On April 15, 2006, I was taught a lesson about life which was unexpected but extremely valuable.  It was a beautiful day with blue skies, and a great day for a ride.

I was at home recovering from a hangover, which I would do solitarily and with much guilt all too often.

“I’m coming to pick you up,” he said, when he called.

“No.”
“I miss my buddy.”

“No, not today,” I said, “I don’t feel well.”
 “Ok.”
 

Silence.  I looked out the window and saw my ex-boyfriend, Mark, speaking with my brother.  They were laughing and chatting about something.  My self-importance thought it was about me and I called Tony back.

“Ok, come pick me up.”

I didn’t realize at the time that the decision to go with him that day would be so monumental to me. I quickly dressed in a long brown skirt, white shirt with a brown jacket, and a hat. I fixed my face up with some make-up. I checked myself quickly in the mirror, and after a few minutes, I heard the rumble of the motorcycle Tony had built himself. It was loud like him.

I ran downstairs and hopped on the back of the bike. I looked to see if Mark was watching and felt satisfied with his expression; however I felt instantly insecure about the long skirt. I knew better than to wear this on the bike. I gave Mark a smile and a wave and Tony and I rode off loudly down familiar streets free and warm in the wind and sun.  I remember seeing another man riding on his motorcycle and noticed his kickstand was down. We honked and motioned to him and he tipped his head in thanks and gave us the low wave that bikers do.  It would be dangerous on a curved road I thought. 

It was early in the afternoon and we rode all over the beautiful back streets of Fairfield County, CT.  We went up and down winding streets and frequently we would stop at places alongside the road or near beaches we knew and take a break.   Every now and again, we would stop at a bar and drink a beer and talk.
He accepted my foolishness and I reminded him of his weaknesses. We complimented each other well and although he’d known me for many years we had only just become close over the past year.  I would spend  nights crying on his big chest and spewing my silly thoughts and worries onto him,  knowing that he would take me against his large body and into his gruff hands and call me a ‘‘pudding of a woman,’’  and tell me to “smarten up.” At the same time he would caress my hair and sooth my spirit.  It was easy, consistent and strong. I was harsh too when he spoke of his exploits.  Bar fights and other shenanigans that men his size got into.   I would look up at him (for all who knew him could only look up, he was larger than life in body and spirit) and call him a puss. Not a lot of people could do that, for he was a large biker and words like that towards him meant mean business.  He’d laugh and call me cute.

Over dinner that evening, after all of our riding and laughing and talking he told me he was proud of me. He told me I was good, although my personal guilt’s made me feel less than.  After dinner we met up with a couple of other biker friends and watched the sun set over the beaches as we rode past them.  It was late and I was getting ready to go to his house and do our ritual of snuggling and holding and confiding. Something we only did alone.  I gave a bright smile to our fellow riders and we mounted his bike for the last time. He gave me a kiss before we rode, which was unusual for us. I believed it to be the spirit of the day at the time.  I remember his soft lips touching mine, and we both smiled big and mischievously as our friends watched. 

“Let’s go home,” I said, but he had one more place to be and so we rode on. 

“Can you make sure they are still following us?” He said

 

As I turned my head the impact hit fully and I was in the air still lingering in the thought that “yes, they were still behind us.”  

I hit the road hard and on my hands and knees. I lay quite still for a moment; I could feel the grains of pavement on my hands and smell the hot tar. I heard a car screech to a halt and then popped up to my feet.  “How did I get here?”  My frantic mind thought as I turned around and saw the bike in pieces. “Tony is going to kill whoever did this to his bike,” was my first thought and then, “why am I so far away?”  I ran to him and noticed I was limping slightly and my neck hurt but it didn’t matter.

I approached the scene, and a scene it was!   Many people were gathering around speaking quietly to each other. Curious strangers in awe of our dilemma were staring at our sorrow pleased they were on the outside.  I lost myself completely and ran up to Tony who was lying flat on the pavement of the Boston Post Road, a busy street even at that time of night.  I knelt beside him and frantically looked around for our friends who were nearby and making phone calls. “Who could they be calling now?”  I thought stupidly.

 
I saw his blank stare and I looked down to see his beautiful blue eyes staring at the sky.  This gaze,  which would later haunt my dreams, then only proved to me that he  must be alive to stare so intently at the sky,  as if to ponder its’  greatness.

I said his name again and again and again.  I wouldn’t let anyone near him as if to say, “Wait, stand back!  Only I can raise him from this cold dark road. You see, he had told me a hundred times on nights just  like that,  that I alone knew him truly.”  I was so self- absorbed and he would have laughed at me if only he could get up. I reached down to his leather jacket; perhaps I can hear his heart.  As I open the wetness, I could see something glowing and wonder what it was. I realized quickly it’s a bone and I looked at his face again and whispered “Oh god, they can’t help you.” I say this again and again and although I was saying those words, I believed the contrary. I didn’t believe what I was seeing or saying or thinking because we must be on the road somewhere ahead still riding and feeling the wind through our hair. I closed his jacket and waited forever for the ambulance to arrive.

The team of two quickly assessed the situation and picked him up and took him away. I asked if I could ride with him but they wouldn’t let me. I was asked many questions by someone and one of our friends told them that I was on the back of the bike.

I’m immediately rushed to another ambulance and I resist wholeheartedly telling them that I’m fine but need to go with Tony. They didn’t understand and I tried to explain to them as they strapped me up and attempted to put an IV into my hand.  He’s my friend, he was the only one who knew me and this was not ok and needed to stop. They would nod a lot to me and mention shock. I wished they would leave my hand alone and I fought with them throughout the ride. They never get a chance to put a needle into me before we arrived at the hospital.

I sat in a hospital bed and asked everyone I saw who passed by if they knew if Tony was ok.  I asked if I could see and talk to him. It was getting late, and I was afraid that we would be too tired to snuggle and confide in each other if we were here too long with this nonsense.
 A priest came in. A priest of all people!  I didn’t need a priest, I needed a friend. I needed my friend. He tells me what I already knew but couldn’t face.  Tony was dead and my mind suddenly hit a wall.

How could he be dead? We were just talking a little while ago. He had just kissed me and smiled and we laughed and talked all day. I needed to get out of there. I took my IV out and briefly contemplated when they had gotten it in. How sneaky.  

I left the building after calling Mark to pick me up. I go to his house and finally had a moment to myself.  In his cold bathroom I sat on the toilet and looked at my hands. They were covered in blood. I stared at my hands, forever covered in the blood that should have been in the veins of my friend who was still riding.
I will always wonder what would have happened if I had decided not to go with him that day.  I am humbled. I am stronger and more vulnerable, afraid and fearless. Open and closed.