Life From Scratch (27 page)

One afternoon a cherry-red motorcycle slid past my car. I remembered the freedom I’d felt on the back of Greg’s motorcycle:
Why should I have to be on the back of someone else’s bike to capture that lovely abandon?

So one day at work, instead of researching new pizza crust flavors, I holed up in my cubicle and Googled Tulsa-area motorcycle clubs. The first result was Tulsa Sportbike Riders. The tagline read: “Riding’s more fun when there’s more than one.”

Perfect.

I showed up at the very next event, a meet and greet at a local motorcycle shop. I half-expected to find a group of punks doing wheelies in the parking lot, but all I saw were silver-haired fathers and grandfathers, apple-bottomed mothers and grandmothers. Despite the weather (98°F, 50 percent humidity), everyone sported tall boots and thick leather jackets. They eyed me with mild curiosity as I exited my car.

Inside a brassy voice asked, “Where’s your bike?” I whipped around to find a fleshy woman with long, silver hair looking me squarely in the eyes.

“I’m still figuring out what I want to get,” I replied, “I’m new in town. My name’s Sasha.” I held out my hand.

The woman tilted her head to the side and scanned me from top to bottom, considering my pigtails and torn jeans. “I’m Leona. Have you ridden before?”

I shook my head slowly. “I’ve taken lessons. I was thinking of getting an SV 750. My ex-boyfriend had one.”

“Honey, that’s much too big of a bike for the likes of you. You only need a 250cc engine if you’ve never been on the road. Unless, of course, you have a death wish …”

She didn’t say the words unkindly, but they popped out with just enough snarl that I took a half step back. A few other riders perked up, and soon I was surrounded by a living, breathing public service announcement for wearing my helmet, gloves, and boots.

“You all are so responsible,” I joked, overwhelmed by the depth of instruction they were giving me. Maybe this wasn’t the best place to find my freedom after all.

“He wouldn’t have it any other way,” the woman chortled, her enormous bosom shaking like a semi on a gravel road. She jerked her thumb toward the corner by the door at a quiet man with salt-and-pepper hair, nineties “dad” jeans, and a black leather jacket. He was of average height, husky in the middle, with broad shoulders that looked like they could row a boat to Timbuktu and back.

I leaned to the side, trying to make out his face. But just then he walked out the door, popped on his helmet, and revved up his bike. I expected him to crack open the throttle, but he zipped smoothly down the road, several of the lounging riders waving to him as he passed.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“Keith Martin, the founder of our club.”

The idea that this dowdy man had started a motorcycle group tickled me. “Doesn’t this go for another two hours? He’s leaving kind of early if he’s the founder.”

Leona leaned closer but didn’t lower her voice. “One of the riders went down on a group ride earlier today. It’s no big deal, a little road rash … but he always makes it a point to go by the hospital whenever something like that happens.”

Two months earlier, the words “nice guy” might have piqued my interest. I might have asked more about him. I might have made sure I sat near him at the next gathering. But I was done letting guys fix me.

With Leona’s advice and encouragement, I purchased a perfectly safe 250cc yellow-and-black Kawasaki for $900. I had no idea how I’d get it back to the CIA in a few months, but I wasn’t looking that far ahead.

I rode every day; under the hot sun, in the thundering rain, through the fog. The hush and gush of wind in my helmet lulled me. The rain purified me. The scent of warm engine and gasoline clung to my skin even at night. I loved how Oklahoma roads kept going, a straightforward grid stretching farther and farther into the grassy horizon.

There was no reason to stop—ever. I drank in the rushing humidity the same way I drank in the breeze on the swing in Jamaica Plain, insatiably. Some days I rode on my own, but mostly I rode with whomever wanted to get away for a while.

There was no shortage of takers. Weeknights, we prowled highway on-ramps and giant country sweepers at 90 miles an hour. Weekends, we nosed around the foothills of western Arkansas about an hour away. For big trips, Keith and his buddies led the pack, a few miles ahead of the rest of us. By the time I’d roll into the scheduled pit stops, they’d be pulling out.

I asked Leona about it.

“Those guys aren’t here to socialize at pit stops. They’re here to
ride
. They go to the racetrack. They
practice
, work the corners, rub the pavement like erasers.” She looked at me with a knowing grin. “Don’t even think about trying to keep up with those guys.”

I laughed. “To be honest, I’m too chicken to ride on the track.”

“Hate to break your heart, honey, but you couldn’t even if you wanted to. You don’t have full leathers and a back protector.”

The thought made me chuckle. “I’d look like Iron Man.”

“You’d be safe.”

Halfway through my internship, Mom phoned to find out how things were going.

“You got a motorcycle?” I could hear her exasperation through the phone line.

“Don’t worry, I wear my helmet.”

“What on earth for?” she gasped. “You’ll never feel the wind in your hair with a helmet in the way.”

“Oh … I thought you’d be happy …” I began, confused. “You know—that I’m keeping my brain safe.”

