Passing Regret
by Brenden Hernandez
Sliding from the booth, he placed the coffee cup on the table. The hot meal and the worn high-back cushion had provided welcome respite from the last hundred miles. The sun had begun to crack its setting yoke on the horizon, painting the tops of the fields and the diner’s sign a bright red when he passed by over an hour ago. The quiet atmosphere of the roadside café had proven restful for his mind as well. Aside from the occasional clink of ice in a plastic cup or sizzle from the flattop in the kitchen, the only noise had been a cluster of hunters in a corner booth. Their bright orange and camouflage stood in stark contrast to the red and white checkered floor of the diner’s interior. He had noticed a truck bed, tailgate open, as he rolled into the gravel lot. A dark tarp had been lashed across its contents and two slender legs protruded from one corner, hooves sharp and lifeless. From what little conversation he overheard from their table the season was showing promise. Glancing through the window over his table he saw the gravel lot and the bordering highway was now cast in a bluish gray. The chrome pipes of his bike gleamed in the overhead moonlight under a soft sheen of dust. Reaching down for his check he caught his reflection in the glass, his mind catapulting him unwillingly to before.
He saw her standing there, all knees and elbows, waving her arm in the animated way eight-year-olds do. Her hair blew gently across her face framing a wide smile. He was sitting astride the motorcycle, having backed into the street and clanked the shift lever into first. He gave their customary salute and watched as she returned in kind, placing the tip of forefinger to nose. She had always been curious about the bike. It may have started when he had placed her in the saddle when she was just old enough to sit still, allowing her to feel the hulk of the machine beneath her. She had sat there many times thereafter, shoulders hunched over outstretched legs, determined to reach the highway bars.
There were constant pleadings and the occasional outright tantrum when he denied her rides. He refused to take her until she grew older. “I’m older today, daddy,” she would say, positioning herself defiantly between him and the bike. To stifle these protests, he had fastened a small bell around the left fork. Her watchful eyes had followed his every move as he explained its significance. “This bell isn’t for other people on the road. It’s for the rider.” Then, adding for the sake of his dilemma, “When you’re really ready for a ride you’ll be able to hear it.” He had started the engine and burped the throttle. She watched as the bell vibrated under the engine’s idle. “Can you hear it?” She took a step closer dropping her left ear towards the front end for a few slow, thoughtful seconds. Her eyes darted back and forth as she tried to find the sound. Finally, she straightened, shaking her head from side to side. Thumb clicking the off switch he smiled down at her, “One day.”
He was at work when the phone rang a week later. He answered to the quiet sobs of the school nurse. There had been an accident on the playground. No, he couldn’t talk to her, she was being rushed to the hospital. Months had passed since then, and his grief had consumed all time and space. Her ashes now rested in a small silver urn in his left saddlebag. He had absentmindedly realized his reflection as he had given the urn a gentle kiss before wrapping and securing it in the case.
He paid for his meal and exited the diner, zipping his jacket against the cool September air. He retrieved his gloves from the other case and pulled them on. Straddling the bike, he interlocked his fingers to seat the gloves before straightening the forks and lifting the kickstand. He engaged the starter switch and the engine rumbled beneath him as he secured his half dome helmet. He donned a pair of clear lenses and rolled onto the lip of the highway, centering the lane, and working the gears up to speed.
The sound of the exhaust bounced flatly off the asphalt and filtered out across the swaying grass. He met the occasional semi and between access roads had trailed an older model truck towing squares of bundled hay aboard a flatbed, but the road now stretched barren in front of him. He would ride another fifty-six miles before reaching the exit for the hotel. That would mark the halfway point of his journey.
He would spread her ashes and retrace these miles alone. Alone. He felt a heartbeat of anger course through his body. Their time was too brief. He would have, no he should have, held her longer. Vain promises. Why didn’t he…? He felt a quick stab of nausea as his anger bottomed out to guilt in the pit of his stomach. His right wrist wrenched harshly on the throttle. His years on two wheels had made his eyes keen to contours in the roadway, more reflex than thought. A quarter mile ahead the continuous stitch weaved by reflectors in the road’s centerline became detached. A sharp right-hand curve disappeared behind a stand of cornrows.
