GETTING AWAY

MY BIKE IS TANGLED in thorns at the bottom of a ravine, hurled there by a boy I thought I loved.

The relationship had been intense. The kind where you’re certain you’ll spend the rest of your lives together, even though you’re 21 and don’t know what ‘the rest of your lives’ means.

It was summer on an island off the New England coast known for rugged cliffside beaches and Victorian hotels. I’d ride all over on my sky-blue, 12-speed Univega with toe clips. To the beach. To get groceries. To the laundromat, where – to save money – I’d shove my clean wet clothes into a canvas bag, then balance it on my handlebars for the ride home.

Some nights after whiskey at Captain Nick’s, I’d pedal, wobbly, down the dirt road to where I lived, with my eyes closed because I couldn’t see anyway. I’d smile in the dark.

On days off I’d ride a 25-kay loop around the island. Which felt something like exercise, and made me feel good.

The relationship had started because the boy was everything other boys hadn’t been: attentive, appreciative, adoring.

My friends saw something different in him, something less benign.

By late in the summer, I had started to feel a tug. My friends were getting jobs in the city. He didn’t want to move to the city. He wanted to drive across the country. I wanted to be near family.

I told him I needed to leave. He lost his mind. It happened that fast. Maybe he thought that without my bike I couldn’t leave him.

I crawl into the brambles. The thorns bite my skin. I pull until the clinging branches let go– there’s no way I’m going anywhere without my bike.