Someone just told me, “There are two kinds of motorcyclists: those who have been in an accident and those who will be.”
When I saw my husband — let’s call him Oscar — walking down the side of the road this morning, holding his motorcycle helmet, the first thing I thought was, “Oh, god. Those were his last pair of good jeans.” The denim was shredded and his bloody knee hung out. Upon further inspection, I saw that his wallet was poking through his torn back pocket and there was an oddly placed rip behind his uninjured knee. “What are you going to wear to work? Those are your only pants without holes in them.” Just an hour earlier, I’d begged him to go to Old Navy before someone at the office mistook him for homeless.
Oscar, however, was unconcerned about the jeans. His attention was on his motorcycle, which was being lashed to a tow truck with cables and canvas straps. We stood there as the truck pulled away with the scuffed and broken bike on top and I surprised myself by starting to tear up. It was a heartbreaking moment, knowing Oscar’s relationship with his motorcycle would not be the same after today.
I never want to see that thing again, yet I know I’ll be sad to open the garage door tonight and see the empty parking spot.