Wheels in a tale E-Book

Sara Goria

• Herausgeber: Elmi's World
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

"I would like to tell her that now my bag is empty, as it is my metal soul, but that everything can still be filled and my odometer does not intend to stop."Will the arhythmical song of a two-cylinder engine be able to persuade a person to change her  and revolutionize her certainties?The Sportster has a long story to tell and its new unusual owner seems willing to listen to it.

Leseprobe

Book series

Translations - English

Sara Goria

Wheels in a Tale

Translated by:

Francesca Romana Prinzi

SimonBarber

Special thanks to:

Wheels in a Tale

di Sara Goria

Book series "Translations - English"

ISBN: 978-88-85490-00-0

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All copyrights are reserved

Casa Editrice Elmi's World

Via Guillet, 6 - 11027 Saint Vincent (Ao)

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mail: [email protected]

sito: www.elmisworld.it

Graphics di Archistico

Back cover

"I would like to tell her that now my bag is empty, as it is my metal soul, but that everything can still be filled and my odometer does not intend to stop."

Will the arhythmical song of a two-cylinder engine be able to persuade a person to change her and revolutionize her certainties?

The Sportster has a long story to tell and its new unusual owner seems willing to listen to it.

She, reflected on my mudgard

Since the day Matt died, I went out from here only once, with Sam. He is the only one who showed me a little respect lately.

Samuele, also called “the doctor”, is the nephew of the owner of the sumptuous shack where I am locked up and I’ve never understood if they called him with this title because of his dusty degree hanged at the wall (that I wish would use, sooner or later), or because he takes care of everyone as a doctor would do with his patients.

I am used to being noticed only by a few and I am staying here, aside, shiny and fierce, like when Matt used to cross the window door over there to pick me up after a service.

Today, despite the sharpe absence, I am ready to show my beautiful self at the entrance of the mechanics garage, to listen to the usual ordinary questions and the usual comments (What’s the year of manufacture? It’s a carburetor! Are all the pieces original?), when the look of a young woman lays just on my body.

I am expecting her curiosity will only last a few instants and that she will go somewhere else.

Instead, the chief, Mr Bull, arrives, with the dark suit of special occasions and his grey waxed hair as he stops next to her.

I haven’t seen him so prim in a while, the buttons of his jackets are about to explode at any minute.

«So Miss, you are now the owner of this heap of steel!» he starts out in his big nasal voice.

Owner? I am confused, who gave him the permission to sell me?

I lift up the headlights over the big glass window, and, despite the distance, I manage to glimpse the big brand that identify those big models that proudly smile in the first line, but also myself: NO… AH.

I read on the transparent plate the block letters backwards. I can’t see the rest of the logo because it’s hidden by a cement pillar. On my right, a white wall divides the world of the new arrivals from the one of the mechanics garage.

I have the unpleasant feeling that Mr Bull is ready to show off his knowledge about “old” Harleys, for which he has a real obsession. I wish he would have managed to refrain of diminishing me, as he would normally do, because, according to him I am just “old” and I am not part of the group of elite of vintage bikes.

The woman doesn’t stop going around: I have the instant feeling of being “undressed” by her inquiring look, as if she is searching for something. I would like to tell her that she won’t find any answer by caressing my winged badge on the tank, but unfortunately we do speak different languages.

Mr Bull caught me by surprise by saying: «It is a four gear from 1988. More than vintage I’d say that this bike is old.

And it burns like a Ferrari! - He bursts into a thunderous laugh, before putting himself together, maybe noticing that he was shooting himself in the foot. In fact, after a second he continues with using his professional tone - I wanted to say, if you are interested in the bike we can make some changes, make it smoother, even add some new bags adorned with diamonds.»

As it is quite obvious that for him I am nothing but a piece of junk, I am wondering why he sold me to this lovely simple and elegant girl, who looks more a teacher than a biker.

Something doesn’t just seem right.

I feel the urge to pour some oil on my chain to let slide away all this nonsense, because no woman would be pleased to hear someone saying that she has wrinkles on her face, eye lids under her eyes and some extra pounds.

