Sometimes he pictures himself being interviewed. He floats across from a composite interviewer the result of thousands of hours of online videos. The interviewer’s question that prompts his last words—What does it feel like to ride?
In reality, he feels nothing because he’s suspended in midair having been launched from the saddle of his motorcycle. In these few seconds of hangtime his legs are knocked crossed by impact with the handlebars and he tents his fingers. I have never had a mechanical mind he digresses. I work on computers for a living but very much on them rather than inside. I never open the box. I’m better at what I do than ninetynine percent of people but if I were asked to repair a machine’s hardware I would fail. That’s what made the motorcycle so attractive. A blue Honda from fifty years ago. Something like three thousand miles on it. It seemed so simple to fix up—its tires rotted the paint chipped and only one mirror intact but when I visited the listing the engine started up immediately. I trusted the kid—that was my problem.
Wait a second his interviewer asks—The kid did all the previous work himself?
Old Hondas are simple machines. There are hundreds of videos online. I pressed the starter and the engine took to life—I didn’t yet know to check if it was hot. Who cares if the headlight didn’t light? Candy Sapphire Blue was doublestriped with orange and black running down the line between the tank and sidecovers. I was free. See my right shoe? By the time I handed over my cash and got the bike to forty it started sputtering. Oil streamed down my pantleg and stained the white leather deep yellow. I had to park it till I found somebody with the right tools to drill a broken bolt. If only I had bought the tools myself. Videos online show men with chestlength beards pushing junkyard frames into their garages packed with hardware. Bald men. Men with neck tattoos. Or else men with expensive jackets and programmer’s humor that makes you think they hate women.
Would you say a particular demographic of man is attracted to motorcycles?
I’ll say this—on my second trip to the bike shop they asked if I had caved yet and bought a ratchet set. I recognize now (twigs slice red marks across his cheeks as he strokes his chin philosophically) that a ratchet set would have been less an indulgence than a safeguard. I should have noticed the mounting bolts all rubbed down to rings. The throttle cable that rattled loose on idle. The muffler flanges twisted loose. To answer your question, this particular demographic of man doesn’t say goodbye. He warns you to look out for cars. But once I replaced the headlight I didn’t have to be watchful—I could fly free. I hummed through midnight air on Sundays when there’s no cars on the street. Moonlight reflected over the river and bended around curve after curve road after road. The feeling of freedom pressed me to throttle it faster until the sole of my shoe scuffed the ground. I laughed at the impossibility. I work in tech!
The interviewer shakes his head. It’s time to go he says. It’s been time to go for a while now. You’ve accomplished more in your lifetime than ninetynine percent of people. Why did you call me here? What is it about people like you that’s so concerned with setting yourselves apart?
The words of the interviewer rattle through his mind. In fixing up the bike he once tightened the axlemount by crescent wrench (never having bought a ratchet set) and unknowingly lost the pin that secured it in place. One corner at twenty miles over and the bolt shook loose dropping the front end down to the asphalt. Rain of fire jumps from the scuttling forks. What is it about people like him? People like him? He soars through the air Candy Sapphire Blue between spectating trees and he wants to answer the interviewer’s question but his brain goes white with oxygen. He’s hyperventilating. One final breath before he utters his last words—but they’re lost in a crash of chrome and timber.
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Josh Boardman is from Michigan. He is the author of the chapbook Plantain (West Vine Press, 2018) and conducted the Latin translation project We, Romans (2015). His stories have appeared in journals such as New York Tyrant, Juked, and Catapult. Since 2021, he has been a partner of the Gilliam Writers Group, a coaching and tutoring organization aimed at elevating aspiring writers. He lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan, where he is working on his first novel and a collection of stories about his hometown. joshboardman.com