Todays Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul

[Guest guest]

Cycle of Love

By Felix Winkelaar

The moped wasn't much to look at, but it ran. The tires were

completely

smooth, except for the occasional patch of cord showing through. The front

wheel was definitely not round. The frame was rust and blue, and I could

make

out remnants of a P and an O. It looked Italian - I figured it had to be a

Piaggio.

The agent in charge of the small stand of ancient mopeds pulled the

wooden

plug out of the fuel tank, peered in, sloshed the gas, and asked, " How far? "

" About an hour, " I replied.

He laughed, slapped me on the back, and said, " Oh, sure. You'll make

it! "

And so I hopped on and began my two-wheeled exploration of Cuba, first

inland, past green fields and skinny cattle, then back toward the sea. Up

the

coast there was supposed to be a quiet beach, but for a few miles I saw

nobody

as I picked my way through sand and around potholes. Encountering an

ancient

flatbed truck headed the other way, I waved at the half-dozen people

hitching a

ride aboard it. A couple of them politely waved back.

When I passed a small group of pedestrians, they laughingly hailed me

in

Spanish, wanting a ride. But I doubted my rattling steed could carry

another

pound, so I declined with a nod and puttered on.

I rounded one corner to find a strange apparition floating toward me.

It

looked like three farmers and a bushel basket of fruit levitating on a light

blue cushion of air. When they got closer, I realized they were all piled

onto

a moped remarkably similar to mine, but older and going faster. Suddenly I

felt

stingy about having refused pedestrians a ride in this land of poverty and

gracious manners.

There was a beautiful beach at the end of the road, a deserted one:

sand,

sky, trees, ocean, birds and total silence. For the hundredth time since

coming

to this island, I wished that I could paint. Eventually, I turned the moped

around and headed back the way I'd come.

At a villa, two women smiled and waved for a ride. But between the two

of

them and their burdens they probably topped four hundred pounds, so I just

smiled back and puttered past.

Onward the Piaggio grumbled, and then I saw her. A white blouse,

shoulder

bag, sandals and a thousand-watt smile. She was beautiful. She waved for a

ride, and I stopped like what I was - a man entranced.

She laughed and ran up. I hadn't really considered where I might put a

passenger on the rattling contraption, and I greeted her in masterful and

eloquent English:

" Hi . . . er . . . hello . . . umm . . . I'm not really sure where you can

sit.

.. . . "

She laughed and chatted for a bit in the most musical Spanish. I

didn't

understand a word. To be honest, it didn't matter. It was the way she

smiled,

the way she moved those brown hands and arms while she talked, and those

laughing dark eyes. I would have listened to her happily all afternoon.

She sat down on the rack and put her arms around my waist. My brain

short-

circuited, but I applied the throttle and set off.

I wrote those next fifteen minutes into my memory with indelible ink.

I

pressed on between sea and greenery with her arms around me. She laughed

and

waved to friends and pointed out sights in Spanish. Conscious of her

precarious

perch, I picked my way around the most obvious road hazards and kept the

speed

down.

All too soon, I felt a pat on my shoulder and saw her arm point to an

apartment complex festooned with laundry. I slowed to a stop, and she got

off

and stood beside me. She was looking for words with which to say good-bye.

I

took off my cap and stuck it on her dark curly hair.

" See you later! " I said. But I never saw her again.

I don't remember the rest of the ride, except that the Piaggio made it

back

on whatever fueled its faithful soul.

" How was your ride? " my wife asked when I returned.

I am intrinsically an honest man, but pragmatism ruled my decision; no

way

was I going to tell my wife of sixteen years the whole truth about my

motorcycle

excursion.

" It was fun . . . roughly what you'd expect, " I replied, trying to

sound

relaxed, even bored.

" Where's your hat? " she asked with uncanny perception.

Shamefaced, I told her the whole story. She laughed and teased me, and

made me a tall Cuba libre with real Cuban rum. We reminisced about the year

we

met and the carefree summer we spent rambling around southern Ontario on my

old

Honda. We remembered the reasons we married and found some new reasons why

we

stay that way.

We left Cuba warmer, wiser and younger. I had found a new love, lost

it

and renewed an old love. And none of it might have happened without that

Piaggio.