The Sidecar
by Jordan Beckett
The fog in Bodega Bay moved in and out without asking permission. The wind came off the water and carried the salt air through the fields, over old fences, and through the open windows of cottages and farmhouses.
He arrived twelve minutes early because being early was one of the things he did now. Her house was a few miles past the harbor and the businesses that catered to people passing through, tucked along a quiet road lined with eucalyptus trees and weathered fences. It was a small house with a garden full of the unruly abundance of something loved. A ceramic pot of herbs sat on the windowsill, and a rusted chair with a colorful cushion on the porch was positioned toward the afternoon light.
It was daunting.
He parked the bicycle at the edge of the driveway and immediately thought there was still time to leave.
He imagined the text.
I’m sorry. Something came up.
It was a lie, but a familiar kind. The sort that spares everyone a little disappointment now in exchange for a larger one later.
He stared balefully at the bicycle with its salt-rusted patina, its weathered basket filled with sandwiches and water bottles, and its sidecar. This could go one of two ways. She could think it was charming, or she could wonder what, exactly, she had agreed to. It was difficult to imagine anyone seeing the sidecar and thinking, Finally.
He wiped a smudge from the dull chrome fender.
Checked the tires.
Checked them again.
These were the things he could control.
The sidecar was built by a retired machinist in Sebastopol to carry his dog and to run errands. Owen bought it off him as a project. It had taken him three weekends to widen the seat and another two of hauling bricks to convince himself it was safe enough to carry a person.
Now grocery bags tipped over sideways.
He was still contemplating escape when the front door opened.
She was prettier than her profile picture, which immediately made him worry that she'd take one look at the sidecar and regret saying yes. She wore jeans, a white t-shirt, and white sneakers, with an apple green sweater thrown over her shoulders in case the day turned cooler. Her hair was pulled back loosely. If he hadn’t grown up with sisters, he might have mistaken it for carelessness.
Her eyes landed on the bicycle. Then the sidecar.
“I’m Claire,” she said, extending her hand. “Is that…”
Owen wiped his palm against his jeans before taking it.
“I can explain,” he said, meeting her eyes for the first time. “It’s a sidecar.”
“I know what a sidecar is,” she said, sounding amused. “I just didn’t think one would ever be waiting in my driveway.”
“I don’t drive,” he said nervously.
She came closer.
“You built this?”
He rubbed his hand across the back of his neck.
“I modified it. Widened the seat.”
“Which means yes.”
“A man in Sebastopol built it.”
“For his wife?”
“For his golden retriever.”
She laughed out loud. It caught him off guard because it wasn’t the polite laugh people give when someone is trying. It was a real one.
“So you’re one of those people.”
“What people?”
“The ones who restore old trucks and make sourdough and own four flannel shirts.”
He shook his head. “Sorry. I’m an accountant.”
“Dang it! I was looking forward to the sourdough.”
She reached out and rested her hand on the edge of the sidecar.
“I mean, I’ve never ridden in one.”
She said it quietly, almost under her breath. Then she looked from the sidecar to him, as though the decision wasn’t really about the sidecar at all.
“It’s a niche market,” he replied.
He felt the familiar instinct to apologize. To tell her he knew it was ridiculous. Instead he said, “Can I help you in?”
She considered that, then asked, “Do I need a helmet?”
He blinked.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She stood quietly as he fitted the spare bike helmet on her head. He tightened the strap beneath her chin, suddenly aware of how close he was. The scent of her shampoo mixed with the salt air. He stepped back a little sooner than he needed to.
“This is not what I expected when you said maybe we could go for a ride.”
“Sorry.”
“For what?”
He glanced over at his rig. “This. I’m sure it’s not what you’re used to.”
She flashed him a small smile.
“That might turn out to be the best part.”
He wasn’t entirely sure whether she meant the sidecar or him, and didn’t dare ask.
He opened the creaky door and held the sidecar steady while she experimented with one foot, then the other.
“I feel like I should have practiced this.”
“I watched three instructional videos.”
She looked at him.
“There are instructional videos?”
“There are instructional videos for everything.”
