Ridiculous, how many wives that I’ve run from. And
surrogate wives, and surrogate-surrogate wives, as
Cogs would say, speaking from experience, and
who, it’s worth mentioning, could drink circles around

me, and moreover, could hold his piss like the truck
that siphons out porta-potties. Cogs was not so much
interested in me as my old R60/2, only marginally
badass, even with its unbaffled exhausts. He asked me

to take him for a ride, which I did, but I took it real
easy. For one thing, he was pretty bulky, and I’d already
had a few mishaps with a passenger on board. One,
which should have killed us both, and the other with

a woman named Ilene, who I was certain I was going
to bed with, before I ran us off the road. Not to mention
that the bike didn’t have much oomph, even with one
rider, particularly compared to the crotch rockets of

recent years, with power an ordinary rider can only
dream of tapping. Furthermore, my permit had been
revoked. But Cogs was pleased enough to return the
favor, and took me for a screamer in his bathtub

Porsche, drifting all four through sharp curves at redline; me,
bracing myself with my feet on the dash. Soon after, I moved
in with Cheryl. It breaks my heart to look at her photo. Her
only flaw was a ragged scar above her left knee (see,

I even remember which leg), from when a truck ran her
into a ditch. She, too, rode an R60, but a late model slash
five, which I worked on at Cycle City. That’s how we
met. Cheryl lived hard by the tracks, in an old building

clad with asbestos shingles. To me, the freight trains
rumbling past in the night were as soothing as my mother’s
lullabye, I guess because we lived in Ivy City just after I
was born. You wouldn’t think to look at me back then,

that I was seeking some sort of respectability, which is
why I invited Cogs to dinner. Steak, I thought, was the
way to go, but I bought chuck, being not only cheap but
clueless about meat. I could have served my Red Wing

boots with as much success. And talk about clueless–
I knew even less about making love than cooking a good
meal; that you can’t get by on your meat alone. What’s
more is that my own engine–like my bike–lacked a lot of

oomph. In the shame of failing to please her, I drifted
away. And from many others after her, before I figured
things out. Cheryl, who had by far the nicest pair I’d
ever beheld–much less, held–died of breast cancer,

proving that even if there is a god, he is an SOB.
Coughlin, for all I know, is still careening around in
the Porsche. Me, like that lucky blind hog, finally
found an acorn. And I’m learning to be a decent cook.

Published in BOURGEON