Watching the third season of True Detective after catching the first episode of “Night Country” and the opening scene of the kids riding down the street with playing cards reminded me of my youth. Clipped playing cards to the rear tire of my bike. Sounding like a faux motorcycle. Peugeot race bike bought for a steal at a yard sale. Wooden clothes pins holding the cards in place. The cards made my bike feel like I’d transported to a different life— a small bit of magic.

My cousins owned dirt bikes growing up. I’d always beg them for a ride and they were usually good enough to oblige.

An uncle on the other side of the family had brain damage from a bad motorcycle accident. I never met him— but I’d heard how he changed. Odd to think of connections to people you’ve never met.

I’ve only ridden dirt bikes outside of a small joyride on my friend’s Kawasaki in a half-finished suburb. First time I’d really rode dirt bikes on my own was in middle school.

I’d visited Blakely island twice in the San Juan’s with another childhood friend, Bobby. We rode dirt bikes through the private island. His uncle had been the caretaker of the island for the past ten years. We rode on a track by the house before splitting to the runway to do a couple laps down there.

When we returned to the clearing— right before we entered a massive tree fell across the track where we’d been riding. A case of good timing. I remember the shock of it. It felt like a joke to see it fall where we would have been riding— and only hadn’t been because we’d wanted to go make a ruckus on the airstrip.

On the way up to Blakely island we had to pass through Seattle. We were almost into the downtown stretch on I-5 when I looked up to see a small truck fly across four lanes from the left to barely make the exit. Another case of danger crossing like a fly across your face. Felt like luck rode shotgun that trip. If I’m honest, I’ve felt like it’s rode next to me my whole life.