FEBRUARY 29, 2012 / DELROV HOUSEHOLD

Whenever Asher needed to release pent-up anger, sadness or stress, he would ride his bicycle to the cemetery where his mother lay six feet underground. 

Since coming to Astoria, there was no cemetery to go to. Well, not one to which he had a connection. But on some days, a random New York pedestrian might see a teenage boy pumping a bike around town, ignorant of the trail of shattered bones and angry words, grey watercolours and nervous energy Asher Delrov was leaving behind him as he tried to escape his emotions.

The repetition was therapeutic to him — way better than any muscle exercises Dr. Polzin and Dr. Kruger had suggested.

Asher found calmness in doing something that he knew how to do well, something that was systematic, and had clear reactions to what his body did. He found calmness in speeding around the town when his life was hectic. All he had to do was shove a pair of earphones in his ears, blast punk rock as his legs burnt his energy out — with his dying energy, went all the tears and anger — and everything in the world that caused him grief just evaporated like light rain on a bush fire.

Vasily liked this method of dealing with teenage angst — well, as much as he could like his son running from his home in a bad mood — because it was comparatively safer than letting him play baseball, where a hit to head could kill him or letting him go and drink away his stress. 

Asher could pedal for hours at a time, until he was too tired to feel bad about anything, but would always come home at a responsible time. For Asher's sixteenth birthday, Vasily had gifted him quite a sum of money. It was his way of saying thank you to his son, who had been accommodating and resilient for as long as he had lived. He appreciated how Asher had willingly moved to a new country, and how little he complained.

Though, Vasily's warm feelings turned cold when Asher bought a motorcycle with the money.

But the money was a gift, and Vasily never demanded someone return a gift. Even if said gift was ridiculous, dangerous and disruptive.

Asher was impatient and restless during the day, and school wrapped around him like a mountain — on top of which sat his new, beautiful motorcycle. Kerrish Soto and Ryanel Gonzales wallowed in their jealousy, but that only made Asher like it even more. His mind was pushed to the brink of insanity by the time the bell let him out of school. He ran home, and sat on his motorcycle for half an hour, searching WikiHow for a beginner's guide to motorcycle-riding.

Tentative to actually start the motorcycle — the owner's manual had boasted about its extremely powerful horsepower — Asher did nothing with his motorcycle that first day but examine every flawless facet and memorise its parts. And he did that the second day, and the third, using his manual and the internet as a teacher. Finally, when he had every crevice of his lovely vehicle printed into his mind, what each did, and how to fix it if it broke, Asher actually tried turning the engine on.

And that, was how Asher got the first scratch on his beautiful baby, after it revved to life, startled Asher off it and toppled to the ground.

He nearly cried, broke down into tears and mourned the ruin of the paintwork of his baby — yes, he had become that guy. For a week, Asher was too scared to go near his motorcycle, for fear of damaging it further. But in that week, his perspective changed. The scratch along its side became a battle scar, similar to all the stitch scars he had from surgeries. The scratch made his motorcycle like him — scarred and dented, but still here.

And that, was how Asher regained his confidence in himself, and ventured out to try again.

Nothing happened the second time Asher started his motorcycle, and that moment sent trails of excitement running through his fingers, tightly gripping the handlebars. WikiHow told him not to go shooting off down the street the first time; hell, even Asher could have figured that out for himself. Instead, Asher walked his feet along the concrete, moving his motorbike along with his own horsepower, getting used to steering.

Vasily noted his son's dedication, even despite his outrage, and decided to buy him a jacket with armoured joints and chest plates, to protect his son. Although, from his kitchen window, Asher wheeling the motorcycle up and down the driveway didn't look particularly dangerous. Vasily also lent Asher the gloves he used for welding at the factory he worked at, an extra way to keep Asher safe.

Asher worked tirelessly, almost every hour of his spare time. He familiarised himself with the clutch, and the brake, how to shift gears, all while walking himself up and down the driveway of their suburban house. Sometimes, Asher fell when he gave the motorcycle a little too much thrust. The first time he did that, Vasily ran outside immediately at the crashing sound. Asher jumped to his feet, ready to defend his motorcycle from being taken away.

Vasily had shaken his head, and asked, "If I try to take it away?"

"I'll just find it again," Asher countered.

And so, Vasily had reluctantly walked inside, resigned to watching his son struggle with his vehicle. The second time Asher fell, Vasily ran outside again. The teenager was on his feet in seconds, checking himself for scratches or breaks, before checking his motorcycle for scratches of breaks. A few days later, Asher had his third fall. Vasily stood up from his work desk — which overlooked the driveway — and watched as his son stood up, dusted his jacket off and pushed his motorcycle upright, already back on the metaphorical horse.

Vasily sat back down, slowly starting to trust Asher's abilities. Asher took the motorcycle further out from the driveway, sometimes for slow cruises down the street and back. That turned to faster rides around the block, and that turned to riding his motorcycle to school and back. The terrible rumble of the engine was a sound Vasily hated, every time it rolled in and out of their driveway.

It meant that if Asher was to hurt himself, Vasily wouldn't be able to hear it.