FICTION | LITERARY | AMERICANA | RELATIONSHIPS
When the Ride is Over
“Sometimes it can’t be understood at all, just seen”
The sun is just starting to set as we crest the hill, spilling red and orange light over everything. It’s still light enough for me to keep my sun visor down, for now. I can sense Jade behind me, hear the wind grabbing at her jacket. She’s holding onto the rear handles, not me. I remember every time we’ve ridden this route, how it felt to have her hold onto me, hands around my waist.
We’ve done this route so many times, I barely need to think about it. Keep the throttle at sixty, scan for potholes, debris, roadkill. The leather seat under me is just starting to cool after the day’s heat. It’s been a strange autumn, full of warm days like today. The leaves have lasted longer than they should, and I’m glad. Autumn has always been my favorite time, especially in the Midwest. You ride down old country roads like this one, and the colors explode all around you, saturating your vision. Yellow, bright as dawn. Bonfire orange. Red, like the blood of the trees.
Jade shifts behind me, and my thoughts go back to her. I remember how she looked that first day, at the gallery. I’ve never met anyone who appreciated abstract art that way. Most people like it for its oddness or color, but Jade could see it. Really see it, look through the strangeness and right into the emotion behind. Feel what it evoked in her. And understand that sometimes it can’t be understood at all, just seen.
I love her more than anyone, and I know she’s going to leave me.
The bike under us is a 2002 Kawasaki Vulcan 800. Black as Jade’s hair, with bright chrome accents. I’ve had it five years, long enough to know every inch of it. Over that time I’ve replaced gauges, upgraded lights, cleaned and tuned everything a hundred times..
The Vulcan is solid, battle-tested. It gets me where I need to go and lasts through everything the road throws at it. I can put it to bed for the night and know it will start as soon as I come back the next day. It’s tough, sturdy, dependable. That’s enough for me.
Jade’s bike is a 2006 GSXR Katana, bright white. She’s had it for as long as I’ve known her. It’s a 650, less powerful than the Vulcan but more nimble. She loves everything about it, from the way it handles to the aggression of the engine. I’ve watched her drag race down East Washington a hundred times, winning usually. She’s never been ticketed, as far as I know. A woman like her, of course she hasn’t.
When the ride is over, she’s going to leave. I doubt I’ll see her again. I’ve known for almost a week, but part of me couldn’t process it. Jade is everything I’ve ever wanted. I guess that’s why it can’t last.
We’ve got about ten miles left of a nearly sixty-mile ride. I’ve always loved these long rides through the country. You can get a feel for the land, be a part of it. The roads are trash, but so what? It feels authentic, a taste of how things were before the world got so small.
Jade has always liked short rides, hard and fast, pushing the bike to its limit. She loves the feel of the wind grabbing her. She’ll flatten out until she’s almost molded to the bike, taking each turn tighter than the last, daring the road to stop her.
You can’t do much of that on these backcountry roads. Too many steep curves, potholes, shallow shoulders.
We round another bend, and I see the lights of town ahead, coming out against the gathering dusk. LED stars in a dusty galaxy of orange and brown. I wonder what I’m going to do. Now that this is finally here, I’m still not ready. I guess that’s the difference between us. Jade is ready for everything, all the time.
What drew her to me that first afternoon? The painting was geometric, all squared-off angles in different colors. All in a pattern, except for the center. The lines there wavered. They thinned and wobbled until they melded together, and you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. The chaos of it stood out against the rest.
“What do you think he’s trying to say there?”
I hadn’t noticed her walk up to me. My breath caught for a second, and I fumbled for something to answer. “Something about inner struggle?”
She smiled, and I still remember how it caught the light. She pointed just to the right of the painting’s center. A slash of white cut through the colors, running from the upper right corner of the canvas to the lower left. After the slash, the geometric pattern continued, just like before. The chaotic one worked its way to the lower right, off the edge.
“I think it’s about order and chaos,” she said. “When something practical meets something wild, unbroken.”
I nodded, slowly. “Eventually it sorts itself out,” I said. “They blend for a while, and end up apart again. Just going on, the way they were before.”
She smiled again. “Exactly.”
I can still feel how she felt that night after dinner, dropping her off at her apartment downtown, and I can still smell her cinnamon perfume. I’ll remember that kiss a long time.
I’m caught up in the memory, and we reach the four-way stop too fast. I have to hit the brakes harder than I should, and Jade spills forward a little into my back. There’s no else at the intersection, and we both pause for a minute to catch our breath. Then I feel her hand on my shoulder. One quick squeeze, with all the strength I remember. Then it’s gone.
We turn into my driveway, and I put the kickstand down and shut off the bike.
The ride is over.
