lindsay erdman

motorcycles and the zen of motherhood

This is how we like to end our nights.

I can feel her tiny cheek pressed against my bent back. Her dangling foot gently kicks at my calf. She grows quiet at the lulling patterns of red brake lights. It’s better than a song, or a gentle kiss. We’re out for a night ride, just she and I. Our helmets don’t fit but the belt that tethers her to my waist is strong. We rarely speak, which is unusual for her. She’s been an orator since she could stand. All that we utter is an occasional noise. It comes from my horn, or her mouth, or the bikes that pass. I squeeze her tiny frame to make sure she’s still there. She is. The damp air is humid and it sticks to our hair.

This is what families do at night. They ride because gasoline is cheap and so are the thrills. I make our rides last because there’s no one at home. He’s out again. Now, it’s just us, but she’s too young to know that. I take the underpass and decide to roam. We pass fragrant flowers and a river at the bend. There are forgotten souls in the shadows of the bridge.

 “Keep going!” she says, “Please don’t let it end.” Her voice is tiny but concise. I keep driving over the metal bridge. We hold each other and our breath tightly until we reach the other side. Single headlights slightly drift to make room for others.

The water beneath us is black and high. It reflects the moon and the polluted sky. There are still small dinghies out there. Lonely men in shorts and hats watch the small dinghies below. Under the starless canopy, they can hide their wounds. 

We wind past the vendors of fish and fruit. Women camouflaged amongst their wares. Bright halogen lamps burn like torches fed by black wires.

I can see her in the mirror, looking awake and astute. She will only remember parts of this life when we have left for good. Her memories will be triggered by ripe fruit and muffler hums. She is made from wandering stock, the fearless kind. 

I reach our place and I  start  to  slow  down,  but  she continues to egg me on.  “Go, mummy, go!” she pleads. How I wish I could. This is what it feels like when the going is good. I will keep going, but not like this. On our next ride, there will be planes and time zones and explanations to give.