Pulling into the station

February 12, 2004

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I have a love / hate relationship with motorcycles. When I'm on the freeway, sitting in traffic, I hate the guys on the Kawasakis who come flying up between cars. I hate the little ones that look like they should be on a speedway instead of on a street. I hate how careless some drivers are on two wheels. I hate seeing flashy jackets and pants, but no helmet. I hate the high whine of their throttle.

But I love a good ol' Harley.

When I was growing up, I didn't know that there were other brands besides Harley and Honda (my poppa had a Honda briefly when I was really little). I could pick out a Harley's unique sound from blocks away. I didn't go over to Ralph and Sandy's without passing by his beloved Harley, or one that belonged to a friend in his group. You just had an awe and respect for the hog and that's all there was to it. You didn't touch it unless you asked, you didn't beg to ride on it unless there was a helmet to fit your head, and you certainly didn't call a Kawasaki a real motorcycle.

We're coming up on another anniversary of Ralph's accident. I was thinking about it the other night, and it was the first time I didn't cry painful tears for him. Oh don't get me wrong, I cried, but it wasn't from being hurt and torn up inside. It was a good, healthy cry.

I'll always remember my mom rushing down the hall... "Ralph's in the hospital, there was an accident, I'm going to the hospital..." It was early in the morning. There'd been tumbles on the bike before, so I didn't panic. Mom told me to go on to school, she'd call me later. It was my first spring semester at college. I had newspaper writing in the afternoon. I called mom from the student lounge and she said it wasn't good. I ditched out of class and drove as fast as my old Ford could take me to the hospital. The waiting room just inside the hospital doors was full of familiar faces - Sandy's family, buddies from the group they rode with, neighbors, my mom... Josh was up on the roof with Nate. Mom led me through the hallways, into the ICU, through the second waiting room. His family was in that room, crying, passing rosary beads back and forth, wailing in spanglish. We went into his room. Sandy was there, her arm in a sling from being hit by the car as she ran to Ralph laying on the road. I didn't know the man in the bed there. That wasn't him. I only went back in twice more - once to get Josh, and once to say good-bye. I spent a lot of time in the chapel downstairs - it was quiet in there, save for the occational sniffle from someone else. We slept on the waiting room chairs, we ate shitty hospital food. I went home and got changes of clothes for mom - she only left to pick someone up or go get food if someone shoved her out the door with wads of money in her hand.

He wasn't my uncle, he wasn't my dad. But he was always there - if you look in our photo albums, there's always Ralph. He and dad were best friends in high school, so when my parents got married... It was normal for the six of us to go do things - Mom, dad, Ralph, Sandy, Josh, and me. Sometimes I really did wonder if they were family and someone just forgot to tell me. Ralph coached and encouraged me when I played sports - track was our common interest. (He was a track star in school - our track coach came to his funeral.) After my parents split, I saw more of him than I saw of my own dad. He helped me with homework, he picked me up from school when I got sick, he was there for my graduation. So when they finally pulled the plugs on the life support, I felt like I lost one of my dads.

Sandy was a big mess for a long time after that. Josh graduated high school a couple months later. We all just hovered in time - numb. No one sat in his recliner, no one used his things. His side of the bed didn't get made, his mess in the garage didn't get cleaned up. The bike had to go, though - the mangled body lay in the garage until someone could take it away. I had started working for Hallmark by then. We received in our boxes of the new products and Pat had me unpack them and get them out onto the display rack by the register. In my whole 3 years working for Four Seasons Gifts, that was the only display I ever refused to do. It was the new line of Harley Davidson products. I closed the box, shoved it at a very confused Travis and locked myself in the bathroom.

After a while, the sound of someone riding by your house doesn't make your skin crawl. I stopped turning the other way when a bike would come close to me on the road. I still yell at the ones who drive dangerously, though, but I don't tell them they've signed their own death warrants. I can even drive down the frontage road here in Rohnert Park - the one that goes right by the Harley shop.

Hard ride for #400, huh? The reason will make sense soon enough, I promise. I just needed to give my love / hate realtionship some attention before I get into the reason.

Oh and by the way... My folks? Married for 30 years this year. My mom asked me if she should send my dad an anniversary card at Sandra's house. But she said it without bitterness this time. I think things are settling down in that respect.

Number 400... read it 'n weep (literally, sorry) stopped here at 4:29 p.m.

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