His conscious mind registered the turn when he noticed the apex bathed in white light. That swath of light quickly shrank to a small pinhole as a motorcycle rounded the corner angling toward him. The wind buffeted his ears as he squinted in the approaching beam. With the moon now nested high above he could make out the silhouette of the oncoming bike. It had the same shark nose fairing that he sat behind. Now less than fifty yards away the sound ushering towards him began to swallow his environment. The road noise, the wind, even the exhaust all now absent, replaced by a slow steady ringing. His mind now ripped under by a sweeping current of confusion he heard it clearly as he rode abreast of the other cyclist. clang. He noticed the passenger first, bare bony knees outstretched in the glow of the marker lamps. His eyes darted to the rider, face empty of expression, a mirror image of himself. CLANG. Huddled behind him she sat, her wide smile underlining a simple gesture of finger to nose. CLAANGG! Returning his eyes to the highway ahead he saw the deer broadside, mere feet away.
He saw her standing there, all knees and elbows, waving her arm in the animated way eight-year-olds do. Her hair blew gently across her face framing a wide smile. He was sitting astride the motorcycle, having backed into the street and clanked the shift lever into first. He gave their customary salute and watched as she returned in kind, placing the tip of forefinger to nose. She had always been curious about the bike. It may have started when he had placed her in the saddle when she was just old enough to sit still, allowing her to feel the hulk of the machine beneath her. She had sat there many times thereafter, shoulders hunched over outstretched legs, determined to reach the highway bars.
There were constant pleadings and the occasional outright tantrum when he denied her rides. He refused to take her until she grew older. “I’m older today, daddy,” she would say, positioning herself defiantly between him and the bike. To stifle these protests, he had fastened a small bell around the left fork. Her watchful eyes had followed his every move as he explained its significance. “This bell isn’t for other people on the road. It’s for the rider.” Then, adding for the sake of his dilemma, “When you’re really ready for a ride you’ll be able to hear it.” He had started the engine and burped the throttle. She watched as the bell vibrated under the engine’s idle. “Can you hear it?” She took a step closer dropping her left ear towards the front end for a few slow, thoughtful seconds. Her eyes darted back and forth as she tried to find the sound. Finally, she straightened, shaking her head from side to side. Thumb clicking the off switch he smiled down at her, “One day.”
He was at work when the phone rang a week later. He answered to the quiet sobs of the school nurse. There had been an accident on the playground. No, he couldn’t talk to her, she was being rushed to the hospital. Months had passed since then, and his grief had consumed all time and space. Her ashes now rested in a small silver urn in his left saddlebag. He had absentmindedly realized his reflection as he had given the urn a gentle kiss before wrapping and securing it in the case.
He paid for his meal and exited the diner, zipping his jacket against the cool September air. He retrieved his gloves from the other case and pulled them on. Straddling the bike, he interlocked his fingers to seat the gloves before straightening the forks and lifting the kickstand. He engaged the starter switch and the engine rumbled beneath him as he secured his half dome helmet. He donned a pair of clear lenses and rolled onto the lip of the highway, centering the lane, and working the gears up to speed.
The sound of the exhaust bounced flatly off the asphalt and filtered out across the swaying grass. He met the occasional semi and between access roads had trailed an older model truck towing squares of bundled hay aboard a flatbed, but the road now stretched barren in front of him. He would ride another fifty-six miles before reaching the exit for the hotel. That would mark the halfway point of his journey.
He would spread her ashes and retrace these miles alone. Alone. He felt a heartbeat of anger course through his body. Their time was too brief. He would have, no he should have, held her longer. Vain promises. Why didn’t he…? He felt a quick stab of nausea as his anger bottomed out to guilt in the pit of his stomach. His right wrist wrenched harshly on the throttle. His years on two wheels had made his eyes keen to contours in the roadway, more reflex than thought. A quarter mile ahead the continuous stitch weaved by reflectors in the road’s centerline became detached. A sharp right-hand curve disappeared behind a stand of cornrows.
His conscious mind registered the turn when he noticed the apex bathed in white light. That swath of light quickly shrank to a small pinhole as a motorcycle rounded the corner angling toward him. The wind buffeted his ears as he squinted in the approaching beam. With the moon now nested high above he could make out the silhouette of the oncoming bike. It had the same shark nose fairing that he sat behind. Now less than fifty yards away the sound ushering towards him began to swallow his environment. The road noise, the wind, even the exhaust all now absent, replaced by a slow steady ringing. His mind now ripped under by a sweeping current of confusion he heard it clearly as he rode abreast of the other cyclist. clang. He noticed the passenger first, bare bony knees outstretched in the glow of the marker lamps. His eyes darted to the rider, face empty of expression, a mirror image of himself. CLANG. Huddled behind him she sat, her wide smile underlining a simple gesture of finger to nose. CLAANGG! Returning his eyes to the highway ahead he saw the deer broadside, mere feet away.
Brenden Hernandez resides in Kernersville, NC with his wife. He works in quality control for a corporation serving the transportation industry. He is fond of sharp objects and short stories.