Last week my dear old friend, John came to visit from Seattle. John and I met as twenty-somethings in Mazatlan, Mexico. My girlfriend Jane and I had rented mopeds to tour the area and were trying desperately to figure out how to start the harmless looking little motorcycles when two handsome American guys approached to offer assistance.
They were funny and charming and definitely coming on to us. We laughed with them about the fact that we didn’t know how to shift a moped; exchanged information about where we were from, what we were doing in Mazatlan and how very single we all were – then decided it would be safer for us, and everyone in Mazatlan, if the guys drove us on our city tour. We rode the mopeds for hours, taking in the sites of historic Mazatlan, the cliffs and the beaches. We partied at hip nightclubs, drinking margaritas and dancing. We went for walks, baked in the sun and made love on the sand.
For the next several years John and I traveled back and forth to see each other – going to elegant parties that ended in a mass of intoxicated bodies stuffed into a steaming hot tub, riding horses in the woods, and trying every new food and drink we came into contact with.
We flew in John’s private plane to visit friends in Vancouver, and to Friday Harbor to watch whales off the coast of the San Juan Islands. We rode motorcycles in the mountains and had wild, monkey sex wherever we went. Those were our twenties.
When John arrived last week we hugged and started to walk, arm in arm, to car. We passed a mirror in the hotel lobby and for a moment I wondered who the old folks were I saw in the reflection. These people had little or no resemblance to the dashing young couple with the lust for travel, parties, adventure, and of course, sex.
At dinner John told me of his surgery to remove one kidney, and the bargain he got on his hearing aids. It wasn’t unprovoked. I was fascinated by the story of how he discovered a growth on his kidney – and what the symptoms were, so that I could be on the lookout. And the hearing aid story was based entirely on my curiosity. My kids have been making fun of how deaf I am for long enough that I’ve stopped blaming it on their mumbling, and admitted that I may have just a slight hearing problem.
We reminisced about all of the wild and wonderful things we did together, like the time he took my son and I motorcycling up the side of a mountain alongside the Trask River in Oregon. It was raining, and the narrow mountain paths were slick. I had ridden before, but the terrain and weather intimidated me. I became too cautious, slowing on every curve, and promptly falling over into the mud each time I slowed down. John helped me right the bike.
"You have to give it gas going around those turns," he instructed. "Drive it like you drive your sports car. You’re falling because you’re going too slow." I was not about to be accused of driving my motorcycle "like a girl," so I hopped back on my bike, gave the sucker some gas, and off I went – straight over the edge and down the side of the mountain. There was heavy brush covering the mountain, and fortunately I let go of the bike as it started to tumble several hundred feet down to land in the safety of a Highbush Blueberry Plant - scratched, embarrassed, but relatively unscathed.
John scrambled down the side of the mountain to my side. I expected panic, concern and sympathy. What I got was, "Wow, I wish I’d had my camera for that. You were literally suspended in mid-air. That was so cool." I had no choice but to retrieve my motorcycle and continue the ride to the top of the mountain. When the three of us reached the pinnacle, there was a herd of mountain goats, quietly grazing and scrutinizing us with as much curiosity as we had for them. Reaching the top made everything worthwhile, and the terrifying journey to the top made a great memory to reminisce about every time we got together after that.
We laughed as we remembered, drank our two glasses of wine over a low-fat dinner and finished up by 8:30 so I could be home getting ready for bed by 9:00. We spent the next two days together eating healthy meals and drinking moderately, my husband listening patiently to our stories of "our days in the sun." As I relived the romantic days of our relationship, I forgot how gray John’s hair has become, and how nonexistent my waistline appeared.
When he left I missed him. More than I expected. More than I missed him when our visits ended back in our twenties. I missed him because I realized that he had become a treasured friend. There was not a hint of the old competition for who was in control. There was no need to prove anything to each other. And I didn’t once feel the need to steal a glance at myself in a mirror to make sure I looked appropriately alluring. We were at peace in our friendship.
I wouldn’t change a thing about the years full of romance and adventure. But, like I said before, I wouldn’t want to do it again. I like sitting quietly with an old friend, a good glass of wine and some wonderful stories that remind us how we became what we are today – seasoned and happy, with enough memories to entertain us for a very long time.
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