Jeremy's mother made me breakfast and sent me off with an apple (and waited patiently in the driveway of their Pennsylvania home for the duration of the 10+ minutes it took me to start the bike). After this, there was no stopping for food - only for gas, a quick stretch, and a bathroom break. I had anticipated a kind of bittersweetness upon return - back to life, the "real world", the low after the high - but, as I crossed the state border and hit reserve for the first time of the trip, I could only laugh maniacally. I stopped immediately off of the Masspike, stripped to a flannel, and rode the bike straight to my parents' residence in Cambridge, to be hospitalized immediately at the repair shop down the road.
I am back. It has taken awhile to update this blog, as I felt the need to step away from it when I returned (coupled with limited internet access). Something about forcing words out after a full day of the road night after night for a month that makes a mental recuperation the savoriest of luxuries...
I have many words about the journey, too many to recollect at present. Now that it has been a few weeks, I am no longer in the same state of mind to conclude with a duly triumphant ending. Below are some excerpts of a journal entry from the evening after my return to the cottage where it began - the closest I can intimate the sentiment of return before months and months of letting it all sink in:
Back. A fasting/interruption of ritual has brought me home. It was with me all along. Now, peace within, strength without.
The excellence of the excellent adventure - any excellent adventure - is the miraculousness of one's chance to be All; as transient as it is timeless.
Autumn's crisp burst has now receded. Still some color, and solar warmth intercepting the chill of the shade. Crunching footsteps through falling leaves, like so many purged thoughts reverberating in the delight of leaf-wading for its own sake. It is its own metaphor.
The night I returned to the cottage, one dahlia I had planted was left, in full bloom. I picked it. The next day, I returned to the farm - the previous night's frost had nabbed the remaining dahlias. A sign perhaps...
Since the inspiration does not quite flow in the same vein subsequent to real-time, there is not exactly a wrap-up proper to this blog. But inherent in what here may appear a lack is an apt invitation for the next excellent adventure. There are, in the course of a life, blatant adventures of various degrees - some like this, others grander, others more simplistic. All of which, within context, are excellent. But the excellence described above - one's chance to be All - is ongoing. Not even death is conclusive. One need only remain open to embrace the mystery that forms the bedrock of all we think we know, and every day is an adventure. Thank you for being a part of this one.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Day 31 - Kennett Square, PA
After breakfast with Lucas at a tasty local spot, we bid our friends (two- and four-legged) a warm goodbye, and packed up the gear for the last cruise together of 2010. Rain wasn't predicted until the Philadelphia area - at present, there was hardly a cloud in the sky. The oak tree outside of Luke's place was a vibrant yellow - he described last night the successive days of walking into a leaf-shower as the surrounding trees began shedding. Home was becoming closer by the instant.
After gassing up and briefly retracing our steps back to the highway, I noticed the moon overhead. It had outlasted the sunrise, and was standing proudly in the sky on its way back to the horizon. A good omen.
Through Ohio and West Virginia, the tail end of the foliar display was magnificent. The Pennsylvania border began the foothills of the Appalachians. Over the phone yesterday, my dad had reminisced on vivid memories of traversing this very highway years ago, and how breathtaking he remembered it being. He was right, and I was elated following yet again in his footsteps - literally this time. Here we were, our last day together on the excellent adventure, on a warm and sunny cruise through the Appalachian mountains in autumn. The burning desire to return home was placated by the beauty of the moment. Perhaps it is the nature of human affairs to always stray from what is most important; but if that is the case, the return movement of the cycle is equally true.
We arrived at Snake's parents' place after dark, winding through Amish country and foggy rural Pennsylvania and just having missed the rains once again. Was it reparations? A reward for our endurance elsewhere? Whatever it was, we were grateful for it. We pulled our bikes into the garage - Snake's remaining there for the season - and were greeted yet again with warm hospitality.
Tomorrow, I finish the last leg to Boston solo. Although the bike's condition is shaky - sputtering and coughing any time the RPMs dip - I am confident that I will make it back, barring any unforeseen anomalies. Although the excellent adventure proper finds its terminus here, my own continues another few hours. The experience will take quite some time to sink in, and even more time to distill the lessons learned and revisited. But that will come in due time. For now, it's one more day of focusing on the road, back to where I began. And in a certain abstract sense, back to where I had been all along.