She settled into the seat and smoothed her sweater beneath her as he swung his leg over the bike’s crossbar and fastened his own helmet.
“So.”
“So.”
Neither moved.
Finally she looked up.
“Aren’t you supposed to ring the bell or something?”
“Oh.”
He reached for the old bell clipped to the handlebars and rang it once.
It made a bright, cheerful sound.
“I like that.”
“I almost took it off,” he confessed.
“Why?”
He shrugged.
“It felt...silly.”
“It’s a bicycle.”
“I know.”
“Give it to me. I’ll be the bell ringer.”
He smiled and unscrewed the bell from its perch, handing it to her.
“Try not to abuse your power,” he said, lips twitching.
“No worries,” she said, ringing the bell twice, for good measure. “Let’s go!”
He pushed off.
The first ten minutes were awkward.
Beautifully awkward.
There was no way to have a normal conversation when he was looking forward and she was looking sideways. The wind stole half their words.
“I used to live—”
“What?”
“I said I used to live—”
“Paris?”
“No.”
“Somewhere equally glamorous?”
“Petaluma.”
“Ah.”
She paused.
“Very close.”
He chuckled and kept pedalling.
Bay Hill Road, on the way into Bodega, is narrow enough that two cars slow instinctively when they meet. The sidecar gave Claire a closer view of the faded asphalt edged with wild grasses and blackberry canes. The bicycle’s tires hummed softly on the road, while the little wheel of the sidecar chattered over the occasional patch or seam. The gentle rise and fall of the road was almost like breath.
“Look,” she said, pointing at a stand of eucalyptus.
He slowed, and then stopped.
“What?”
“The trees….”
He stared at the peeling trunks with their ribbons of gray, cream, and cinnamon. The fallen leaves released a sharp, clean scent under the warmth of the day.
“I would never have noticed that,” he admitted.
“Me either. Perspective.”
They passed old ranch entrances, cattle guards, faded wooden signs, and gravel drives disappearing toward distant barns. Windmills stood above stock ponds, many no longer turning, their rusted blades frozen against the sky like forgotten clocks.
As they approached the town of Bodega, the ranches drew closer together. A white church steeple appeared above a stand of trees. Claire rang the bell. Twice.
Owen grinned and steered the bike up a trail towards a bench on the village green.
“Do you mind if we stop for a few minutes?” he asked. “I have water.”
“Of course.”
He helped her out of the sidecar, then retrieved two bottles of water from the basket.
“Sorry,” he said, giving her one of the bottles. “I put them in the freezer thinking they would melt along the way, but they’re still mostly ice.”
She took the bottle and held it to her forehead, and then to the back of her neck.
“What are you talking about? It’s perfect.”
After a minute, she opened the bottle and took a drink of ice cold water.
“Ahhh…. See? Perfect.”
“Your standards might be too low.”
They sat side by side on the bench for a few quiet moments. It should have been uncomfortable, he thought, before turning towards her.
“Are you hungry? I brought sandwiches. And there’s a blanket in the sidecar. We could…”
“You brought a picnic lunch?”
“I brought sandwiches,” he said, dryly.
“And a blanket?”
“Yes. Also, apples.”
“So, a picnic.”
“Ok. A picnic. Don’t make it weird.”
She just smiled and stood.
“Lead the way.”
He grabbed the blanket from the sidecar, and the basket from the front of the bike, and led them over to a shady spot beneath a sprawling coast live oak.
She stared at the low, twisting branches as he laid out the blanket.
“Maybe later we can climb this tree.”
“Hadn’t pegged you for a tree climber.”
“Today I might be.”
He shook his head and handed her a sandwich. She sat down and began to unwrap it.
“All that’s missing is the wine,” she said lightly, reaching for her water and taking a swig.
Owen was quiet.
“I like that you don’t have a car,” she said.
“Actually,” he said slowly, “I lost my license.”
She paused and stared at him.
“It’s been more than two years. I should have said something sooner. I mean, I suppose I could reapply now, but…”
She shook her head. “It’s fine.”
She continued unwrapping her sandwich.
“Is that why you moved here?”
