** Lost and Found **

It’s ominous.
She tilts her head, uses the visor of her helmet to block out the sun. Stares out across the expanse. Like being on the moon. Alone.
Thinks about it, then. How it would feel – getting lost out there. Empty.
Shrugs off the feeling in her stomach. Finds a heading. Nods to herself – satisfied.  
“Out that way,” she says, her voice muffled – points. Turns around. “It won’t be dark for hours so… we can get out a ways and be okay.”
Just have to get out there, first. Shakes her head.
“Okay – look – it’s easy,” she sighs, pulling off her helmet. Hangs it from the grip. Walks over to the front of the bike. Points to the right. “You’ve got your throttle here – “ pushes in on the throttle. “Your front break here,” pulls the lever. Switches to the left. “Your clutch here.” Unscrews the cap on the tank. Rocks the machine with her hip – sloshing means they’re good to go. “You’re good and gassed…”
Throws a hip onto the seat – leans over, bends down. Pulls off her glove, stuffs it in her mouth.
“Yer gath iths here – iths on tho don worry bout it. Choke isth here – leave it on for a bit cuth iths thill cold.”  Pushes on the lever by the foot peg with her palm, “back break here. Uthse thith one mothly tho you don noth dive.”
Stops. Furrows her brows. Waits. Waits.
“Awww… fuck…” Drops the glove from her mouth, sits up – spits out dirt. Frowns. “Okay – that was nasty.”
He chuckles. “Sexy, babe.”
“Oh yeah – you know it.” She spits again. Smiles.
“Pay attention, you.” Hops off the seat, crouches down on the left side. “Your shifter is here,” grabs the knob sticking out by the foot peg, pushes down, “one down is first,” pulls up and counts off the clicks, “you got second, third, fourth and fifth on the ups.” Downshifts. “Swiss is neutral – in the middle. It’s easy to find on this bike -” stands, “you get the green light up here when you’re in.” Points between the handle bars.
“Okay…” examines the bike, “you’re lucky cuz you don’t have to kick it. Just turn the key to on,” points by the tank, “switch this to run,” points to the switch, “push to start and voilà. To turn it off just go into neutral and hit the kill switch.”
Does a walk through around the bike. Picks up her glove. “I think that’s it…”
“Oh. Is that all?” He laughs, crosses his arms over his chest. Shakes his head.
“It’s easy. You’ll love it.” Studies him. “Hold on…” walks over to the toy box. Grabs a pair of riding boots. Chucks one over to him. “See if these fit.”
He catches the boot, frowns. “Whose are these?”
“My bothers. From when he was like, ten.”
“Wow… I’m… not wearing these. It’s bad enough I’m wearing the rest of his gear… from six years ago. My shoes are fine.”
She dangles the boot at her side. Shoots one arm to her hip, eyebrows raised.
“You’ll wear ‘em, sir,” she laughs, “and when your foot gets caught on a rock or your shin gets slapped by a bush, you’ll thank me.” Takes an animated step closer. “On your hands and knees,” another step, “and start kissing my feet.” Inches in front of him now. Smiles. Stares into his smirking face.
Shoves the other boot into his chest. He lets out a “humph” and doubles over, laughing.
From the other side of camp, Rikki bellows – “You gonna ride that thing cupcake or just stand there and talk about it all day!”
He glances up at her, smiles. Laughs. Straightens. “Okay professor, you heard the man.”
On her tippy toes, she pushes up, kisses him.
“Oh get on it already! For fuck’s sake…”
“Hey Rikki – we’re not at work right now so when I tell you to kiss my ass you can’t fire me! So – KISS MY ASS!” he yells back.
“Easy babe… he’s got, like, a hundred pounds on you still…” She pats his chest, turns – walks over to her bike. As he’s pulling on the boots, says, “I’ll follow you. Just start it in neutral, pull your clutch, go to first… then ease out while you give ‘er some gas.”
Pulls the choke. Turns on the gas. Flips the key. Switches to start. Legs twitch and the hairs on her arms stand up. Deep breath – iiinnnnnn. Ooouuuuut. Pulls on her helmet. Goggles. Gloves. Looks to him and gives him the go.
His bike starts. Pulls the clutch. Goes to first. Eases out… the bike revs… spits out grey smoke… jerks forward. Stalls. He rocks forward – catches himself. Looks over at her, shrugs.
“Again!” she yells.
He tries again. Eases out on the clutch. Stalls.
“Again!”
Stalls.
“Again!” she chuckles.
Stalls.
“You’re popping the clutch. Don’t let go just because the bike starts to move – just do it slowly.”
He tries again. Gets further this time – stalls.
She says nothing. Waits.
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt”>Once more and he gets it – takes off into the brush. She listens – waits for it, but the sound of the engine doesn’t stop. Smiles. And so it begins. Bends over, pulls out the kicker. Stands. Deep breath – adjusts the handle bars – sets her leg – kicks – the bike roars to life. Pre-mix fumes shoot out and envelop her. She takes a deep breath. Adjusts her gloves.
“It’s about time!” Rikki yells, his laughter overpowering the rinnn-rinnnn-riiinnnn of the bike. She giggles. Flips him off. And goes.
 