After gassing up and briefly retracing our steps back to the highway, I noticed the moon overhead. It had outlasted the sunrise, and was standing proudly in the sky on its way back to the horizon. A good omen.
Through Ohio and West Virginia, the tail end of the foliar display was magnificent. The Pennsylvania border began the foothills of the Appalachians. Over the phone yesterday, my dad had reminisced on vivid memories of traversing this very highway years ago, and how breathtaking he remembered it being. He was right, and I was elated following yet again in his footsteps - literally this time. Here we were, our last day together on the excellent adventure, on a warm and sunny cruise through the Appalachian mountains in autumn. The burning desire to return home was placated by the beauty of the moment. Perhaps it is the nature of human affairs to always stray from what is most important; but if that is the case, the return movement of the cycle is equally true.
We arrived at Snake's parents' place after dark, winding through Amish country and foggy rural Pennsylvania and just having missed the rains once again. Was it reparations? A reward for our endurance elsewhere? Whatever it was, we were grateful for it. We pulled our bikes into the garage - Snake's remaining there for the season - and were greeted yet again with warm hospitality.
Tomorrow, I finish the last leg to Boston solo. Although the bike's condition is shaky - sputtering and coughing any time the RPMs dip - I am confident that I will make it back, barring any unforeseen anomalies. Although the excellent adventure proper finds its terminus here, my own continues another few hours. The experience will take quite some time to sink in, and even more time to distill the lessons learned and revisited. But that will come in due time. For now, it's one more day of focusing on the road, back to where I began. And in a certain abstract sense, back to where I had been all along.
Day 30 - Columbus, OH
Sometime during the wee hours of the morning, we were awakened by the pounding of rain against our window. The winds were whipping at hurricane speed. Half-awake, we conferred with each other and agreed that there would be a good few hours of camping out at the adjacent Starbucks in our future. Now we had an excuse to sleep in and try to rest off some of the soreness from decimating walls over the weekend.
We slept through the continental breakfast with no concern. Instead, a sliver of our well-earned dollars were put towards dining at IHOP. From there it was a few hours at Starbucks, catching up on respective journals as we let the storm take a welcomed lead. The staff at Econolodge were kind enough to let us store our gear in a back room and keep the bikes parked and covered while we waited out the residual drizzle from the monstrosity that had passed through in the early morning. A few hours later, the sun was ablaze in the sky. Nature's ways are enigmatic.
On the sunny cruise toward Columbus, the autumnal foliage began to return. I inhaled deeply upon first inhalation of the potent sweetness of decaying leaves. For the nostalgia alone of many years of Braun mantime raking leaves, jumping in leaf piles, wandering endlessly and aimlessly through woods, and a general adoration of all things Fall, this scent intimates the divine. More recently, the symbolism of the decomposing leaves having fallen from the tree, sacrificing themselves to fertilize their origin - formally articulating this, while always having sensed its significance as far back as I can recall, albeit with a more childish innocence - has drawn an even larger circle around the personal importance of this saccharine odor. I also noticed for the first time autumnberry bushes along the highway - an invasive species yielding berries that pack 13 times the lycopene of a tomato. More warm memories returned, this time of a magical evening where Eva and I left the farm right before sunset on a mission to pick as many autumn berries as possible at one of her "secret locations" (because of their invasiveness, it is illegal in MA to replant the bush, which is why we had to hunt them down elsewhere than the farm). My desire to return home was increasing exponentially - the waiting game remaining was yet another exercise in patience.
After a month on the road, our rhythm on the road has become clockwork. We are two appendages of one mind - anticipating each other and the surrounding traffic, understanding each scenario with the same eyes, even running nearly identical bathroom schedules.
We were headed toward Columbus, OH, to stay with Lucas - an old friend of mine I hadn't seen in many moons - his girlfriend Sarah, their dog Ruby, and cats BeeBee and Harold. They had relocated from Maine because Sarah had a full scholarship to OSU (which, we came to find, has the largest student body in the country - 60,000 undergrads). Luke texted me en route regarding the terror-storm's sweeping of his neck of the woods, and sent safe wishes for our travel. Miraculously, we dodged yet another pummeling, and arrived on the soaked streets of Columbus dry as a bone.
