| |
Riding Lessons
by l57371
I stand back against the light post and watch as he swings his leg over the bike, settling himself onto the seat, fidgeting and shifting. He's uncomfortable on it, I can tell, but he was the one who wanted to learn.
I've already shown him where everything is, but he said he knew from when he used to ride little DT125s when he was younger. He and his brothers, I guess, though he didn't say that. How he thinks a little Yamaha dirt bomber and my Repsol have anything in common, I don't know.
He finally goes to hit the ignition but he's forgotten to make sure it's in neutral. The bike jumps ahead. He looks back at me a little sheepishly. Sorry, he mouths. I'm too far away to hear if he says anything else. I wave my hand expansively, calculating in my head how much it's going to cost to replace the body panels that I just know he's going to scratch when he drops it.
Clutch pulled in, check, find neutral, check, hit the button, twist the throttle, bike starts. Okay, so far, so good. He's leaning over the tank stiffly, like he's afraid to touch it, afraid to lean into the handle bars. He looks back again and I hold up my left hand, palm out, fingers spread, thumb facing down. Reminding him: 5 gears, one down, four up. He nods.
He taps the shifter down into first and slowly lets the clutch out but twists the throttle too far. He jerks and dumps the clutch, stalling the bike as it surges ahead. For a moment he teeters on one foot, looking like he's going to lose his balance and take the bike with him, but he gets it back under control, upright again. He shakes his head, pulls in the clutch and sets about finding neutral again.
I can hear another bike approaching. It's possible we may have to quit before we've even started. In theory, we're not supposed to be here. We're at Cooper's Cycle Ranch, a motorcycle training school near Princeton that has a full bike training course and test facility laid out in its yards. Students are welcome to come and use the yard whenever they want to practice, but Wilson's technically not a student. At least, not of theirs.
The bike I can hear has the low, throaty growl of a V-twin cruiser style bike, not another sport bike like mine. I can see it come around the corner now and go past the yard. The rider turns his head and sees us, sees Wilson attempting to find the clutch point again so that he can engage the throttle and take off in first gear. He swings around and comes back, turning into the yard.
Wilson has it now, he's managed to get the bike rolling in first gear, slowly crawling across the tarmac in a wavy line, unsure and nervous, I can see from here. He won't pick his feet up and put them on the pegs, keeps making as if to put them down to steady himself, but if he does that now, while he's moving, he'll end up either twisting an ankle or dumping the bike. I yell at him to pick his damned feet up.
The cruiser rider stops just inside the yard behind me, close to the fence. He's got a nice bike too, a newer Kawasaki Vulcan 800 Classic. Clean lines, no extraneous bags or trunks or faring or anything. Not even a back rest for a passenger, just a small pillion seat over the rear fender. Nice. Red tank and body panels, black leather seats. Goes nicely with the black and red leather jacket he's wearing. He takes off his helmet.
Whoops, she takes off her helmet. Rider's a woman. She smiles slightly, lifts her chin in Wilson's direction and asks how new a rider he is exactly. I tell her, oh, about ten minutes. She nods her head and says it looks like it. We watch Wilson in silence for a minute or two as he does laps around the yard, tracing wobbly lines back and forth.
I holler at him, want to try second gear? He looks back at me but I can't see his face through the shield on the helmet. I imagine he's probably saying, no, not really. When he looks back, the bike takes a drastic wobble to the left and he steers frantically trying to get it back upright again. He wobbles too far to the right this time, but he's got it under control. I think. I hope. It's not like I can do anything if he decides to crash or fall over or anything.
My only consolation is that if he does destroys my bike doing this, at least I'll probably be able to guilt him into buying me a new one.
He stops and puts his feet down and lifts the face shield on the helmet, yelling at me from across the tarmac. I can't quite make out what he's saying, but it sounds like suggestions on where he'll shove the helmet if I don't leave him alone. I smirk and look back at the woman. She laughs.
Wilson's seen her now, and I can tell by the slant of his shoulders and how he ducks his head down that he's embarrassed to be seen fumbling around on the bike while being watched by a woman who obviously can do it better than he can. The engine in her bike is actually bigger than the one in mine, and he knows it too.
In with the clutch, tap it down into first gear, slow let out of the clutch, slow twist of the throttle grip, and he's off again. Any slower and he'd be going backwards, I say to the woman. She smiles again. At least if he crashes it won't be a bad one, she replies. I nod. It's true. Any dents in the bodywork from a crash at the speed he's going could probably be pulled out with a toilet plunger.
This time he executes a rather graceful, wide turn, shifting up into second gear at the end of it and speeding up a little. I nod encouragingly, and the woman applauds, her hands over her head so Wilson can see her. He shifts down and comes to a stop, then starts again, this time much smoother. He takes another wide turn and shifts up to second again, this time goosing the throttle and achieving third before he reaches the end of the yard and has to shift down and turn around again.
By George, the woman says, glancing at me. I think he's got it, I finish for her. We follow him with our eyes, back and forth across the yard, as he goes through some of the training exercises painted out on the ground, swerve lines, serpentines between cones, stops and starts, sharp lefts and rights. He still looks uncomfortable atop the bike, but at least he doesn't look like he's afraid of it anymore.
I watch as he cruises past us again. I swear I can see the hint of a smile on his face through the shield when he turns his head to face me. I watch the subtle shift of muscles in his legs through his tight jeans and my mouth goes dry. Suddenly, I'm not so sure I want him to learn how to ride my bike. I'd rather have him behind me, his arms around my waist, holding on for dear life, his thighs pressed tight against mine as we rocket through the night. I like it when I can scare him just enough to make him plaster himself up against me, so close I can feel his heart racing even through the two layers of leather, his and mine.
Maybe it's time to cut this lesson short. Tell him he's not doing very well and that I'm afraid for the condition of my clutch plate, what with the way he's fingering that lever so close to the bar.
Just as he pulls up in front of us, coming to a rather abrupt stop, a car pulls up out front of the yard and another woman gets out, carrying a helmet. She approaches the woman with the Vulcan and ... they ... Well. They kiss, is what they do. A long, deep, slow kiss. I can see Wilson watching them, his lips open slightly, and his hands relax, letting go of both the front brake lever and the clutch, popping it and sending the bike jack-rabbiting forward a few inches. That startles him enough to make him pay attention again, quickly grasping the brake lever.
Just put it on the kick, I say, approaching my bike. My Wilson. He scoots backward to the passenger seat, giving me room to lift my right leg over and settle myself into the seat, still warm from him sitting there. I nudge the shifter up into neutral and start the bike again, giving it a good loud rev, just because. The two women look at us and I tip my head, saying goodbye. They wave back, and the woman from the car gets onto the bike. I can see the Vulcan rider showing her the features on the dash. Riding lessons all over the place today, I see.
I kick the shifter down into first and smoothly accelerate, turning a wide curve before heading toward the exit of the yard. Wilson shifts a little behind me, pressing closer. His arms close around my waist, his fingers clasped, and he works his hands up under my jacket so that they are next to my stomach, under my shirt. His legs are close against mine, and I don't even mind that I can feel the inside of his thigh against the scar on the outside of mine.
Because I can feel more than just his belly against my backside.
We're going home.
Please post a comment on this story.
Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
|
|
|