She was pinned to the ground. He was walking slowly towards her. “Stay calm, don’t move.” He used the voice you reserve for animals stuck in a trap. She felt helpless as he lumbered towards her, a large, slow man. She started kicking the dead weight, trying to slide away from under it. His voice took on a tone of urgency, “Be careful, don’t, don’t.” He tried hurrying along, she believed he did, but she was starting to panic, and he still did not move quickly enough. She managed to scrape her boot from under the motorcycle, marking the fuel tank. He pulled the motorbike off her, had a look at the tank. “Why couldn’t you wait? I told you to wait.” His precious bike. He didn’t even check her out for scratches. She pulled herself off from the ground, dusted herself off. The shoelaces of one boot were worn off from the slide, the boot ripped open. They were still salvageable. She was glad she had been wearing construction steel-toed boots. That could have been her skin. She was wearing jeans and a leather coat, leather gloves, helmet. Nothing else was frayed. She hadn’t been going fast, they were practising with cones in a parking lot. She had skidded out of control, not sure how or why. She didn’t care to know. She probably had been going too slow, tried to redress instead of being one with the beast. She was told it was like riding a horse. You should not fight it, just try and be one with it, follow its movements. Her experience with horses was limited to an unfortunate ride at day camp. The horse had tried to bite her and chewed leaves and bushes instead of walking sedately with the others. She was told to kick it but she did not have the heart, and so it nibbled. She had hated every minute of it, the height, the uncomfortable seat, the power she did not master. The other kids had moved along nicely, nobody struggling. She had declined to ride the following week. Said she had female troubles. They left her alone to chat with the instructor on a bale of hay, in the shade.
She wasn’t even sore. She tried limping, to give him a bad conscience. “You need to ride her again now, so you won’t be afraid next time.” She obeyed, docile. It wasn’t an animal she was afraid of. She circled the cones, cautiously, leaning in, giving a little more gas than before, gliding in a smooth figure 8. He was in the middle, a lion tamer, his voice a limp whip waiting for a mistake to rear up its head. No mistakes. “Enough for the day. Let’s pack her in.” They gathered the cones, put them in his side saddle. He looked again at the scuff mark, at her, reproachfully. She looked back. He knew better than to start an argument when she was like that. There would be other times.