The Golden Red Racer
THE GOLDEN RED RACER
"Oh, To Ride It Once More."
JOHN EDWARD CHARLES
THE OLD MAN lay on the enormous bed, withered and drawn. The stillness of his darkened room was broken from time to time by the restless shadows of children grown. For death was a matter of waiting.
He was three months past 89 years and curiously the only thought that filled his fading mind was the image of his first motorcycle. It was a grand machine and he smiled inwardly as he saw its precise detail. “To ride again,” he sighed, “oh, to ride it once more.”
He opened his eyes for a moment and then closed them to reaffirm his vision. His breath faltered and then was still. The darkness was complete, time slowed and then stopped. But then a strange thing happened. His awareness returned.
As the mistiness cleared and his focus sharpened, he found himself lying in a wooded glade, the leaves of an ancient oak shielding his face from a golden sun as a gentle breeze smelling of every summer past washed his face.
He looked about and there just beyond his reach was his vision: the grandest racer he ever saw. It shimmered and glowed with all the colors of sunrises and sunsets. It was certainly a thing to behold.
The old man sat upright with effort, his mouth open and his eyes filled with surprise. Rising slowly he hobbled around the gleaming machine until he felt dizzy and sat down.
Feeling a bit stronger he picked up the helmet at his feet and again approached the bike. He bent down and with the caress of a lover felt the Golden Red Racer. The colors pulsed to life under his trembling fingers.
The silence that engulfed him began to wear away. Sounds grew louder and louder....all the exquisite little noises of an eternal summer day: the enchanted birdsong from a thousand happy flyers, conversation of a million leaves and contented whispering of acres of long bladed grass.
His head touched the seat, the joy of the moment was almost more than he could bear. Shortly a new sound soon reached his ears. Raising his head, he listened intently. He wasn’t sure, and yet....yes, he was hearing it, another racing motorbike in full song coming his way.
His pulse quickened with every gear change. Closer and closer it ran, the high revving roar filling his glade with music sweeter than anything he’d ever heard before. In seconds another Racer carrying a crouched rider hurled over a small rise and came to a screeching halt twenty feet away.
“Hey, you old throttle twister,” the rider shouted, “close your mouth and come greet a friend.” With that, the rider jumped off his almost identical racer and pushed up his goggles.
The old man gave a shout as he hobbled toward his friend. The happiness of two people rejoined after many years of wordly time flowed throughout the glade. The breeze quickened and the leaves danced. All the eyes of the little people who lived hereabout watched in wonderment as the two men hugged and danced round and round.
The rider held the old man at arm’s length and looked into his eyes. “My friend. Sixty summers spent and we meet again. Oh, have I tales to tell. Tales of races won you won’t believe. But enough talk...there are a multitude of years for that. On your bike, lad. With racers like ours, we’ll leave the wind behind.”
The old worn face began to soften and look younger as he watched the rider sprint to his mount. The years fell from his frame like discarded clothing as he fitted his helmet and jumped on the Golden Red Racer. As if by some hidden sign, the engine came to life and his machine moved onto the road.
With a roar they rushed off together gaining speed until there was nothing to focus on but the road ahead and in moments that very place was under their wheels.
The old man turned his head slightly and grinned at the rider a mere yard away. He willed his bike to go a little faster and as the Golden Red Racer spurted forward he crouched lower still.
Flashing by snug little cottages and low stone walls that had seen an eternity, contented stock in the fields watched their passing. On they ran through the soft yellow light into tunnels of twilight formed by the branches of ageless trees.
Hands and feet moved deftly as the two riders changed down rapidly from fourth to third, then second, as the smooth road bent back upon itself. Through the turn and then on to the next. Rev’s climbing: 16, 17, then 18 thousand. The old man was aghast as the needle continued to climb, but the bike never faltered, so he put his fear away.
The rider stole a glance as he dashed inside and pulled ahead. “The lad is out of practice, but he’ll remember all too quickly.” What he saw filled his heart.
The face of a young man grinning from ear to ear.
