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The Loneliest Motorcycle
The Loneliest Motorcycle Stephen L. Harrison
I was six when I crossed a desert no map could name and found you there.
You leaned into the wind like something waiting to be remembered. Paint blistered. Chrome dimmed to ash.
Your handlebars tilted as if listening.
My child, you seemed to say, I am the loneliest motorcycle.
I knelt beside you. My knees left pale moons in the dust. I didn’t know how engines worked. I only knew how waiting felt.
Your wires hung loose, veins without current. No ignition. No spark. No promise of roar.
I tapped the fuel tank softly, as if it were a sleeping animal. It answered with hollow quiet.
I told you about roads I had only seen in books — long ribbons of possibility. I described wind the way other boys described fathers. How it might hold you steady. How it might carry you forward.
I imagined painting you red. Scarlet, even. Bright enough to be chosen.
We would pass the biker gangs, free of burden, no weight upon your saddle, no one asking anything of us. Just motion. Just horizon.
But even then I noticed the broken glass of your lights, the loom of wires unravelling like thought.
Some things are not waiting to start. Some things are resting because they must.
The garage I invented for you was dry. No shouting. No flames licking at walls. Nothing burning that could not be mended.
Evening stretched long. The desert widened. Dust cooled.
I sat with you until the sun thinned to ember.
For the first time I was not asking you to move.
Just two shapes in the quiet — metal and bone — learning that stillness is not failure.
It is survival.
And when I left you there, I carried something home — not the motorcycle, not the dream of red paint —
but the knowledge that loneliness can sit beside loneliness and neither has to roar to be real.
I was six years old when I crossed a desert that no map could show and found you there. Your handlebars were tilted as if they were listening.
You seemed to say, 'My child, I am the loneliest motorcycle.' I knelt beside you. My knees left pale marks in the dust. I didn’t know how engines worked. I only knew what waiting felt like. I tapped the fuel tank gently, as if it were a sleeping animal. It responded with an empty silence. I told you about roads I had only seen in books — long paths full of possibilities. I described the wind like other boys talked about their fathers. How it might keep you steady. How it might push you forward.
I imagined painting you red. Bright red, even. Bright enough to stand out. We would pass the biker gangs, without any burdens, no weight on your seat, no one asking anything from us. Just movement. Just the horizon. Some things are not waiting to begin. Some things are resting because they need to. The evening stretched on. The desert grew wider. The dust cooled. For the first time, I wasn’t asking you to move.
Just two shapes in the quiet — metal and bone — learning that being still is not failing. It is surviving.
And when I left you there, I took something home — not the motorcycle, not the dream of red paint —