A River Ride

[Backstory: Owen got his buddies to help push his wrecked-out '55 Chevy Nomad-8 wagon out from the tangle brush of the Car Graveyard and down an old logging road to the roaring Fish Hawk River. Just as the Nomad hit the water, Owen jumped up on it's roof. Vick tossed him a scrap of a two-by-four and Owen commenced to paddling. ...]

Down river Owen  was riding high. A couple turns ago he'd rested the paddle board beside him on the car roof. No need to guide the Nomad. She and the current were double-teaming real good. Flow-going and go-flowing. 

The current was a wide stream. Within it ran rows and rows of wet tire tracks, the sunlight giving them tread-like texture. Owen  thought some pack of Jesuses had motor biked down-river just ahead of him, laying down watery tread. Wild and raucous they were, hootin' and a-hollorin'! Pulling wheelies on the water! Skimming the surface. One hand raised high like some kind of eight-second bronco-busters, only the steeds were supercharged ethereal choppers.

RUN-RUNNN! URRRGH! URRRGH! URRRGH! GRRUN-RUNNN! GRRUN-RUNNN! 

He can hear it! He sees it, too, superimposed ahead on the river scene, suspended in the air dust of the gray light of the dirty window. His dad's garage, revving his dad's Harley, letting the low rumble of the engine fill his ears. It's a real one-kicker. First a clack and a clammer, then that pit bull growl. Cut it loose! Cut everything loose! Rip it up! Go ballistic! And look out, sissies!  

He sees himself doing it before he does it. Sees dust of insects above the water. Sees the contrasting shadows on his dad's workbench, the unpainted rough wooden walls, the tall trees lining the river closing in. Smells the old saw dust and the frustrated odor of sweat, smells the faint sourness of the vacated beer bottles on top of the car, the musty closeness of the garage. Feels the river air and the claustrophobic heat surrounding the bike! 

Break through it! 

Crash against the work bench, sending wrenches and hammers with wooden handles flying! Yeah, man! Yeooow! Chasing those Jesuses! Running them down! God-damn! We're bound to jam! 

Crash against walls, dislodging disgruntled dignified tools from their lofty positions, causing them to clatter and bounce and reluctantly participate in unscheduled mayhem! Fuck all the motherfuckers!  

Steer-caning the bike around the corners of the garage now! Canyon-carving around and around in the middle of the garage! Making the whole garage the middle! Counter-steering to maintain speed and control, turning the handlebars away from the direction he wants to turn. Pushing the right handgrip forward to lean and turn right, pushing the left handgrip forward for a direction change, counter-clockwise to the left. GRRRERRRGH! HGRRUGGGHH! RUN-RUNNN! URRRGH! 

It's a blur now! All the walls are one confused plane. On the edge of his eyesight interrupting the circulating madness, after one of his swings around the ever-confining space, blurred by the speed and the water in his eyes, following the watery tread tracks on the river, face contorted now by the g-force - on the edge of his quivering view - did he see it in the whirling gray light of the greasy window? Here it comes around again: Pop! Look! An opening! A clear stretch down-river following the Would-Be-Jesuses! An opening! Out of the garage! Into the yard! Between boulders! Within the watery tread. He flogs it for all he's worth (worthiness not a consideration, let alone a word!). Out the back door, down the river further, hot-dogging it toward the fence, catching up with God! 

He grabbed a handful of break just before hitting the back fence. Tore turf, yanked it from the packed black dirt, spinning and huffing. Smoked the exhaust. Strong-armed the steering away from the fucking fence!

Slid the bike low and sideways, wheels first, laying it down, rolling out of its way.

God could be around the next bend. But the treadpaths on the river looked like they'd go on forever in the sun.