Lucas and Sarah's hospitality was right up there with the warmth and generosity of the Caninos. Being around cats again made me miss my guys tremendously. I compensated by smothering Harold (BeeBee is an outdoor cat, and more of a loner - I respect that). Luke is the kind of friend that one picks right back up where one left off without skipping a beat - time and distance never indicates a weakened relationship. The four of us chatted for a good while, sharing stories from the excellent adventure, and hearing about their life in Columbus and their desire to return to New England, and various tangents therein. Sarah eventually headed up early to tackle some work for the following day while Luke, Snake and I talked in depth over local suds before drifting into the wee hours with a slide show from the road. We were set up with beds, and cautioned about the possibility of furry visitors during the course of the night. Missing my feline counterparts more than ever, I couldn't wait.
We slept through the continental breakfast with no concern. Instead, a sliver of our well-earned dollars were put towards dining at IHOP. From there it was a few hours at Starbucks, catching up on respective journals as we let the storm take a welcomed lead. The staff at Econolodge were kind enough to let us store our gear in a back room and keep the bikes parked and covered while we waited out the residual drizzle from the monstrosity that had passed through in the early morning. A few hours later, the sun was ablaze in the sky. Nature's ways are enigmatic.
On the sunny cruise toward Columbus, the autumnal foliage began to return. I inhaled deeply upon first inhalation of the potent sweetness of decaying leaves. For the nostalgia alone of many years of Braun mantime raking leaves, jumping in leaf piles, wandering endlessly and aimlessly through woods, and a general adoration of all things Fall, this scent intimates the divine. More recently, the symbolism of the decomposing leaves having fallen from the tree, sacrificing themselves to fertilize their origin - formally articulating this, while always having sensed its significance as far back as I can recall, albeit with a more childish innocence - has drawn an even larger circle around the personal importance of this saccharine odor. I also noticed for the first time autumnberry bushes along the highway - an invasive species yielding berries that pack 13 times the lycopene of a tomato. More warm memories returned, this time of a magical evening where Eva and I left the farm right before sunset on a mission to pick as many autumn berries as possible at one of her "secret locations" (because of their invasiveness, it is illegal in MA to replant the bush, which is why we had to hunt them down elsewhere than the farm). My desire to return home was increasing exponentially - the waiting game remaining was yet another exercise in patience.
After a month on the road, our rhythm on the road has become clockwork. We are two appendages of one mind - anticipating each other and the surrounding traffic, understanding each scenario with the same eyes, even running nearly identical bathroom schedules.
We were headed toward Columbus, OH, to stay with Lucas - an old friend of mine I hadn't seen in many moons - his girlfriend Sarah, their dog Ruby, and cats BeeBee and Harold. They had relocated from Maine because Sarah had a full scholarship to OSU (which, we came to find, has the largest student body in the country - 60,000 undergrads). Luke texted me en route regarding the terror-storm's sweeping of his neck of the woods, and sent safe wishes for our travel. Miraculously, we dodged yet another pummeling, and arrived on the soaked streets of Columbus dry as a bone.
Lucas and Sarah's hospitality was right up there with the warmth and generosity of the Caninos. Being around cats again made me miss my guys tremendously. I compensated by smothering Harold (BeeBee is an outdoor cat, and more of a loner - I respect that). Luke is the kind of friend that one picks right back up where one left off without skipping a beat - time and distance never indicates a weakened relationship. The four of us chatted for a good while, sharing stories from the excellent adventure, and hearing about their life in Columbus and their desire to return to New England, and various tangents therein. Sarah eventually headed up early to tackle some work for the following day while Luke, Snake and I talked in depth over local suds before drifting into the wee hours with a slide show from the road. We were set up with beds, and cautioned about the possibility of furry visitors during the course of the night. Missing my feline counterparts more than ever, I couldn't wait.
Day 29 - Terre Haute, IN
After a quick breakfast and a goodbye to the Canino family dachshunds Tootsie and Dave, we were back on the road. The winds continued as we hauled down 70. We hit stopped traffic on 270, the road that circumvents St. Louis' downtown area. Regrettably, this circumvention also meant missing the famed Gateway Arch that would welcome us back into the east. But crossing the Mississippi River was the natural landmark that marked our arrival, and more symbolic than that constructed by human hands alone.
