Page 5 of You Can't Fight Lightning
“She’s wrong.” I surprised myself by speaking out loud.
Enough of Hera. Back to this moment, to the present, to me doing something for me.
I checked my saddlebags again. I had what I needed, and I could buy anything I didn’t have as I traveled. I couldn’t just wish things into existence. No, that wouldn’t work. We’d all agreed to live more as humans going forward.
Then I looked through the guidebook that would be directing my journey. The man in the bookstore had called the guidebookvintage, but I found it charming, with its tales of traveling the American southwest.
I’d looked at a map last night based on what I’d read in the guidebook. Arizona was where I was headed, finding a town called Bisbee that looked interesting. It was on the edge of the border between two countries.
Because that’s what I was. What I would be. Bisbee and I would be the same. On the edge of two countries, one foot on either side of the line. Both godly and human. Carefree and on my own for the first time since I could remember. No one to look after, to be concerned with, nothing other than me, my motorcycle, and the wide-open road.
“I can be alone.” I spoke to the empty garage. “It’s going to be great.”
* * *
Three days later, my faith in my new life being great was a bit shaken. I’d ridden for seven hours the first day, and then made it to nine hours of travel on the second day. Today, day three on the road stretched before me. I was still alone.
Did you hear that, Hera? Alone.
My butt was sore, and even my godly ability to ease pain didn’t completely quell the ache. Perhaps being so close to a human form, even as we retained our immortality, rendered some of our powers useless? I didn’t know. It was something to ask Athena about the next time I saw her.
This morning, sore, grumpy, and decidedly unfulfilled, I was debating whether to just ship the bike home and move around like the god I was.
But I’d agreed, when we came here, to keep things low key. The guy everyone looked to now, the god-with-way-too-many-names, had insisted we all fly under the radar.
Which meant no godly zooming around. No, we had to travel like humans, for the most part.
And contrary to Hera’s words. I was alone. Contrary to my protestations, I wasn’t sure it was as great as I’d insisted it would be. Mind over matter, I told myself. You just need to get used to it.
Today, however, I’d reach my goal. Today I would make it to Bisbee. Last night as a distraction from my aches and pains, I’d done some reading about the town. It was small, but there was an active artist community, and the town seemed to pride itself on all its quirks. Most importantly, there was a bar of some local repute called Big Pete’s. From what I’d read, it was a biker bar.
I was a biker. I’d fit right in.
I liked having a destination. I liked the idea of being part of something.
It would be great.
With a sigh that used to move entire fleets of ships, but now only sounded like a sad old man, I heaved myself back onto the bike. Only five hours today. Only five hours. I’d be fine.
Mind over matter, right?
Six hours later, hot, dusty, and with an even more aching posterior, I rode into Bisbee, my GPS directing me to Big Pete’s. I needed a drink. One of the things I’d read was that Big Pete and his old lady—what a term for one’s beloved—Loretta, made this amazing house drink called ambrosia. While it would be nothing like what I had on Olympus, the idea made me smile, and solidified Big Pete’s as my final destination for this leg of the trip.
Ambrosia was a sign of the gods, right?
I cracked myself up.
After this, after I rested my butt for at least a week, checked out Big Pete’s and Bisbee, I didn’t know where I was going. Maybe the park called the Grand Canyon? It was supposed to be impressive. I hadn’t made up my mind yet.
I was still alone, however. “Alone and loving it,” I said out loud. Almost as though I were testing them to myself. My words were lost in the heat of the day and the wind on my face, but the important thing was that I said it.
I meant it.
I’m pretty sure I meant it.
“Damn Hera.” I rode into the dirt parking lot next to Big Pete’s, pleased to see a fair number of other bikes.
None of them were as gorgeous as mine. It was a Harley Fat Boy, custom white pearl paint, with wings on either side of the gas tank, and a lightning bolt along the top of the tank. It was my homage to Pegasus. He was living on a farm in northern Washington state with some of the other winged horses.
