Even in lives gently lived — removed from aggression, cruelty and violence — some moments sear themselves into our memories and cling long, despite our efforts to cleanse ourselves.
I experienced such a time in my 20s, a moment that outlasted any concerns I carried that day as I prepared my shopping list, that survived the unhappy dog I leashed as I left the cabin, that outlasted my marriage to the good man who waved from his work as I began my routine drive into town.
As I braked for another curve on the narrow two-lane road running through the Sierra Nevada Mountains outside of Markleeville, Calif., I saw a dead motorcyclist.
At first, I wondered why he chose to nap so near the highway, and why he had carelessly thrown his bike on its side in the weeds. Only the slow passage of my old pickup disturbed the quiet. The cycle’s back tire rotated in silence, though I thought I heard a dislodged rock skitter down the cliff above the road. I felt I had encroached on calmness, intruded on tranquility.
In a split second, I memorized the biker’s scuffed boots, peaceful expression, casual posture — one arm flung behind his head as if searching for shapes in the clouds. His dark hair was un-mussed, his face clean-shaven, pine trees had sprinkled the road with a rich vanilla smell and bird song. I noted the sun-heated tar of the asphalt and the shadows of trees that crowded the road. Then, unwillingly, I acknowledged the slashing skid marks into the cliff, the slowing movement of the bike’s wheel.
And I drove on.
Though I registered an accident — a sturdy young man hurt or dead — I didn’t stop. Instead, I watched in my rearview mirror as a green government van braked to spill out shouting, running rescuers. I continued driving, ignoring the silenced man who called out to me from the roadside.
My hands shook as I lifted items from the shelves of the general store; my stomach heaved as I loaded them into the truck. My heart drummed with fright as I realized that no other road could take me back to our cabin.
I crept up to the accident scene. Through clustered vehicles and quietly conversing people, I saw a plaid blanket pulled over a face I knew. I collapsed over the wheel, my breath constricted to a rasp, my young life no longer distanced from death.
I never learned his name.
Through the years, the pine-scented scene remained with me in heart- stopping detail. Other than my husband, I told no one. For the rest of the summer, while he did his forest ranger duties — policing lakes, trails and campgrounds — I whistled up the dog, took long solitary walks, and remembered the man I came to think of as my dead motorcyclist, though I knew I had no right to such a claim.
I picture death that way now, sudden serenity on a summer day. I picture myself less kindly. Did I drive on because I didn’t want to look so closely at death? Because I was frightened, worried I would be inadequate to the moment? Because the presence of others relieved me of responsibility? Or did mundane chores eclipse my compassion for a fellow human being?
I don’t know.
By writing this, I have revealed a secret. But I am not certain that sharing my guilt has cleansed me. I am older now and less caught up in self-interest: career, marriage, friendship, possessions. I wonder how I would react if a similar experience came my way tomorrow. Would I reach out beyond myself to others? Or would I drive by?
I sometimes ask my dead motorcyclist for forgiveness.
Janet Sheridan of Craig is a retired public school educator.
