The Story of Motorcycles

My name was Lola Sinclair, a young wife from a small farming town.

My husband, Dominic DeLuca, used to work at a construction site. He was honest, hardworking, and willing to take any job as long as it could keep our family fed. We had two children, a modest home, and a life that was never rich but still peaceful.

Then everything changed.

Dominic fell from a height at the construction site and badly injured his leg. The contractor responsible disappeared soon afterward, leaving us without compensation. Instead of receiving help, we were forced to cover nearly one hundred thousand dollars in medical expenses ourselves.

Our small family fell into debt almost overnight.

I wanted to leave town and find work, but Dominic could barely move around on his own, and our two children still needed care. The fields also could not be abandoned. Every day, I moved between housework, farm work, hospital visits, and debt collectors.

Dominic could no longer return to construction. Watching him sit in the yard with his injured leg, silent and ashamed, hurt me more than the debts themselves.

After days of thinking, Dominic finally found a way to earn money.

He bought a secondhand motorcycle and said he would drive passengers between town and the village.

“Honey, I can still make money,” he said, forcing a smile. “People always need rides. I’ll drive slowly and carefully.”

The motorcycle had been modified before we bought it. The seat was much longer than usual, welded awkwardly to the frame. It looked unstable, especially on the winding mountain road that led back to our village.

I frowned when I saw it.

“Is this safe?” I asked. “Your leg hasn’t healed properly. What if something happens?”

Dominic lowered his head.

“If I don’t try, how are we supposed to live?”

I had no answer.

So on his first day, I went with him. I wanted to make sure he could handle the road.

We rode slowly into town. The road was uneven, and the motorcycle shook badly in several places. I kept reminding Dominic to slow down, and he nodded each time.

At the town entrance, we waited for passengers.

Most people hesitated when they saw Dominic’s injured leg and the strange motorcycle. Some looked at us with pity. Others pretended not to notice us at all.

After a long wait, our first passenger finally came.

It was Marcus Ziegler.

Marcus came from the same village as us. He was tall, strong, and known for causing trouble. He spent his days drinking, gambling, and hanging around with three other men who were just as unpleasant as he was. Most villagers avoided him.

“Dom, you’re driving passengers now?” Marcus said, walking around the motorcycle with a mocking grin.

Dominic nodded politely. “Yes. Need a ride home?”

Marcus slapped the long seat and laughed. “This old thing had better not throw me into a ditch.”

“It won’t,” Dominic said. “I’ll drive carefully.”

Marcus climbed on, still laughing. Throughout the trip, he complained about the motorcycle, joked about Dominic’s injured leg, and made several comments about how desperate our family must be.

I sat stiffly, saying nothing.

Dominic focused on the road, pretending not to hear.

When we reached Marcus’ house, he tossed over the fare and said, “Drive well, Dom. If you behave, my friends and I might give you more business.”

His tone made my stomach tighten.

Dominic, however, looked relieved. It was his first fare. To him, it was a beginning.

On the way home, he said, “See? We can make this work.”

I looked at his tired face and swallowed my worry.

I wanted to believe him.