In an effort to encourage myself to finish this book, I'll be posting a chapter at a time on here to hold myself accountable. It is the story of a man whose brush with death privies him to a world he never knew existed. Narrated by the sun, it follows the man (Henry) as he realizes the extraordinary happenings around him.
Prologue
He was not the first one I had seen in such a state. He wouldn’t be the last, either. Feelers are funny that way, if not predictable. Pardon me, humans are funny that way. I call the humans “feelers” because of the gift. And what an astounding gift it is. Put plainly, this is the gift of producing profound emotion, feelings, from the experiences generated in and from their remarkable world. For better or worse.
Now, you might think me mundane to tell you a story about feelings. But this story is much more than that. I find it quite miraculous.
You see, all of creation possesses the gift of feeling. But none so poignantly as the humans. Trees are close. Trees are capable of a depth of emotion you might find both surprising and inspiring. I’ll get more to this later. But even trees lack the intensity the gift holds for the humans. It’s a wonder each of them isn’t swallowed up by it entirely. For some feelers, it is divinely enabling. Others are crippled by its volatility and uncertainty, unable to appreciate that it is this uncertainty—the beautiful power for endless possibilities—that makes the gift all the more lovely. Feelers often don’t understand that, without this gift, the very energy of life and light would be absent and the prospect of joy lost entirely. Not all feelers are lacking this understanding. But enough of them are. And I have seen enough of them.
Allow me to introduce myself. I am what the feelers call “the sun”. I suppose most of them don’t think a lot about me. Not nearly as much as I think of them, anyway. Elderly feelers consider me as they muse over the clouds and moisture that block my rays and shower the fields with needed rain. And when the cloudy days begin to pile up more than they’d like, they complain on their porches to one another, joking that I may decide to stop shining (I won’t). Tiny feelers stare directly at me until they are compelled to look away. This, despite their parents’ advice that I will damage their little eyes (I will). Some pay attention to my “rising and setting”, as they call it, but little else. They forget that I never truly set, but simply allow the earth to experience the varying degrees of brightness I offer.
I, however, watch the feelers intently. I have seen their comings and goings since their beginning.
Which brings me back to him. After all, this is not a story about me, but about a feeler. A feeler who saw and witnessed things most feelers could not. A feeler who, despite his self-perceived plainness, had a very un-plain experience—one meant to open his eyes and soul. It is a story about Love and Hate and their respective armies. Armies often felt, but rarely seen. Indeed, this is a story of a man whose eyes were opened to a world within a world. I could start his story anywhere. But let’s start with the motorcycle.
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1
The man’s name was Henry. And let's be clear that Henry did not know a lot about motorcycles. He had once ridden a small off-road bike as a teenager with his friends. He remembered well the thrill of it. He remembered the roar of the engine each time he turned the throttle in his right hand. He remembered pretending it wasn’t his first time riding one so his friend Carlos, who owned the bike, would let him take it for a spin. He didn’t crash that day, despite nearly tipping over when he first climbed on, barely keeping the bike upright with his noodle arms and slender frame. It was only a ride around the neighborhood and over some small dirt hills behind Carlos’ house. But the rush he felt as the wind watered his eyes and whipped through his thick head of hair? He remembered that. Feelers are funny about what memories they cling to and when they draw from them.
Perhaps this explained why—nearly thirty years, far less hair, stronger arms but a wider waste later—at age forty-eight, Henry decided that the answer to what his wife Lisa called his “mid-life crisis” (he disdained the phrase), was a used silver and black motorcycle he found on Craigslist. Despite Lisa’s pleadings that he “find a safer outlet”, here he stood on a complete stranger’s driveway looking at the bike and listening to the seller’s final instructions.
“Alright man, you have any other questions?” The stranger asked, squinting his eyes at Henry.
The seller was twenty years younger than Henry and tried to hide his concern that the older man paying cash for the bike didn’t seem very confident or knowledgeable about this, or any other motorcycle. The stranger found it odd that someone buying a motorcycle would ask him to “give a little demonstration on starting it up” and ask for a “short ride” and tutorial. The seller obliged, but now it was time to close the deal and send the man on his way.