 
Everybody has a place. Maybe it’s from childhood. A baseball field. A park. A friend’s house. Grandma’s. Or older. A bookstore. A coffee shop. It’s where you go when you want to stop. Thinking. Worrying. Hurting. Seeing.
Being seen.
The desert has always been hers.
When they were kids, her parents had this giant piggy bank – in the shape of a coca-cola bottle. That’s where the change went. All year they’d watch it fill up. Come winter, they’d empty it out, roll it up. Cash it in. Rent a motorhome. Head out to the desert.
They had three wheelers back in those days. Her dad had found them for sale on the side of the road. Money was tight. Money was always tight. He pulled out his savings, anyway. Brought them to a friend’s house – hid them in the garage. On Christmas morning, there they were. In the front yard. Old and beaten up. One red. One yellow. She squealed – ran to the Honda. Pulled herself up. Scooted forward so her brother could fit behind. Her sister jumped on the Suzuki. Mom smiled at the front door. Dad teared up. Hid his face.
Her parents thought they’d outsmarted the kids – once they learned how to ride – keeping the bikes in second gear so they wouldn’t go too fast. Mom’s orders. It didn’t take too long for them to find out how to shift – they’d wait till they got further out, where dad wouldn’t hear the change in the engine – pull the clutch, flick the foot – ride out into the nothing.
A man from camp got lost, one time. Separated from the group on a ride. Spent the night out in the desert by himself – froze his ass off while they looked for him. When they found him, brought him back around three in the morning, he was laughing about how scared he was. The women sat him by the fire. Popped him open a beer. They all gathered ‘round, laughed through worried jaws.
After that, she and her sister would carry walkie talkies. Mom’s orders. Strapped to their boot – bulky and out of place, here, in the nothing. At first they hated them – hated that their parents could keep that connection this far from home. They got used to them, though. After a while. Had fun with them, even. Played hide and seek. Her sister would take off in one direction. She’d go the other. Once she was good and alone, she’d radio in – “Marco!” Wait for it. The voice. Her sister.
Wait for it. The sound of the wind answering back – rustling a bush, hurrying a lizard, sending a thousand grains of sand dancing through the wash.
Wait for it.
Static. Fumbling. More static. He sister’s voice, then, yelling “Polo!” And, off in the distance, the revving of a Suzuki – and then nothing. That feeling in her legs would return. The hair on her arms would stand on edge. And she’d shift, take off, ride out toward the echoing.
 
 
It doesn’t take long for her to catch up to him on the flats. Pulls up beside him, motions him to close the choke – revs the engine, salutes – turns into the bushes and stands up to fly over a stretch of woops. Feels the burning in her legs and an earthquake in her arms.
Just go fast. Just go fast. Just go. Go. Go.
And they do. They go until they reach the place where the wash splits in two – veers off around a mountain. He goes one way. She goes the other.
Alone now. She rides against the sun, upshifting and downshifting with each change of terrain, every incline, when things start going downhill. She’s alone.
Out here, getting lost is easy. Left looks right. Frontwards is backwards. A bush is a bush is a bush. She watches as it blurs by – tries to draw a map in her head. Turns left. Turns right. Up a hill. Down the other side. Bush. Cactus. Bush. Ravine. Bush.
Impossible. The map disappears – shaken from her memory like an etch-a-sketch.
She goes faster.
Curves around a hill – stops. Goes Swiss. Hits the kill switch. Listens. Listens.
Nothing.
Reaches down. Pulls out the walkie talkie.
“Marco!”
Waits.
 
Nothing.
 
“Marco!!!”
 
Nothing.
Worries, then. Oh God – what if he stalled? What if he can’t get it going again? What if he fell in a ravine? Body trembling, she stands. Listens.
Empty.   
Shit. She looks down at the walkie talkie. Wills it to come alive.
Shit. What if I’m fuckin lost. I’m fuckin lost and I’m alone. Starts to panic – seizing in her chest.
Static, then. A beep. “Shit.” A crash. “God damn it.” More static. “He-hello… I me-Polo!” Static. Nothing.
She smiles. Exhales the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Puts the walkie talkie to her lips. “Thought I lost you there, Polo. Now… rev the engine!”
And she hears it then, somewhere out in the distance. Away from the sun. It calls to her – and in the calling, she realizes – there can be no lost. Not out here. Not with him.
<div style="margin: 0in 0in10pt”>It’s not lost when you’re with the only person you’d ever want to find.
The thought tickles her, warms her on the inside. Makes her laugh out loud to the mountains. Smiles when their laughter echoes back. Listens.
And begins again. Kicks the bike to life. Tugs on her gloves. And goes.
Away from the sun. Toward the sound of a revving engine.
To find him.