"I accelerate. It won't be enough. She's already in the turn, her purple bike and black armor blending to a deep maroon as she speeds through the curve."
--I'll be 37 in a month. I didn't get the bug until a few months ago. When I'm long in the tooth and the reflexes are not what they used to be. But I preserver. I succeed because I work hard and long. But, as they say, it's been a long strange trip.
I've never been one for taking chances. Always played it safe. Checked and doubled checked my facts and figures before acting. Made the logical choices over the emotional ones. Then along comes 36 - past halfway to 40 and I ask myself why? What's the use of playing it safe all the time? What prize do they give for that? Dying old and senile in a home? Joy.
The she came along. Sexy black leather and signature purple bike. A bike more her lover than any man would ever be. Wedded in a bond stronger than any simple contracts of church and state.--
"I get the bike into the turn, pushing it over as far as I dare. It's not enough and I go wide. Look through the corner and see her rushing away - pushing the bike in the straightaway. If I'm going to catch her - I've got to be faster, risk more."
--She's my first real risk. She entices me. Her eyes dance with a fire that entrances and draws me in. A moth and a flame have nothing on she and I. Everything about her is magic. It is from her I learn that life can be far more interesting than I've lived it. She proves that there are chances well worth taking.--
"The next curve. She's already gone and I'm afraid. I can't make that turn. Not at this speed. Sweat builds under my black armor. Beneath my legs, my steed of steel - cloaked in deepest blue - protests my weakness. I close my eyes for a millionth of a second and then lean the bike over. Sparks fly from beneath my boot and a peg collapses, slamming home against the frame."
--But, such things rarely last, only in bad Disney movies and cheesy romance novels. It always ends in savage emotions and foolish words. But it does not end in regret. Life is about the spaces in-between. What's the use of trying to be the last one standing? The fun's in the journey - not it's length and definitely not it's end.--
"I come out of the turn gunning but it's too late. She's a distant streak. I hesitated and the game is lost. She rides a line I cannot follow. I brake and slow, watching her become a dot on the distant horizon."
--Perhaps the woman and the bike are a metaphor for the perfect life. I'll never catch her. But I can try.--
[ send green star]