End of the Road by Sandy Krausnick

End of the Road
by Sandy Krausnick

I step lightly in my boots out the back door, making sure not to let the screen door slam shut. In the garage, I flip the kickstand on my Harley and walk it down the driveway. Tally needs her sleep after what she’s been through. I straddle the well-worn seat of my soft tail, snap the button on my half-shell helmet, start the engine, shoulder check, and twist my fist.  I settle into my ride with the rumble beneath me and head out of the city. I have respite for two hours.

I turn onto the highway after a steady stream of vehicles and pay close attention to those around me. Everyone’s in a hurry. Tally has voiced her concern. I acknowledge a rider going the opposite direction on the divided highway. I accelerate and feel the flow, the wind in my face. In a previous life, I must have been a dog with my head hanging out the window. That smile, that look of wild abandon, that’s me, every time I ride. After 10 hours of surgery and 16 days in the hospital, will Tally ever have this feeling? Her recovery will take months, years even.

Most of the traffic is dispersing onto country roads and businesses along the highway. I return to the right lane and remember my Uncle Jerry introducing me to the road when I was 13 on the back of his Indian motorcycle on a ride around our neighbourhood. He wasn’t wearing a helmet that day, and I wasn’t wearing shoes. Mom just about brained us both and disowned him. But oh, the air, the openness around me, that’s what hooked me.

A car ahead of me slows near the off-ramp but doesn’t signal. This is my exit. I slow down to see if he’s going to turn, but there is no indicator flashing.  I’m headed to the campsite where Tally and I met at a bonfire 27 years ago. The car continues up the highway. I put on my signal and start up the ramp. I see the red taillights at the same time the car’s back bumper comes right at me. I swerve to miss the hit I’m sure is coming. There is gravel on the shoulder. My back tire wobbles as I hit the brakes and struggle to keep control. The car accelerates ahead. The skid has me drop the bike on its side. I scramble out from under, my heart banging. 

At the stop sign ahead, the driver waves out his window and turns left.

“Asshole.” 

A couple more inches, and that could have killed me. Where would that leave Tally?

In the foothills, with a Rocky Mountain backdrop, I enter the campsite we love. I take off my helmet, sit on the picnic table and breathe in the heavily treed area. Our initials are still carved into the back of the Site 21 sign. We’d come out on a Wednesday before a busy weekend and set up a tent to make sure we got this site. Some high school friends from that first bonfire still come here. First with their kids and now with their grandkids. We won’t make it out this year. Mouth cancer. Sliced from ear to ear to remove lymph nodes, all her teeth removed and part of her tongue. We didn’t know if she’d make it. She almost didn’t. We will get through this. I promised her. If she can survive that surgery, I can be here to support her recovery. 

I look at my Harley; one of my greatest pleasures can also get me killed. I wipe the moisture off my face. The stakes are too high. I check my watch. Time to get back.

Tally is sitting up in bed when I get home. She’s looking at our snorkelling pictures from Hawaii months before her diagnosis.

She writes on her pad. You don’t know when it’s the last time.

I crawl across the bed to hold her. She’s not wrong. 

Bonus audio of Sandy reading her story…

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