Beach Walker – Chapter 13
Wind Song
‘No way, matey boy!’ was my first, vocal reaction.
Yet as soon as they passed my lips, and I saw the little boy retreat behind those blue eyes, I wanted to suck the words back in, swallow them.
Granted, my heart lurched at the prospect of perching on that ridiculous pillion seat, surely far too high for safety, clamping my arms round Leonard’s bean-pole frame, as we entrusted our lives, the continued integrity of our body parts, to a hundred-year-old, two-wheeled contraption. A pre-War suicide machine which could hurl us along the asphalt at twice the sedate speed limit of the Bellarine Highway.
On the other hand, I had already entrusted this life to my friend many, many times. For four months now we’d swum weekly. He had coaxed me far beyond the breakers, out to where lurked sharks and God-knows-what.
This might be my only chance. What was it that Brendan, my youngest, was always messaging me? YOLO, Mum.
You only live once.
So here we were, puttering down the close, bound for the open road. Wrapped in sheepskin jacket, thick jeans and sturdy boots on a warm summer’s evening, I clung for my life to Leonard’s leather-sheathed back.
‘Could you, uhh, ease off a little?’ he wheezed. ‘I can’t breathe, love.’
‘Ah. Sorry.’
Through the scratched goggles I caught the startled recognition of Mrs Nguyen at number eight, tending her roses. I raised a gloved hand in airy greeting as we cruised by; registered the disregarded hose in her hand vainly watering the footpath.
What in hell was I doing? Panicked, I threw my free arm violently back around Leonard’s torso, making us wobble.
‘Easy, old girl, easy,’ he called over his shoulder. As if he’s talking to Lexy the mare, flashed through my mind.
Then we swung out into the evening traffic of homebound beachgoers and were off, chugging down the Spit between green walls of coastal scrub towards the Barwon Heads bridge.
If my posterior had been anticipating the springy suspension of a modern motorcycle — this wasn’t it. As the pillion rider I was sitting right over the rear wheel with its rigid connection to the frame. Luckily for my spine the sprung seat took some of the impact, but when we turned on to the quieter beach road toward Black Rock, Leonard opened the throttle. It was like sitting on a jackhammer. I clamped my calves around his bony hips and prayed.
As we accelerated to eighty the hammering under my coccyx smoothed out and the burble of the exhaust was left behind, replaced by the whistling song of the wind.
Tree-lined country lanes, then out on to the main road. One hundred kilometres an hour, and the wind became a shrieking banshee, its cold fingers tugging at the exposed skin of my cheeks. We hurtled into the setting sun. I fervently hoped that Leonard could see more than I.
Still, I was enjoying this now. The lack of barriers between me and the rushing air was exhilarating: like horizontal skydiving. I relaxed my grip slightly, sat back just a fraction, gazed across the marshy expanse of Lake Connewarre to our right. Cormorants flapped homeward to roost and soon the distant lights of Geelong would start to twinkle …
Oww!
That bloody well hurt. My upper lip stung. Another! My cheek this time. What fresh torture was this? Loose gravel? More projectiles smashed against my helmet, pinged off Leonard’s in front of my nose. Bugs! Great fat bugs! I ducked back behind my human shield, pressed my face to his shoulder.
We rode for two hours. Down through Torquay to Airey’s Inlet and Split Point Lighthouse as the sun sank behind Cape Otway. Homeward through the thickening dusk, following the red stream of tail lights.
It had been a long, long time since I was in such close contact with a man. Let’s just say I wasn’t immune to the intimacy of the situation. I think I may have scanned Leonard’s face for any sign of reciprocity when we finally drew up outside my home, bug-spattered, bone-rattled and grimy.
If he felt any, he wasn’t showing it.
‘Time to get this old girl home for a rub down and a bag of oats.’ Again he patted the tank.
Then, with hand held high in salute, he roared off down the hushed close, headlamp boring a hole in the night, and was gone.
The curtain at number eight twitched as he passed.
Well!
Next week in Beach Walker:
Chapter 14: Hoodies
Grace does her bit for the environment – with mixed results – and makes plans on Leonard’s behalf.
Disclaimer: The people and events described in this story are entirely the product of the author’s imagination; they bear no intentional resemblance to real-life people and events. The locations are authentic.