The last ride

The last ride.

The day was good. I was up and out of bed early. I showered and went out for coffee. I was on my motorbike. It’s slick and low and loud. I wore my boots with no socks. Black denim jeans. A red t-shirt with a hole over my left shoulder. I stuffed my Batman baseball cap into my belt. And I was on the road. The sun roamed high above and paid little attention to me. It’s been a long while since I’ve taken The Beast out for a ride. The road was mostly empty and clear and made way for The Beast and I to get reacquainted. I needed to be on the bike this morning. I needed the road. I needed the sound of the engine and the wind rushing into my helmet. I needed the solitude. The idea of escape before the last ride.

I’d spent the day riding out and into the path of the sun. I rode till I tired and pulled over somewhere out in the desert for a bite. I ate and drank beer and Irish whiskey till I fell asleep in the booth. The waitress nudged me awake. She told me that she let me snooze as long as she could, but her boss wanted me up and out. And when I climbed back on The Beast, it was dusk. The ride home was good. There was more traffic than before, but the sky was orange, grey and purple as I rode back into the west.

I rumbled up the driveway and parked the bike. I pulled off my helmet and poured myself a drink. The cat pawed at the screen door as I peeled open his dinner and tapped it out onto his plate. On the back porch, he purred as he ate. I poured another drink. I sat at my desk, my feet still in my boots and resting on the t.v. tray. My notebook on my lap. And I know I will be alright.

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About magnumturtle

I write fiction.
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