For the Sunrise

BY MOUNTAINMAN

   Out late one night boogying on the bike along River Road. Why River Road? 
Mainly because it was desolate, a place to get away, a place to feel and think. 
Why late at night? Because darkness hides many things, sorrow, pain, the hustle 
of daytime society. Like a kid hiding under a blanket to read by flashlight. 
The darkness is a blanket, the bike's headlight is the flashlight.

   River Road has dips and curves, hollows and hills, also straight, 
long stretches where the throttle can be turned on to the max. 
River Road is exhilarating, the rhythm of slow, lean, long, sweeping curves. 
Excitingly dangerous in narrow; tight, dipping bends. Mellow on the uphill pulls, 
quiet with engine off on the downhill coasters.

   Then comes the Lookout. The Lookout consists of three acres of meadow 
grass lined on the roadside by large trees, another two acres of parking lot 
covered in fine gravel. Mostly used by fishermen when the fish are running, 
but there was a time when this place hosted some of the best bike gatherings 
in the country. Back in the days of choppers and "easy rider'' movies, back 
before disco, before the police clued into where we met. Back in the days when 
Triumphs, Nortons, Harleys and even the odd Jap bike rode together. 
Thinking about it, it wasn't all that many years ago. It's probably just 
that some of us were too young to grow beards and some girls still wore bras.

   This was the nostalgic lure of the viewpoint overlooking the river. 
This night under the full moon, the water shimmered as it danced along the 
rocky bank ever moving, ever alive with mystery.

   Shutting the bike down as it rolled up under the big oak was a natural action. 
The oak must have stood for a couple of hundred years, probably from the 
days when fur traders and Indians trapped along the river. At that time it 
was no more than a sapling, now an enormous reminder of history with 
roots overhanging the eroded river bank. Branches that have shaded more 
would-be lovers, now protruding lonely in the night sky. Leaning back against 
the hundreds of initials carved in the tree trunk, inhaling the stuff that's 
hazardous to your health, just relaxing.

   Lots of things come to mind leaning back against a tree in the middle of 
a starlit night. Phantoms of the past, dreams for an unsure future, what 
color to repaint the bike. But train of thought can be broken by 
the sound of a bike pulling River Road at two a.m.
Actually it was more like four bikes by the headlight count. Being able 
to see but not being seen is an advantage at times. The crunch of gravel 
and moonlit glint of chrome is the first hint that a fifth bike is rolling in, 
not going by like the other four. 'The rider not wearing a helmet was no 
surprise for a place where there is a helmet law— River Road at night 
was like a reprieve From Big Brother's watching eyes. No one wore a helmet here.

           Watching from the seclusion of the oak as the rider and motorcycle 
disengaged each other, realizing there was something familiar about her, 
caused a thought, more like a feeling. Something deep down from a long time ago.

   Lovely and lithe as she walked toward the oak tree. Her eyes sparkling like 
the river she walked alongside, lips moist, broke into a smile at the realization 
that she wasn't alone. The want to touch her was unbearable, but not knowing 
who she was, was heartbreaking.

"Want to talk?" she asked, her voice coming soft and sultry like a dream. 
"sure you do,'' she went on. "At least I want to talk to you."

   So we talked about bikes and rides. About winters, summers, and years gone by.. 
Hours' seemed like only minutes as we relived every good time. Happiness was 
around us like a bubble, but a bubble that could be broken by the 
mere pin prick of a thought. Happiness that could be washed away by 
one bad incident, like the river washes away the sandy shore.

   Slowly, ever so slowly, came the gray hazy light of dawn. Her name 
was Dea Yes, of course I knew her. Her touch was soft, gentle, 
fingers on cheek brushing away tears of joy. A touch as hot as  the sun 
that burns away the morning fog hanging low over the river.

   Then the kiss of her sultry lips. A kiss so tender, so light, a kiss to revive 
the soul of one almost lost. A kiss that slowly rejuvenates the memory to 
full awareness. Such as the sunrise bursting over the mountain to flood the 
river valley with hues of crimson red.

   What do we live for if not for that touch, that kiss, for the wondrous 
joy of another sunrise.

Dea,' I whispered, Dea, are you here?"

Not until she spoke-did I dare open my eyes. 
There she sat, tears glistening in those beautiful eyes.

"But where am 1? And why?"

   "Hospital, seventy-six hours after the accident. They didn't know 
you'd come out of it, I was so scared they said the helmet gave you a concussion, 
but other than the head injury you weren't hurt. 
Don't you ever die on me again!" she finished breathlessly.

Dea, have we been down to the old River Road site lately?

"No," she smiled.

"Well, the first night after I'm out of here let's go there and wait for the sunrise."

"For the sunrise," her tear-strained eyes widened, " sure," she said, 
"for the sunrise, why not," she laughed with relief. ''I know you're all right 
when you want to ride River Road for the sunrise!"