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BOYFRIEND WITH A MOTORCYCLE


HARLEY DAVIDSON

           
           The only thing Mom didn’t like about David was his motorcycle.
          “Gloria, I do not want you on that cycle!  Now, I have told you before how dangerous they are.  When you were only two years old, Tommy Terrell came by the house in Magdalena, and took me for a ride on his motorcycle.  We were going to take you with us and then I decided not to.  Thank God we didn’t or you would have been killed!”
          I knew the story well; the motorcycle had collided with a car.  Mom had been thrown from the bike and suffered a concussion, which put her in the hospital for weeks.  Her friend had walked away with minor injuries.

          David drove up to the curb, sitting on the seat of his black Harley Davidson.   I was standing in line for the school bus.
          “Want a ride home?” he yelled.  His green eyes sparkled good naturedly and he smiled his cocky grin.  I looked over at him, and then at the bus.  It wasn’t hard to decide.
          “Okay, but you’ll have to leave me off at the corner or Mom will have a fit.”
          “Your Mom doesn’t need to worry.  “I’m great on this chunk of metal!”
          It was true.  David and his cycle welded together as one mechanically smooth machine.  He had confidence and full control.
          I swung my leg over the seat and tucked my cotton skirt under my legs to maintain my modesty.  Holding the books in the crook of my left arm, I placed my right one around David's waist and hung on tight.
          “Ready?”
          “Ready,” I answered.
          The engine revved, the side pipes smoked and we were off.  The wind blew my face causing my eyes to sting, so I leaned my head against David's back.  My long hair whipped in the wind and I wondered if I’d be able to comb out the tangles.
          Wyoming Boulevard flew by as David guided the cycle through traffic.  We turned at the Constitution intersection and a few minutes later the bike came to a halt.
          I climbed off the Harley, straightened my skirt and combed my thick tangled hair.
          “I’ll call you later,” David yelled, as he spun his bike toward home.
          “You here already?” Mom asked as I entered the front door.
          “It didn’t take as long today,” I answered, hoping she wouldn’t notice my cheeks were red from being wind blown. (And from her question.)