A Day Off Work (or The Boy on the Bike)

A day off suggests play;

A day out, away, to somewhere else:

Treats on new streets; panoramic vistas; good friends.

Lunch on a patio, pretty cakes on platters; sunsets.

I was at a golf club

In the leafy depths of England's countryside.

Greens and green fields, littered by trees.

Home of buggies, trollies and

Mid-morning pints, the scattered loud laughter

Of the gleeful retired.

Freckly legs, hairy and white-bordered with ankle socks,

Strapped by sandals.

Masculine checked upholstery, designed for purpose.

"Marjorie, do you want a ginger ale?"

The chink of club hitting a dimpled ball;

Sun hitting grass, expanding a fair way.

I don't play golf. I don't like golf.

It was a day thrust upon me

By myself, of my own making

But not of my own choosing.

Not a treat

But mistreatment of another

Brought me here.

One dark winter's night, slippery, wet, gloomy:

My boy's basketball practice and we were late -

I forced a boy from his motorbike

In a move hasty and ill-conceived,

Rushed and regrettable.

Not a close shave.

Bruised, shocked, shaken but not broken - he was alright

But I felt the shame like a slap!

I made a mistake.

My boy was witness to my lack of care.

I was lucky. I believe that. So was he, the boy on the bike.

Minor injuries only, no ambulance needed.

A lesson delivered by Death, his closeness to me

To us that night, in His hood

With his macabre grinning face

Rubbing his skeletal finger on His blade

Preparing for the grim reaping,

Raised and trembling

His scythe skimming my face,

And those of others

Like an unwanted caress.

I quaked with it, to my core.

The aftermath was tense: Consequences Pending.

- What will be my fate?

Branded dangerous, inconsiderate, unsafe?

Banned?

All were judgements suggested.

And then a letter arrives:

You must attend a course at a golf course.

Months later, the day off comes.

Booked.

Strange venue for a chastening;

Pastoral with pensioners pursuing

Their languid leisure time.

I am conscious of the incongruity:

Peaceful punishment for careless car crash.

We were five penitents,

One no show.

Sam was late, traffic to blame.

Dark room, sun blocked out.

A white screen of scenarios and

Bullet points.

We were made to confess

By our assessor/confessor:

"Why are you here?"

He was sombre, befitting the mood.

Dominant in his authoritarian stature;

Physically present and experience oozing.

I felt embarrassed being there

Like a naughty child kept behind at school:

A detention enforced for bad behaviour,

A learned lesson needed.

But I was relieved by the discussion:

A cleansing of sorts.

I was not alone that day.

There was comfort in the confession;

Sharing the shame.

Soon, the lecture was over.

The mood palpable in its lightening

As tension leaves with its chaperone of nerves accompanying.

And then, the drive.

Awareness assessment

One-on-one.

Who likes to be tested? By strangers?

Not me, not like this.

We get in the car, focus ready,

Awareness augmented.

Alert.

A sunny day and strange roads

Nothing familiar, nothing certain

Except my trepidation

And the solid presence of the man

Next to me.

How would I perform? Am I safe and considerate?

It was fine - strange but fine.

A drive in the country, wind in my hair,

Roof down, sun blazing

Like Thelma and Louise

In some odd comedic parody.

Less glamorous, less frenzied.

Breezing down lanes, past golden cottages

Of thatch and small lead windows and thick oak doors,

Through dappled lanes where trees cause shadows,

Past neon cyclists struggling on hills,

Slow and unsteady, not winning the race.

I was vigilant. Taut:

Watching. Observing.

The road. The signs. The people.

Learning to be better.

I had a good day.

It was joyful, a surprise!

A reckoning, yes, of seriousness and reflection,

But a ride too; like a tourist

On a Regency trip,

We bounded forwards on tarmac,

Free but within boundaries.

This was unexpected, for sure.

Where was the reprimand?

I drove well, I know.

I was present and measured.

I passed and my slate is clean.

Blackened without mark and unblackened by past mistakes.

Wiped.

But not from memory.

It comes full circle.

I drove to basketball tonight in the same car,

On the same route but at a considered pace.

And now, I sit and write.

The sun sets, creating amplified half-light;

Dusky, sultry, the day fading out:

My day off work.

I am sat, looking at shorn fields which roll and ruck

Split by trees, grouped and singular,

Gathered in gossipy clumps or

Like soldiers, rigid.

Birds flit and birds streak, singing and swooping

Hopping before me, beaks full, beadily eyeing me.

The colours of summer crops

And fecundity before me:

Gold, lime and deep, deep green.

The peak of June.

The squeak of court shoes

And the dull thud of the basketball

Bouncing

Punctuates my writing atmosphere.

The wind catches my paper

And blows hair on my lips.

It tickles and I smile.

I slurp on strawberries;

Pink, succulent, sweet.

Juice drops on my paper from

The snacks of Summer.

It is the end of my day off.

I am reflecting on the dreaded day

Where I had to face my recklessness

And redeem myself in the eyes of the law.

I have enjoyed it. Bizarrely.

I learnt, I confronted, I responded.

I am beyond the event into cathartic territory.

It is over.

But most of all

I feel lucky, looking at the view

Writing, composing

Basking in the encroaching twilight

And I am at peace

With myself.

Because I am sorry.

And because I get to live.

And so does the boy on the bike.