I was sitting out on the back patio of a house that Bill owned. Tim was there to my right. Tim was talking but no sound could be heard. Bill had a golf green in the backyard, it was quite large, like a real golf green. The back of the green rolled upward a bit then turned to rougher taller grass. Beyond that the landscape turned up steeply as the house was set against a hill.
Bill was trying to trim the tall grass around the green with a weedwacker. It was clear that that wasn’t the preferred tool for the job. He was getting frustrated with the results. The weedwacker was hard to control on the angled ground that surrounded the perfectly manicured green and it occasionally bit into the smooth surface of the putting green. This kept happening. I was aware that things were getting worse in this regard and the green was becoming increasingly scared with the uncontrollable lashing of the weed whacker. It was clear that things were getting worse, not better. With each new slash into the delicate pristine putting green I could sense Bill’s mounting frustration. Then things took a turn and the slashes became intentional, the putting green was being destroyed purposefully. Then the weed whacker was thrown away into the distance and Bill was no longer there.
Tim was still talking but could not be heard. It was like his audio was being connected to a different system, routed to speakers elsewhere. The putting green was all but destroyed, only scant bits of green grass were left. Then I heard a motocross bike coming hard and fast. I knew it was Bill. He hit the putting green hard on the brakes and leaned into the soft muddy surface carving a perfect berm through it and spraying bits of grass and mud into the air behind him as he wicked on full throttle in visceral anger. He did circular laps off the putting green then back into it, each time the tracks through the green got deeper and more gnarly. This went on for a long time until the putting green and the entire area around it was destroyed into a muddy motocross turn on a national track at the end of a long weekend of racing—smoldering deep grooves of mud, the end result of vicious racing.
I walked west to the edge of Bill’s property. The dirt road there ended at the edge of a steep decent into the valley below. The earth, the hillside, that descended down below the road was quilted like a comforter, surreal and not like any real world terrain. In my mind, I was imagining what it would be like to ride my motocross bike down it. How would I survive that, how would I navigate it. I was visualizing it in my mind as I looked at it. I couldn’t decide if I was ultra skilled and could do it beautifully or if I’d be quickly killed. It was hard to tell, both seemed possible.
To the south I could see that the rolling hills made a perfect motocross track. Dozens of riders were riding there on a perfect track, just the right moisture, sand, dirt, jumps, turns. It was really perfect and I could see it. I was so wanting to ride there. It was the kind of track I always wanted as a kid. I could imagine myself riding my new bike there. I became aware that I had a brand new CR 250F that I had not yet ridden. I was hesitant to get it dirty despite the allure of the perfect track.
Then there was an enormous noise in the distance behind me. It was the start of motocross race. I was standing at the western edge of the road. On the east side of that road was Bill’s property, the house, the grounds, the putting green. When I turned around this enormous field of racers charged past and to the north along the road. It was amazing and intense. So much speed. The road made a left turn around the hill that was the back of Bill’s destroyed putting green. The road then made a dangerous left turn and descended into the valley. All the racers charged this turn and many overshot it, leaping unexpectedly off the edge of the corner and down into who-knows-what. I was terrified for them. I thought that some must have died doing this.
As the last of racers past me and the sound of them faded, a woman pulled up on a different kind of motorcycle. It was a road bike, low to the ground and longer. She was naked. She came to stop just past me and looked back over her shoulder at me. Her ass on the seat was perfect. The small of her back arched slightly above her ass and long legs extended down the side of the bike. I got on the back behind her excited for her skin against my clothing. We continued down the road and made the left turn that then descended into the valley. There were large puddles of water that spanned the road. We drove over them without disturbing them much, if at all. I was anxious as we approached them because I know how they can affect a bike at speed but she and her bike glided over them and we went faster. At some point the world became very clean and mechanical with large smooth surfaces. The road became a perfectly smooth cement aqueduct with angled walls. We drove under large featureless structures and all the light became green and yellow. All the surfaces were smooth but they reflected nothing. Large spans of still water on the ground continued to appear and we navigated them the same way as before.
I was extremely excited about the sensual feeling of her body against mine and the feeling of her muscles moving against me as she operated the bike. I wanted her.