Thunder in the Valley...

Yesterday we decided to "soak up some local color" and head over to Johnstown for their annual event, Thunder in the Valley. Thousands of motorcycles descend upon a ride route centered around Johnstown. Streets close down, motorcycle paraphernalia vendors set up and a throng of thousands of people make their way through the downtown ogling bikes and listening to free concerts.

Admittedly, I was more interested in the fried foods than the motorcycles. I can appreciate the well crafted machines, but can't claim any overt fondness. (At least not the kind of fondness I have for a freshly fried funnel cakes doused with powdered sugar.)

My brother used to have a motorcycle. He left it in our barn when he disappeared. In the early days, I used to perch myself on it and wish for it to carry me away to him, as if its gears and mechanical heart would know exactly where to find him.

Later, when I was older, but not by much, one of my dad's employees (who rode a cherry red motorcycle with a sexy lady painted on it) befriended me. We were an odd pair. That summer, we spent many long hours together while working and in the idle moments between lawns we talked about comic books and places we'd always dreamed of going to. Sometimes I talked about my brother. Sometimes he talked about his. He missed his kid brother who lived on the other side of the country with his newly remarried mother and I missed my absent older brother who was about his age. I think he felt sorry for me and my family, not knowing where my brother was. Tommy used to sneak me on his motorcycle, going around in circles in the yard, pretending to let me drive. He promised that when I was older, he'd get my brother's old bike running again and then the two of us would go looking for him.

One day, Tommy didn't show up for work. I was never completely clear about what happened – if he had found easier work or a better paying job or if he decided to live closer to his brother across the country or if my mom had caught him taking me around the yard on his bike with the "dirty girl" painted on it. I never found out and they never told.

In the coming years, my motorcycle meditations became less and less frequent. But when I did sit on the bike, slowly becoming more and more dilapidated in the old red barn, imagining all the places I would go and finding my long lost brother, I also imagined finding my friend too.