When I pick her up she has on a peasant skirt and a white sleeveless blouse, buttoned high, but not too high. The blouse is sheer enough that the shadow of a purple bra shows through. I laugh and tell her she couldn't possibly be wearing anything more unsuited to a motorcycle ride up into the mountains. I try and tell her she should change, but she doesn't want to, even vetoing the helmet I've brought along for her. It's pointless for me to argue, as I've only jeans and a t-shirt on myself, when by rights I should be helmeted and sleeved from stem to stern.
It turns out to be something of a chore for her to climb onto the bike in that skirt. Before I can look away, I can't help but catch a glimpse of her pale thighs as she gathers the excess material in her lap and grips my hipbones snugly between her knees.
The road from Tucson up to Mt. Lemmon is full of steep climbs and switchbacks, gaining some seven thousand feet in altitude along the way. It's an appealing run at any time of the year for a motorcyclist, but it takes on an even greater appeal once the summer suns come on in earnest, the temperature soaring to 107 degrees, then 110 degrees- the kinds of temperatures better suited to ovens than to human habitation.
She hasn't been on my new bike yet and I can tell she's a little nervous when we first start out. The bike climbs easily, but I can feel her hesitate when I lean the bike low into the corners. I drop a gear and slow down a bit, not wanting to frighten her before we've even begun. Before long she picks up the rhythm of the bike and relaxes her grip around my waist a little so I can give it some gas.
Soon, the big saguaros that stud the valley begin to give way, the jagged slopes inhospitable to the giant cacti, replaced now by the occasional pine tree, and after that, small forests of the things- incongruous in the desert. The drought that had spanned the course of several years, shriveling the mountain itself, has recently broken. As we ride I keep one eye on the clouds, and the other on the blossoming mountain.
At times she leans in close, her upper body flush against my back as she comments on the view or points out something off in the distance. When I brake hard, her momentum brings her closer yet, and once I notice, it becomes an effort to keep from doing it on purpose. Worse still, all the contact makes it a bit hard to concentrate on what she's saying, and I find myself merely smiling and nodding.
At five thousand feet the air begins to turn cool, soothing at first, and then shocking our warm skin. The pine trees are thicker now; they shade the road and make the temperature drop further still- 70 degrees feeling more like 50 after so many days beneath the Tucson skies. I shiver slightly and know that she will be colder still, the clothes she is wearing no more effective than a sheet might be at keeping out the breeze. Legs splayed, she shimmies forward to shield herself from the wind, trying to take in my body heat and the warmth of the engine. I wish I'd thought to bring along a long-sleeved shirt to offer her, but all I can do is scoot back as far as I can as I try not to think about the glimpse I got of her legs.
She doesn't complain though, leaning in instead to yell for me to go faster. I open up the throttle a bit more and she has to wrap her arms around my waist. She's so close that there is virtually no room separating us, our bodies connected in considerably more places now than when we started out 30 minutes earlier. Her breasts rest against my back, and the whole length of her thighs lay against mine. I even imagine I can even feel the heat coming off from between her legs, but I know it's only my mind playing tricks on me, and I push the thought away. When we pass the marker announcing six thousand feet it's decidedly cold, at least on a motorcycle, and she grows quiet. Soon I can feel her legs begin to tremble and she has to squeeze them against me to keep them steady.
Although we'd planned on riding straight on through until we reached the little summit town of Summerhaven, I make the decision to stop off at 'Windy Point', a scenic rest stop for tourists with a view encompassing much of the city, and parts of the mountain we've already attained. But summertime is not the season for tourism in Arizona, and there's only one car parked by the roadside belonging to an elderly couple who have taken up a safe vantage point along the concrete viewing platform.
I park the bike and hold it steady as she climbs off. She has the same difficulty with her skirt and steals a glance at me as she throws her leg up and over. This time I'm able to look away. It's an impressive display of willpower, but one that is related more to my fear about being caught peeping, than to any feelings about how a gentleman should conduct himself in the presence of a lady.
I notice that her face is flushed, and worry that perhaps I should have stopped sooner. It isn't a particularly easy ride, especially for those who are unaccustomed to it.
"Are you okay?"
"Oh yeah." She laughs, one hand on the seat for balance, seeming to flush a deeper red. "Just give me a minute. My legs are a little shaky is all."
I light a cigarette to give her a chance to thaw out. Once stopped and off the bike, I'm immediately comfortable, the chill in the air effectively negated by the sun's rays, as if we're balanced at the precise point between the chill of the summit, and the heat of the valley below. It's a pleasant sensation, yet odd at the same time- like stepping into a shower set to your precise body temperature.
It surprises me when she reaches out for a drag of my cigarette. I've never seen her smoke before, but I hand it over just the same. I watch as she finishes it off, expertly exhaling a big cloud from her nose and flicking the butt away, before announcing that she's fine now.
Rocks jut out far from roadway. Baked all day long beneath the sun, I know they'll be warm enough to take the chill from our bodies, the real life inspiration for those electric versions they sell at pet stores for reptiles to bask on. We pick our way along the big rocks carefully. A fall from here would most likely result in merely a painful (but not fatal) 12-foot drop. But if you were the unlucky sort and landed wrong, you might begin to tumble, picking up speed until you fell far enough to do yourself some real damage.
We work our way out to the very edge to take in the view. Neither of us speaks, feeling a natural reverence somehow for this place. Although she's naturally long and graceful, after awhile I begin to worry about her wobbly legs. Taking her arm, I steer her back several feet from the edge.
We spot a mostly flattish rock and sit side by side, watching dragonflies, birds, and even the occasional squirrel bound up, pegging us for a light-touch with a pocketful of nuts, or perhaps popcorn.
The heat comes up off the rocks as effectively as if they were coals. It feels fine, and we lay down to absorb it up into our backs and our arms too. At this time of day the sky is mostly clear, only a couple of puffy white clouds lingering- harmless enough now, but sure to find others later on, pairing up and colliding until they've built up into the walls of thunder and lightning that came rolling down from the Santa Catalinas almost nightly in July.
It's peaceful there by her side, and I can't think of any place I'd rather be. I ask her how her legs feel, and in response she takes my right hand and lays it on top of her thigh. I'm surprised to feel the muscles jumping slightly. I squeeze her leg a moment to try and still the tremor before pulling my hand away.
"I'm sorry." I tell her." I didn't realize it was going to be this chilly."
She laughs in the same way she had back by the bike. The sound of it makes me think I've missed something, some secret that she isn't sharing. "I don't think it's exactly the chill that did it."
I stare back blankly, unable to connect the dots. "No?"
She's quiet for several seconds, her eyes closed. And then: "It's something about the vibration of the bike. It can affect women in a certain way. I've heard of it, but it's never happened to me before. I thought it was just something that teenage girls giggled about at sleepovers..."
