truck brimming with nervous pigs, peeked and ducked around. A hawk circled overhead. The valley tightened. I plunged into the trees. I lost the sun. But on the other side a green pickup was stopped — and then accelerated. I swerved, laid the bike down smoothly, like I was sliding my boots into an envelope, and came to rest on the shoulder.
I don’t think the driver knew what he’d done; the music was blasting.
A car passed, a second but neither stopped. They may not have seen me. The bike pitched off the road. I lay still as a board, my limbs drawn in like a man stuffed in a coffin or standing at attention. I tried standing but fell to all fours. I vomited, almost screamed.
Nothing giggled. Something smiles.
I drag myself to a tree. I lay panting like a horse, imagining the branches will shade me no matter the position of the sun. The mountains loom across the highway. A sash of fog twists and disappears before I notice it’s disappearing. More peaks appear and I watch the Andes extend her spine of fire down the hips of South America. Her green, thick forests — I do scream now. And laugh and laugh. Even the birds on the powerlines quit their idiot quarrels and join in, cocking their heads.
I pick up the sideview mirror and check my face. No cuts or marks. I toss aside the chaps, the leather jacket I bought at Otavalo, and thank the cows for preventing the asphalt from grinding me to pieces. The bike’s tangled in some brush like a shattered monster. I leave it. Motorcycles are supposed to fit into this storied future of automated vehicles. I don’t understand how. I guess data has agency; history would have told my bike what to do.
I repack my bag and start walking along the highway, halfway there, always, like Achilles racing the hare. The insects rattle with their hallucinations and I can feel the Amazon expand below me. I let a ride pass, two, four, seven and finally accept one from Pilar Tapia. The other drivers seemed boring, but her backseat’s filled with avocados. Boxes and boxes. She tells me to help myself.
