That would be foolhardy in the extreme.

I cling on. The wind—which was a gentle breeze five minutes ago—seems to roar past me now, in gusts. A group of schoolboys on the pavement put their fingers in their mouths and whistle as we pass. No doubt due to the visibility of my knickers. I can’t even bring myself to care about the impropriety of this. Fear has banished my usual observance of social mores. I make it through the village.

Now we are on a tree-lined narrow road. The branches reach and bend, meet their opposite numbers in the center of the road, creating a tunnel effect. Through the leaves, the sunlight pokes, glinting against my bare arms and legs and casting patterns along the surface of the road that move—almost dance—as the wind ruffles the leaves. At the end of the tunnel, the countryside flows away on both sides; a calm sea of greens and golds, rushing like a tide to meet the sky.

But there’s an oncoming car. Which passes us uneventfully.

But up ahead, a lumbering tractor.

Which I overtake with strict adherence to the indicator and mirrors. The farmer waves at me, and, while it is rude not to acknowledge the kindly gesture, lifting my hand off the handlebar is not yet in my gift.

After a while, I allow my grip to slacken somewhat to encourage the flow of blood to my fingers.

After a while, I stop thinking about death or paraplegia or even quadriplegia. I’m not relaxed by any means. My breath continues to come in staccato bursts, but I don’t think it’s fear. It’s a sensation that feels like an eruption of goose bumps, except it doesn’t make you shiver with cold but instead, ignites something inside you. Like a fire. One that is wild and out of control but not life-threatening so there is no worrying to be done.

I don’t whoop. Mostly because of the constraints of the helmet. But I do think about it.

I arrive at the lakeside much too soon. Dad is still asleep. Iris is lying beside him, reading her book. She dog-ears the page when she sees the motorbike, closes the book, and sets it on the grass, her eyes trained on me. The logical part of her brain knows it’s me. She must recognize my dress, even if it is hitched around my thighs.

But she doesn’t quite believe it.

“Terry?” She gapes at me as I swing my leg over the bike, jump off, and pull the helmet off my head. My hair tumbles around my face. I appear to have lost my bobbin.

“Sorry,” I say. “Was I ages?”

“You rode a motorbike.”

“Yes,” I say, kicking the stand down, like I’ve been parking motorbikes for years.

“But you’re terrified of motorbikes,” says Iris.

I shake my head. “I’m actually not. I just presumed I was.”

Dad sits up, rubs his eyes. “What’s going on?” he says.

“We’re getting the car fixed,” I say, sitting down beside him. Through the fabric of my dress, the grass is warm and soft. “There’s a mechanic on his way,” I tell them.