“I just needed a place where I could start over.”
She nodded, as if in agreement.
“Running away can be healthy sometimes.”
He looked down at his hands.
“I wasn’t running away,” he said. “I was choosing something different.”
She flushed at that.
“Oh God. I’ve fucked this all up. You don’t have to tell me anything, you know,” she said finally.
“I know.”
“And I’m fine without wine. I mean, I don’t even really drink wine. It’s just…” Her voice trailed off. “That was a stupid thing to say. I don’t do well with awkward silences.”
He leaned back and looked up at the sky through the branches of the old tree before speaking.
“I used to think that the best version of me was the one who drank. That guy was funny and charming and people really liked him.” He laughed under his breath. “But he could also be cruel. Unreliable. Quick to cast blame for his own mistakes. Alcohol just made it easier.”
“So you think that’s just who you are?” she asked.
“In my worst moments? Yeah. But I’m trying not to be.”
“Was it hard for you? Quitting?”
He thought about it. “Quitting isn’t the hard part,” he said, finally.
“What’s the hard part?”
“Tuesday.”
She laughed.
“Tuesdays. Thursdays. New jobs. First dates. Just…finding new ways to solve problems.”
He glanced down the hill.
“Sometimes the solution is a bike.”
Amused, Claire finished the last bite of her sandwich.
“This bread is amazing.”
“I have a place.”
“You have a bread place?”
“I have several bread places.”
“Of course you do.”
He handed her an apple.
“I always buy too much bread,” she said, out of nowhere.
“Why’s that?”
She looked away.
“Maybe for the same reason I always buy peaches in pairs. It’s the possibility of it all. That maybe someone might come over. Or I’ll have someone to share breakfast with. Or I’ll just make something for somebody.”
She smiled a little.
“Sad, right?”
“No.”
He softened his voice.
“No. I don’t think it is.”
They packed up slowly. Owen folded the blanket with the same care he’d unfolded it, brushing away a few stubborn blades of grass before returning it to the basket.
“You fold fitted sheets, don’t you?” Claire asked.
“I’ve accepted that some problems have no solution.”
“Good. I was worried you were perfect.”
“I assure you, that concern is unfounded.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to tackle that tree?” she asked.
“You know you’re kind of weird, right?”
“Thank you.”
She climbed back into the sidecar, settled the helmet over her hair, and rang the bell.
“Ready,” she announced.
They followed Salmon Creek Road west. Alders and willows hid the water until a flash of sunlight revealed it between the leaves, only for it to disappear around the next bend.
They stopped occasionally, pointing things out to each other along the way.
A weathered fence.
A field of sheep.
A hawk sitting on a telephone pole.
She said, “I think I like places where nobody is trying too hard.”
He looked at the landscape around them.
“That’s a very Bodega thing to say.”
“Is it?”
“I don’t know. I’m new here, remember?”
A ranch truck rumbled past. Claire saluted the driver with exaggerated seriousness, then rang the bell.
“Showing off?” Owen called.
“I’m representing the sidecar community.”
“I wasn’t aware there was one.”
“There are dozens of us.”
He smiled.
The air cooled almost imperceptibly. The scent of warm grass gave way to damp earth, then to cypress, and finally to the unmistakable smell of salt. Gulls circled somewhere ahead, their calls carrying inland before the water came into view.
The dunes stretched toward the Pacific in pale ribbons of gold. Beyond them, the ocean reached to the horizon, silver where it caught the afternoon light, blue where it did not. Salmon Creek slipped quietly beneath the bridge and disappeared into the surf with none of the ceremony the ocean seemed to deserve.
Claire climbed out of the sidecar.
For a while they just stood there.
The wind lifted the loose strands of her hair and tugged gently at the sleeves of the green sweater draped across her shoulders.
“It’s beautiful,” he said. She just nodded.
“What do you do, Claire?”
“What do you think I do?”
“This is a trap,” he said, laughing.
She arched her brow.
“You’re a park ranger.”
“No.”
“Landscape photographer.”
“No.”
“Marine biologist.”
She shook her head.
“I’m an architect.”
