Brought back to earth by the stink of the Stingray’s burned rubber, I put the MG into gear and ease through the intersection. Even though it’s practically sweltering out and the MG doesn’t have air-conditioning, I drive with the top up, not wanting to be seen. That’s why the guy in the Stingray thought I was a chick. It’s night and all he saw was a classic car and long hair.

But this minor incident pushes me over an invisible line. Each time I settle into the MG’s red leather seat, I find myself surrounded by a hornet’s nest of memories. The hours of drudgery spent washing, simonizing, and waxing, not to mention scrubbing road tar and dirt off the wire wheels with brushes soaked in a noxious cleaner called Gunk. And seeing the blond woman in the passenger seat when Robin and I drove to Maine. I hated driving into the factory parking lot this morning, where my coworkers stared. Rich white boy, indeed! I hate feeling beholden to the paterfamilias for lending me this symbol of financial excess and infidelity.

I’m going to have to do something.

Tuesday, July 29

“What do you think you can afford?” Lou Wilkinson dabs his flushed red face with a stained, yellowed handkerchief. The showroom at Wilkinson Motorsports is dimly lit, filled with uncomfortably warm, stagnant air and dusty European motorcycles like BMWs, Triumphs, Nortons, and Ducatis.

What guy hasn’t dreamed of having a motorcycle? Ever since Dylan wore that Triumph T-shirt on the cover of Highway 61 Revisited, it’s been on my mind. Could anything be cooler? Besides, with everyone going off to college in a month, it’s not like I need a vehicle I can give my friends rides in.

I tell Lou what I can spend. It’s not nearly enough for a Triumph, but he does have a used BSA B40, a British cycle with a 343 cc engine, that will fit my budget. He proudly tells me that BSA stands for Birmingham Small Arms, a company that makes everything from motorcycles and bicycles to machine guns and armored cars and has been in business for more than a hundred years. (I feel momentary discomfort about purchasing a cycle made by a company that profits from the business of war, but I’m not aware of the U.K. being involved in Vietnam.)

I’ve never ridden a cycle before, so we take the BSA out to the parking lot, where Lou shows me how to kick-start and shift gears. Thanks to Odysseus and the MG, I’m familiar with the coordination of clutch and gearshift. Lou encourages me to take a spin around the parking lot. I like the throaty rumble of the BSA’s exhaust.