by Jamie Ott
~~~
It was particularly black that April night, as he rode north, along the ocean, toward San Francisco. His blood boiled angry-hot for many miles, and his cell phone rang every half hour. He knew it was his father, but he just didn’t care. They had been through struggles, similar to what happened that evening, and they always ended the same way: Jacko sent to his room, and his father and Anna off drinking and partying.
Despite the cold air, Jacko sweated excessively. He took off his helmet and allowed the wind to dry his soaked face. Deeply, he inhaled the ocean air, and, with each exhale, he felt his anxiety-stiffened muscles relax.
His face was still sweaty when he put the helmet back on, but he didn’t want a ticket, and he didn’t have a license. Jacko’s phone started to vibrate in his pocket again; he grabbed it, looked at the screen, saw it was his father, and threw it to the side of the road.
Three hours later, he rode into the small township of Gonzalez, off the 101 freeway. Too tired to ride anymore, he went east at the first stop sign, and then went off-road into a large grassy area.
A wide berthed, barren tree with numerous leaveless branches stood 100 yards away from the road. Jacko rode up, and parked his bike behind the tree.
He swung his tired, stiff leg off the scooter, yanked off his helmet, and stretched long and hard toward the sky. Jacko put his helmet on the rack, and pulled his tarp and sleeping bag out from the luggage compartment. After spreading the tarp and sleeping bag on the ground, he climbed into it and fell asleep, instantly.
Dawn was cracking, but that wasn’t what woke Jacko. A semi-truck, lugging its way to the freeway blew its horn, scaring the heck out of him. After that, it was hard to ignore the deep penetration of the sun’s rays that bled through his sleeping bag as well as his closed eyes. He tried to nod off again, anyway, but the chill from the ground was already forcing multiple waves of shivers through his muscles and joints; then another truck on the road blew its lousy horn.
After a few moments, he gave up trying to sleep. He got up and packed his items. The morning chill was harsh, so he hurried to the road, and then looked for a café where he could thaw out.
His fingers recoiled on the chilly bike handles, and his teeth chattered against his chin strap. He should have looked through the luggage compartment and gotten his leather gloves. Oh well.
