Page 67 of The Side Road
‘I understand. No more sandals or thongs.’
‘You ride in thongs?’
‘Of course not.’ She cleared her throat. ‘What about a dress, on a warm day? Around town?’
He hesitated. ‘They’re your legs.’
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’ From the pocket of her jacket, she took out a scarf and wrapped it several times around her neck. Then she pulled on the helmet. ‘It’s too tight,’ she said.
‘It’s safe.’ He checked the helmet for size, wiggling it from side to side. Satisfied, he tapped her on the top of the head.
They travelled north on The Tourist Drive. The BMW wound its way through the countryside. In the sidecar with Snood at her feet, the guard protected Mia from the wind.The bike rumbled softly, the only sound breaking the rural silence, as if they were a part of the scenic panorama.
Forty minutes out of town, Oliver took a left turn for Windemere Lake. Travelling down the hill toward the river, the bike slowed. It spluttered, and the engine stopped. He checked the petrol gauge. The needle was at half-full. The bike rolled down the hill, and they turned into the picnic area.
Oliver dismounted. He opened the petrol tank, peered inside, and swayed the bike from side to side. ‘The petrol gauge?’
Mia climbed out of the sidecar. ‘Shit. The gauge must have broken. I swear something on this bike breaks every week.’
‘Do you carry spare fuel?’ He knew she didn’t.
‘I’ll call Carlos, the taxi driver. He can bring us a spare can.’
‘No rush,’ Oliver said. He turned and looked at the valley. They were close to the grassy bank of a small creek, with an empty picnic area behind them. ‘Why don’t we set up first?’
Oliver placed the rug on the grass. He opened and poured the wine. Mia dived into the picnic pack. She unwrapped the sandwiches, pies, and cakes, placing the food on the plates. At Mia’s suggestion, Snood stayed in the sidecar until they finished eating; it was safer for everyone. She saved her crusts for him. Oliver did the same. After they finished eating, Snood joined them on the rug. Wagging his tail, he appreciated their thoughtfulness.
Mia rolled onto her side. ‘What’s it like racing?’ she asked. ‘Don’t you get scared?’
‘I started riding when I was four. Being on a bike is as natural as walking. It’s so fucking comfortable. When I’m riding, it’s like a dance.’
‘Do you miss competing? Because you could try again. Valentino Rossi was racing in his thirties. I looked up that fact, hoping to impress you.’
He smiled. Secretly, he had watched far too many of her knitting videos on social media. ‘Sometimes, but it’s not part of my life anymore. I also promised Tash. There was an accident. She was trackside and she lost it. Understandable. I couldn’t do it to her, not after her mother.’ He paused and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I don’t miss the media circus. That was relentless.’
‘In case no one has told you this before, you’re a good parent.’
‘Thank you. I try. For a while, I put my career before my family. I had a bit to make up for. Before Tash was born, I used to lie awake at night, scared shitless. I wanted so badly to be a good dad. Spending so many hours on a bike gives you time to think. I made a decision not to be like my father.’
‘I heard he died.’
‘Henry, no. He’s still alive. Lives north of Townsville on a block covered in cars and machine parts. I’m talking dozens of cars and rusted-out Bedford trucks. You know those houses?’
Mia nodded.
‘These days we don’t have a lot to say, but I call him on his birthday, Christmas, that sort of thing. He wasn’t the worst father in the world. He taught me how to drive and ride a bike. My first car was a second-hand Holden Ute. Dad bought it from a friend of a friend. We picked it up on Saturday morning and he let me drive it home. I’ll never forget it. The way it made me feel. I smiled for a week.’
‘Did you wash it every Sunday?’
‘I did. I’ve spent years trying to escape my dad, but I now know that’s impossible. Part of him is in here.’ Oliver pointedto his chest. ‘A small part. I like to think he was a good man going through a tough time, but childhood reflections have a way of eliciting euphoric responses in me, which may not be true – it’s a type of self-preservation. Henry drank. He drank a lot.’
They sat in silence for a moment, then he said, ‘You can ask me about my mum?’
‘I heard she died when you were young.’ She looked at him. ‘That must have been awful.’
‘I was ten – she had breast cancer. She opted for alternative treatments, but nothing she tried worked.’
‘That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.’ She bit her bottom lip.
