The Ride
I walked over to Pier 84, shiny new motorcycle license in hand. I spent some time staring at the massive Intrepid aircraft carrier.
Despite being an inanimate object forged out of 24,580 tons of metal for the express purpose of sending aircraft off to war, the ship had a soothing presence. Reassuring. It told me that I could go off to battle and come out okay on the other side.
After my commune with the Intrepid, I walked over to the parking lot near Kraft Diner. The attendant recognized me.
“Hey, John Diamond’s kid. Michael, is it?”
“Yeah. I, uh, just got my license, so I thought I’d take my bike for a little spin.”
“He doesn’t want to be here when you first take it out?” He eyed me suspiciously.
“Yeah, he wanted to. But you know, work. Always work.”
“Keepin’ our streets safe, huh?”
“Always,” I smiled. “Hey, thanks for getting her road-worthy.”
“She’s been here as long as I have, kid. But that’s a badass vehicle you’ve got. You take care of her and she’ll take care of you. And don’t forget your helmet!”
I slipped the dusty helmet on and mounted the bike.
There were years when Cullinan and I would bike all over the city, regardless of the traffic, ignorant of the danger. They say a lot of things are like riding a bike. Learning to ride a motorcycle is a little different.
Still, I only tipped over once on the way out of the parking lot. That felt like a small victory. I tipped over twice on my way to the Lincoln Tunnel - ahead of rush hour traffic. Once I hit the open highway in New Jersey, I was doing okay, heading south.
I drove straight through Philadelphia, into Baltimore before the sun set. It got dark and I got hungry as I hit Virginia and went through to North Carolina.
I had been stopping for gas along the way. I was quickly depleting the bankroll I’d built up by playing poker and hearts with my friends, but I figured I could spare a few bucks for some chips and salsa. Breakfast of champions.
Sticking to I-95 did me well. I pushed the speed limit, occasionally gunning it up to 100 MPH on the flat open stretches with no hills, bushes, or curves to hide speed traps.
Rolling through South Carolina, I took a slight detour as I hit Savannah. The pull of the ocean, the scent of the salt water. I watched the sun rise over a boardwalk, and polished off my chips and salsa.
The fresh light reminded me of the lost night of sleep. The irony and fatigue hit me as I hit the road again.
I managed to survive Georgia and get through Jacksonville before I wiped out. No broken bones, but I lost a lot of skin on my right side. It would scab up and eventually heal, but the remainder of the trip was more than a little uncomfortable.
Still, I got back on the bike and continued my journey until, finally, I rolled to a stop outside Miami.