Geoff

It feels like the way it should feel, strapping on the helmet, slapping down the visor and pulling on the well worn leather gloves. They say road rash hurts a lot, and they never lied. I have fallen so many times on this bike and was almost killed once when I skidded on a pool of oil in the middle of the highway. Each time, he had been there to help me up, to guide me as I safely steer my scratched up bike back on the road. I love the feel of the wind breezing through the tips of my hair not under the helmet, the freedom of riding this road to the end at unhampered speeds. I feel light riding this bike, almost as if the wheels were not touching the ground. Almost as if we were borne on wings. It gets claustrophobic under the helmet sometimes and the visor decreases visibility as much as lab goggles sometimes do.

Riding behind him was the best thing. He would show me where to go, which paths to take, the numerous paths he had taken. Each road sign was a directory to what lay ahead, each unfamiliar city name a little hint of how far we were from home. Going down this road again was a blast of nostalgia from the past, our shared past. The rough mornings spent parked alongside some foreign country road, mugs of watery coffee in our hands. Our gloves taken off briefly so we could flex our fingers and sometimes steal a quick clasp of the hand before we look away and pretend nothing had happened. Those were the moments I had lived for, anything to see if he had felt the same way, but he was always so distant, a guide, but not a companion. 

He had given me the map but not the legend. The dots and squiggles were meaningless to me without him. Maybe he felt it was time I figured it out for myself. The truth was, I had never ridden beside him. He had never even seen me ride.