On Motorcycles and Intuition

The why of it I don't know, but I was born
with a fear of motorcycles, the noise of them
terrified me. On the street of the house I first lived
they would go loudly to their destination, my eyes tracking
their to and fro movements, up and down the stretch
of pavement that was the stage for the theatre of traffic
I watched as I played. My front yard
was a front seat for terror when motorcycles entered
the scene, surprising me with roaring engines, the popping
of exhaust through tailpipes. My audience eyes went wide, hands clapping
to ears. This I knew

as afraid. Unknowing
of how it got in me, I accepted
it. Motorcycles were
something to be feared. And that was
that. No more
was said or done, except for my body
to note it, to write down somewhere in the code
of cells a reminder NOTE TO SELF: watch
for bikes with loud engines coming
toward you. Another fear
that wrote itself down in me
was a being of afraid of a certain road: Oregonia Road
it was named, a road that wound itself through
the Oregonia River Valley, legendary for death
in motorists who missed
the surprise of its curves. It scared me
this often-traveled road on our way to river
or bike path or lake or trail across the glacier-formed beauty
of scars that rose up and sank down into the

skin of Ohio. We live
in the ups and downs of our geography, the earth
a body we traverse with our own bodies. We go in and out
and around it, stomachs rising to throats as we crest
the hills and feel the bottoming out in the low dips. We love
this, push the pedal down harder on it. The thrill of it
brings an alive like no other
alive. And Oregonia Road brings it. For me
I live in afraid of the driving
of this road. And more so in the passenger seat
of it, without control
of the fear that drives me

to avoid it. The driver's seat was mine
the day I was returning
home from a day's hike in woods
and lake with soggy kids
in the back seat singing. The knowingness
came upon me right then, opening pages of
an old notebook with scribbled notes
from the past, a lesson written down
and not yet learned. But for this moment
I had studied. I had listened,
paid attention,
gathered the information, and I knew it. I knew
what needed to be done: Go slow, watch the curves.
The knowledge of it rose up in me
and out my skin in cold goose bumps
tingling. I passed
the day-tripping outdoor enthusiasts:
the cyclists en route to the bike trail,
kayakers with loaded roof racks headed for
river paddling, and then
in the slow rounding of another bend
I faced down the fear
I had come to know. Coming towards me,
a motorcycle, its helmeted rider steering
the lightning speed movement of rubber and plastic and steel
back across the center line so that
in a moment that was less than a blink we passed
safely next to one another. In my soul lives
knowledge of another road that in another time and space led
to the destiny of full-on collision, a different reality of
the moment of passing becoming the wreckage
of matter smashing into matter
and lives blown apart across the landscape
of Spring growing up along the Oregonia Roadside
the impending bloom
of ditch lilies next to shattered
glass and bodies. The drive continues, wheels turning over
the subtle shift of Karma undone, the new soul knowing:
the reason for fear is over and earth spins
in stride with it.

Dedicated to Rebecca Kilker Boatman, in memory of her brother Barry Kilker, an angel to both of us.