Well, of course if you spice it up and make some changes here and there she can do better!

Thanks a lot, Mr Bull. Anyway, I don’t look my age and I have no intention to let you convert me into “Barbie’s bike”.

Speaking of dolls, here comes Angelica, with heavy make up and her body squeezed into a tight red dress. She comes towards us, walking in her uncomfortable high laced boots.

If her dad, Mr Bull, noticed that mark on her neck, he would lock her up in the office for the rest of her life!

As if she could hear my thoughts, suddenly, Angelica shakes her head, freeing onto her shoulders a waterfall of curls and locks showing of her elegant hair. Her long varnished nails lightly touch my right control knob. Despite her young age, she fulfills just fine her role of vice master of the house.

Her shrill voice echoes inside my mufflers.

«You could paint it in pink! - She starts off - black is so depressing, hey, we are women after all! We have to stand off from rough bikers with worn out jackets full of gnats! You could customize it, a new seat and a pair knob of the same color, it would be fantastic. Have you checked out yet our apparel spring collection?»

«She will surely do it later, my dear and, you are right, pink would fit perfectly. By the way, let me introduce you my daughter Angelica. — says big Bull with a fake kind tone - She always has eccentric ideas, you know, she is an artist. To be honest you can paint it any color you like. By the way we work with a company specialized in lacquering, I can give them a call and ask them for a free quote. Of course, unless you’d prefer to have a look at new models and give up on this old wrench.»

Mr Bull confuses me and I am wondering what makes him churn out his contradicting notions.

Angelica is giving him a scolding look, I am afraid, even she can understand her father’s intensions now.

The new unlikely biker takes her hand off the old leather side bag as she pushes her untamed curls back behind her ear.

For the first time I cross her dark eyes. They have familiar feeling and they seem to be looking for an answer to the question “what am I doing here?”

I wish I could answer her “sweetie, if you don’t have an answer to do that…” and I would like to tell her how sad it is to lose the person who took care of you for more than twenty years, more disheartening than facing one thousand rainy days with my engine turned off. I wish I could tell her that now my bag is empty, as it is my metal soul, but that everything can still be filled and my speedometer has no intention to stop.

Something about her upsets me but attract me at the same time. I would like to get to know her better, maybe because of her wandering look which is not so coherent with the serious impression that, I presume, she wants to give of herself.

Her hand is slightly touching the passenger seat wandering along before stopping at the Sissy-bar, the useless back rest I already had when Matt bought me. He never wanted to take it off, despite the demons Matt used to carry along on our rides-who of course didn’t need a back rest to be comfortable.

I like this physical contact with her, it’s a shame that is so difficult to imagine her riding a Harley. To begin with she should set fire to that white blouse, to the silk scarf and to the high school girl ballerina flat shoes. It would also be the case to swap those skinny trousers with a good pair of worn out jeans.

Well, I can see myself hanging around with my aspiring biker if she would dress like that!

The key word: transformation.

Well, she can’t look like a lost cub among a pride of lions. If we introduced ourselves this way at an official rally, they would tear us into pieces immediately, and I can already imagine where all the jokes of the gang would go. Sam and Ronny would define her “the usual unsatisfied bank clerk, with a cat and a beginning of a chronically gastritis”.

The idea that I could be owned by her scares me a bit, but the more she caresses me, the more she stimulates my curiosity, my will of becoming friends and to go back on the road, maybe changing the route.

I have the impression that something or somebody pushed her towards me.

What if it was Matt?

My mudgard reflects a familiar look, one that I am scared to put into the right space and time, I am wondering if it could be… her.

Have you ever been on a Harley?

Knowing Mr Bull, I imagine he wants to understand if it is worth to invest his precious time with this woman, or if it is better to go back to his office, take off his jacket, sipping a beer and find something more profitable by surfing through virtual channels. Otherwise I can’t explain his continuous contradictions, I am tempted to say that he doesn’t want to leave me. Well, he is not one for sentimental values or someone who would give weird names to their bikes or that consider them members of their family. Far from it, no, our King of the Harleys is a tough guy.