The seat was designed for comfort, for two. A resplendent late ’50s model, it was a full-dress with suicide shift and a booming V-twin bass rumble channeled through chrome pipes forty years before hip-hop. Sunny Sundays were not wasted. Winding coastal roads were made for Dad’s only day off, and I learned my world from the back of his black leather jacket, wet highways bisecting the quiet towns, beaches full of driftwood, sunlight blinking through alder and fir, the Nehalem River insisting its way through the willows and dense summer foliage. And always the comforting thump and roar through the quiet pastures and woods, winding up Highway 53, accelerating into the major curves where I followed his instructions, his voice with me even now, saying, Don’t fight the corners, David, lean into them. Don’t be afraid. Lean into them, and you’ll be just fine.
First appeared in The Oregonian and is also forthcoming in Jesus Comes to Me as Judy Garland (Airlie Press, 09/ 2021)