Lisa watched the interaction from her white SUV, windows rolled up. She imagined what they were discussing and let out a sigh, biting her lip anxiously. She had promised to drive Henry to the man’s house and insisted on following him home for the bike’s maiden ride. She shared the seller’s concerns, despite Henry’s frequent insistence that he’d had “plenty of experience” when he was younger. “Plus”, he added on one occasion, “You might find something sexy about your man on a motorcycle.” Lisa reminded him that he was more attractive alive than dead, and pleaded with him to take up “pottery or something safer”. Still, he was persistent, and she wanted to be supportive. And she had to admit that his nightly online perusing of cheap, used, motorcycles had been a welcome change to an increasing number of arguments over the children, the house, their jobs, their parents, financial worries, and on and on.
I should note that many feelers do this in their relationships with age. I admit that I don’t understand it. One would think that with more life experiences, the ability to maintain perspective and decorum in their most important associations would be more common. Sometimes it is. But often it isn’t.
The past year had seen their relationship strain more than any before it, and they both knew it. Additionally, this time of year was usually the most difficult for them. Henry lost his father in October four years prior to a tragic hit and run. He was exceptionally healthy at the age of sixty-eight and was on a bike ride that morning, properly positioned in the biker’s lane, when a pickup truck clipped him going 50 mph on a 35 mph road, sending his dad careening off the road and into a bus-stop bench and its concrete base. The driver fled as two people waiting for the bus called 911 and attempted CPR. He was pronounced dead at the scene. The driver, a twenty-two year old man, was found three days later, and it was discovered he was texting while driving and knowingly fled the scene. He was sentenced to two years in jail, something Henry felt was far too lenient. His father was his best friend. Each fall his wife noticed an increased irritability and somberness in his demeanor, which lasted through the holidays. At least the motorcycle was a welcome reprieve from the friction, though it didn’t come without worry.
“I think I’m ready,” Henry responded, half to the seller, and half to himself.
He handed the man an envelope of cash which was quickly counted.
“Alright, have fun and be safe,” the man said, handing Henry a black matted helmet with a visor.
Henry nodded and turned toward his wife as he slipped the helmet on, as if watching him pull the straps tightly under his chin would somehow quell her concerns. Then he stepped over the bike, popped up the kickstand, and started the engine. He gave her what she found to be a very-corny thumbs up. She laughed as he gently pulled ahead of her down the driveway and onto the quiet street. As she put the car in drive and followed him out of the neighborhood and toward the highway, she had to admit, he looked much more under control than she had expected. She loosened her grip on the wheel and felt a smile forming at the corners of her mouth.
Maybe there really is something sexy about a man with a motorcycle, she thought.
Now, it should be stated that while a bevy of clouds were obscuring my light this particular Friday evening, it was only 5:56 pm and the sky was still plenty bright. Visibility was good for everyone on the road, including Henry and Lisa, and, despite a few storms earlier that week, there was no rain on this day. Henry felt confident as he turned onto the highway which led back home, just fifteen minutes away. With his wife Lisa behind him, he increased his speed until he was going about 58 mph. The speed limit was 60 mph. He felt his hands relax. He took a deep breath and smiled gently, certain he had never made a better purchase. He found himself longing for this newfound biker’s confidence to translate to the other areas of his struggling life. He saw farms on one side of him and a lake on the other side. He saw it all pass slowly despite his speed.
A golf course.
Some billboards.
Trees.
Fields of corn.
Another lake.
When it came time for him to get off the highway and onto the road that led to their town, Henry turned on his blinker and began exiting via the ramp to his right. He looked into his mirror to see that Lisa was still following him and, without thinking, adjusted the mirror with his right hand just as his front tire hit a baseball-sized rock, causing the bike to jolt under him. He quickly replaced his hand, overcorrecting. He tightened every muscle in his body in an effort to will the bike to stop its loss of control, but… well you might guess what happened next. Everything turned to slow motion as I watched from the sky. It was even slower for Henry. One second felt like thirty.
A loud screech.
Gravel.
A popped tire.
Skid marks.
The motorcycle fell to the road, its new rider underneath.
Sliding.
Spinning.
Dirt.
Grass.
Tree.
A deafening sound.
Silence.
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