“You don’t need a helmet to keep safe, Sasha. That’s a false sense of security—it takes the reality of the situation away. Without a helmet you have no choice but to respect the road. Pace yourself a little more. Trust me, I know,” Mom said. Then she paused: “How are you going to get your bike back to New York?”

I looked around my yawning apartment, no more furnished than the day I’d arrived. I spotted the bumblebee yellow of my bike outside the front window and smiled.

“I don’t think I want to come back.”

“Do you mean to cooking school?”

“I—I don’t know. The CIA’s great and all, but I feel happy here, Mom. Like … I’ve found my footing. If I can find a job before Christmas, I think I’m just going to stay.”

I hadn’t planned to say the words, but there they were. Going back to school felt wrong, especially considering that it would use up the last of Michael’s precious money. And I didn’t want to leave Tulsa. The checkerboard roads and flat terrain were plainer and less exciting than anywhere else I’d ever lived. And yet this honest, sunburned land fed me exactly what I needed: my own space, a place to run, ride, to move through the pain to the other side. Tulsa held me when I needed holding.

“Does that make me a failure, not to finish school?” I asked Mom.

“Maybe to some people—but you know what, Sash? The better part of wisdom is turning a failure into victory. You have to complete the transition.”

I chuckled at her dramatic choice of words. “What do you mean?”

“You’re almost out of the fire, Sasha. Now you have to learn what it is to be a ph—” she cut herself short.

“A phoenix?”

“You just have to unfold your wings and fly.”

I met Leona at Eddy’s Wings to tell her the news: I was staying. As we munched on a platter of spicy chicken, Keith walked in.

“Hey, I want to introduce you,” Leona called across the small restaurant. She jerked her chin in my direction.

Keith walked over to our table and smiled. “I’ve seen you on some of the group rides.” He reached over to shake my hand. As his fingers touched my wrist, I looked into his eyes for the first time. A flash of something—a snippet of a scene as real as any memory—bowled me over. I was several years older, sitting in a darkened office, working side by side on a website with this man. The computer screen glowed blue on our faces. Somehow I knew it was our office. I knew we had a life together—a home.

Now you’ve really lost it
, I thought. You’ve been single way too long.

I blushed. Keith smiled deeper, his eyes softening. They were dove gray, his gaze cashmere.

“Nice to meet you.”

His words stretched out in a smooth southern drawl. I felt a settling, a natural comfort take root deep within me. I snapped my hand back quickly.

“I thought you two kids would make nice friends,” Leona said.

“It only takes a smile to make a friend,” he beamed.

When I glanced down at Keith’s mouth, I noticed fine white scars along the upper part of his lip, just under his goatee, like the stitching on a rag doll. I looked back up quickly, embarrassed to have stared.

“Mine’s a little broken,” he acknowledged, tracing his finger across the scars.

“What happened?”

“I was 14, tooling around on my minibike out in the country about a quarter mile from my parents’ house. A huge dog came after me. I lost control and turned the bike too hard. The gravel road ate my face.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “They found me walking in a daze, covered in blood, headed the wrong way from the house. I ended up in the hospital for two weeks because I let fear get the best of me. They had to completely reconstruct my upper lip. My whole face looked like a smashed tomato. Not exactly the best way to start high school.”

“They did a great job,” I said. “I’m amazed you still ride.”

“I have dogs, too.” He laughed. “Small ones.”

He was a head taller than me, with a round face, arched eyebrows, and those gorgeous, half-moon eyes. He looked shockingly like Billy Ray Cyrus. I told him as much.

“You should see my high school picture. Our mullets were twins, separated at birth.” We laughed.

“Thank God the eighties are over,” I said.

Twenty years had removed all traces of Keith’s mullet; silver threatened to edge out his clipped brown hair. His goatee was completely white. From the side, his nose was straight. From the front, it looked more Roman. I found myself resting my eyes again and again on his. It felt curiously like coming home. But I dismissed the sensation.

A few minutes later, a young guy walked up to Keith’s side. He had shaggy brown hair, a round, baby face, and the most enormous feet I’d ever seen. “This is my son, Ryan,” Keith said, putting his hand on the boy’s back. They were the same height.

I nodded to Ryan, smiling vaguely. I looked down at Keith’s hand; a gold band traced along his ring finger. After more pleasantries, I pulled Leona aside.

“He’s married … with a teenage son?”

“Son, yes, but married? No. He wears that ring just because. He’s dating Ryan’s mother. They
were
married—for eight years, I think—but divorced. He married someone else for a couple of years, and now he’s dating Ryan’s mom again.”

She looked me over, smiled knowingly, and then added: “His love life would give
The Young and the Restless
a run for their money.”

Keith and Ryan went outside to look over the line of motorcycles. Keith ruffled Ryan’s mop. I smiled. He looked like a good father.

“How old is he?” I asked Leona.

“He had Ryan three days before he turned 20; he’s 35.”

And I’m 26
, I thought. All logic told me I should be alarmed, but every time I looked in his direction, a curious sense of peace washed over me.