Maroon and Very Fast

by M.T. Daffenberg

I am maroon and very fast. I have two wheels propelled by a V-four engine. I am one thousand ninety-eight cc's, called an eleven hundred. Each of my cylinders has its own carburetor, mixing the fuel with the oxygen causing miniature pressurized explosions that blast the pistons back and forth to hold an engine-idling eight hundred revolutions per minute. My tachometer red-lined at eleven-thousand five hundred and I always did well to avoid pushing the engine to that edge of bursting gaskets and a wrecked motor block. But in one night, I hit that red line twice on consecutive shifts.

I’m on my way home at one in the morning driving down a Midwestern country road, nothing but cornfields with mid-summer corn, bean-fields with mid-summer beans, and a vacant high-school, the same one I graduated from a month earlier, mid-summer empty. The road is straight; I’m doing eighty. My bike is big and has six big gears and cruises nicely at eighty with no vibrations, no noises—almost serene and meditative.

There is something Zen about driving a motorcycle, the concentration, the acceleration, feeling closer to nature, the bike and you as one. I purposefully ride sans helmet, leather jacket, long pants, and boots. My riding attire is tank-top, jean shorts, sun-glasses, and tennis shoes. Call it eighteen-year-old ignorance, but when caught up in the moment, it feels like freedom.

I approach the school and my Zen is interrupted by what, at first, looks like a police car in the parking lot, no lights. I maintain my speed, wagering it isn't a cop, that it’s a summer teacher whose tire has gone flat, or a night janitor still cleaning up. But I lose the bet, blowing by the school and seeing the cop's headlights flash on as I pass.

A decision has to be made.

Glancing down to my right, I watch the cop in my rearview mirror. I’m still doing eighty, hoping I won't see those cherries on top, and that's when I see those cherries on top, but only one's a cherry because the other one is blue. County.

It’s dark, no traffic except one motorcycle and one cop car and both were accelerating. I make my decision and kick the shift from sixth to third. To some, this may seem like I’m slowing down, but I’m actually looking for some high-torque acceleration. I rev the bike to where I should be at eighty in third and let out the clutch. The torque grabs me and the bike, twisting us, but nothing out of control. And then I’m gone.

I hit the red-line and shift to fourth. I hit the red-line again and shift to fifth. I let the engine whine and push the yellow line by the time I shift to sixth. I top a low-grade hill and hump over to the other side, out of sight from my pursuer. The speedometer reads one hundred forty and climbing slowly. I feel every pebble, every defect in the road. One hundred fifty and a surreal blurriness clings to the sides of my vision. One hundred fifty-five, the wind deafens; my eyes water. One hundred sixty—ah, Zen.

I must be about two miles past the hill when I dart my eyes to the mirror and see the cop crest. He obviously didn't expect me to run. I gain confidence knowing the space between us has more than doubled. I’m drunk on adrenaline and I’m melded with my machine. I’m maroon and very fast.

I come upon a T-intersection and a stop sign. With no stop I whip around the corner, then, I crank that handlebar grip again. No redlines this time, but I wind up the engine pretty tight getting through the gears. As I hit sixth, I begin braking for the next stop sign. The cop had not even reached the T-intersection behind me yet. My oneness with my machine seems to be paying off. The small farm-town I live in is just ahead.

I drive straight to my house, straight into my garage, straight off my bike, garage door closed, straight into the living room where I turn out the lights and peek out the front window. As I split the curtains, I see a cop car coming down my street with his spotlight on, searching yards, driving slowly, looking. As it gets closer, I see the writing on the door. County.

I lie back on the couch and smile. Ah, Zen.