“No you’re not.”
“Truth.”
“Wow. Look at you.”
Silence stretched between them, but neither felt the urgent need to fill it.
“It’s funny,” she said at last.
“What is?”
“I’ve lived an hour away from this place for years.”
“And?”
“I kept waiting for someone to bring me here.” She glanced over at him, brows etched together. “That was a terrible plan. I should have brought myself.”
Shadows stretched across the fields, and the wind carried the first hint of fog inland.
“Sorry. We really need to go before it’s too hard to see.”
“There you go again.”
“What?"
“You’re apologizing for the weather.”
“I planned the route.”
“You did not plan the fog.”
“I should have checked.”
She laughed and he realized that he was standing on a cliff overlooking the ocean with a pretty girl laughing beside him, and his first instinct was still to apologize.
Not this time, he thought.
The trip back was quieter. Claire rang the bell less often now.
Like when a pair of wild turkeys hurried awkwardly across the road.
Or when a dog barked from behind a fence.
And once, for no reason at all.
By the time they reached the long climb out of the valley, Owen could feel it in his legs. Sweat soaked his shirt until it clung to him. The bicycle slowed. His breathing grew louder than the ticking chain.
He looked over and caught Claire watching him.
She looked away quickly and then cleared her throat.
“Stop,” she said quietly.
“I’m okay.”
“I know.”
She climbed out before he could object.
“What are you doing?”
“Walking.”
“You don't have to do that.”
“I want to.”
He knew how to respond to someone needing something from him. He knew how to respond to someone being disappointed in him. He wasn’t sure what to do with someone who simply chose to stand beside him.
“You don’t have to make this easier for me.”
She took two steps forward then looked back.
“Keep up.”
Halfway up the hill, he got off the bike, choosing to walk beside her and push the bike along.
She looked at the sidecar.
“You said you modified it?”
“Yes. It was too small to carry a person.”
“How long did that take?”
“Five weekends.”
“For someone you hadn’t even met yet?”
“I guess…yeah.”
“How very hopeful of you,” she teased.
“Or overly optimistic.”
“Same thing, some days.”
“I guess I got lucky then,” he said, watching as she blushed and dipped her head.
Neither of them seemed in any hurry to rescue the silence.
After a moment she asked, “Do you miss driving?”
“I do. Sometimes. The bike’s slower.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
He looked at the road behind them and thought about the day. About the miles they’d traveled on this rusty old bike with a homemade sidecar and he couldn’t help smiling.
“Not today.”
“I almost cancelled, you know.”
He glanced at her. “Really?”
“I had the message written and everything.”
“What did it say?”
“I’m sorry. Something came up.”
Owen chuckled.
“Why did you want to cancel?”
“I’ve been on fifteen first dates this year.” She shrugged. “I still have too much bread.”
“Fifteen?”
“Yep. I guess I keep hoping the next one will be different.”
“And was it?”
She looked over at him.
“Was it what?”
“Different?”
“Oh, it was different alright.”
“I’ll take that.”
At the top of the rise, the road leveled beneath them.
Claire climbed back into the sidecar and they rode the last mile.
When they reached her driveway, Owen steadied the sidecar while she climbed out and handed him the helmet.
“Thank you.”
“For the ride?”
“For today.”
He nodded, suddenly unsure what came next.
“You were really gonna haul me all the way up that hill, weren’t you?”
“I guess I was.”
She shook her head.
“You know you don’t always have to carry people?”
He knew what she meant.
“I’m trying to get better about that.”
She reached into the sidecar basket for the little bell and gave it a single ring.
Ding.
“Good.”
He smiled as she carefully reattached it to the handlebars, tightening the little screw with her fingers.
“There.”
He looked at it.
“You’ll need this.”
“For what?”
“For next time,” she replied. “I’ll bring the sandwiches.”
“Next time?”
“Sure. I mean, if you want?”
“I want.”
She smiled once more before disappearing inside.
Owen mounted the bicycle and pushed off. At the end of the drive, he reached for the bell and rang it without hesitation. The sound skipped out across the fields ahead of him, as if it already knew the way back.