Another day of averting foul weather. I sat outside our motel, as the clouds raced by the waning moon, staring at the bike. The compression problems were beginning again, but I was confident that I would return to the coast before it became a hindrance. As the reality of the nearness of the trip's end began to sink in, memories flooded back of staring at the bike with a similar awe as a child in our family garage. I would sit atop Daddy's motorcycle, pretending as though I were riding it into the sunset. Over two decades later, I was en route home from the west coast. With so much stimuli on a daily basis, I had barely a moment to contemplate this simple fact: I was, among so many other intentions for the excellent adventure, realizing a childhood dream. In the preface to Thus Spake Zarathustra, Nietzsche's one-page parable indicating states of personal transformation bears the moral that "for the creative act, a sacred 'yes' is needed." All it took to realize this dream, this collection of dreams within a dream - a sacred Yes.
Snake checked the weather. One of the worst storms to date would be whipping its way through our area sometime tomorrow morning and heading east. We have a short ride tomorrow, so there is fortunately some time to let it race ahead of us before reluctantly chasing its tail.
Another day of averting foul weather. I sat outside our motel, as the clouds raced by the waning moon, staring at the bike. The compression problems were beginning again, but I was confident that I would return to the coast before it became a hindrance. As the reality of the nearness of the trip's end began to sink in, memories flooded back of staring at the bike with a similar awe as a child in our family garage. I would sit atop Daddy's motorcycle, pretending as though I were riding it into the sunset. Over two decades later, I was en route home from the west coast. With so much stimuli on a daily basis, I had barely a moment to contemplate this simple fact: I was, among so many other intentions for the excellent adventure, realizing a childhood dream. In the preface to Thus Spake Zarathustra, Nietzsche's one-page parable indicating states of personal transformation bears the moral that "for the creative act, a sacred 'yes' is needed." All it took to realize this dream, this collection of dreams within a dream - a sacred Yes.
Snake checked the weather. One of the worst storms to date would be whipping its way through our area sometime tomorrow morning and heading east. We have a short ride tomorrow, so there is fortunately some time to let it race ahead of us before reluctantly chasing its tail.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Day 27 & 28 - Lee's Summit, MO
Orbitz had told us that the America's Best Value Inn had free continental breakfast. We forced ourselves awake to find a locked lobby, the only evidence of breakfast behind closed doors being an unbrewed pot of coffee and some pre-packaged muffins and danishes. Just like meteorologists, one can't place the blame entirely on the kind outsourced folks of Orbitz - they don't have all the information, they're just doing their job. But if one more SOB tries to tell me that a muffin is breakfast, I will be largely inclined to correct him.
The next town over had a gas station/cafe, and we chomped down some breakfast sandwiches. The first hour or so of our cruise was a continuation of the sunny pleasantness of the previous day. Then, as we penetrated deeper into Kansas, the winds returned - not as relentless as our days across Minnesota and South Dakota, but more than enough to ride at an angle and cramp up the neck.
While stopped at one gas station, we took notice of a motorcycle shop across the street and an unusual amount of bikers on the road (we had seen none up to that point today). One saw our plates, and struck a conversation right up. "Massachusetts, huh? S'Kennedy country!" he said facetiously. "Man you guys must be a couple grand in the hole from this trip - you're probably techies or something, right?" This man was insufferable. "Actually, I work on a farm." "No shit! We have plenty of farmland out here!!" You don't say? He was riding for charity, which explained the plethora of bikers concentrated in the area all taking a left onto an unassuming side street. The charity was formed for the surviving children of "this black guy with, you know, one of those 'different' names like Mbutu or somethin," who had slit his wife's throat, fled to Albuquerque, then slit his own. "Hell, I just hope I get a pair of chaps out of it - HA! Then I'm gonna head home, pop on the TV, and see what the hell Obama is sayin' now!" I was hoping our reticence implied that we did not want anything to do with this conversation or the man behind it, but he kept on going for a good while until he talked himself into a corner and hit a wall. "Well, you guys take care." Good-fucking-bye.
The winds continued on. We arrived at our destination - the home of Snake's lady love, right outside of Kansas City - beaten and bruised by the elements. She lived in the Boston area now, but her parents were happy to take us in for a few days. They lived on a quiet dead end in the hills overlooking the city, in a beautiful abode that they had built themselves. Jim and Dale couldn't have been more hospitable. Dale saw us drive by in the dark, and she flipped the lights a few times and opened the garage door to signal our destination when we rolled by the house. They cleared a spot in the garage for the bikes, and immediately served hors d'ouevres and cocktails. It was like a five-star resort, without the unwanted crowds. We showered up (each a shower in his own room) and conversed over a lovely dinner before hitting the hay.
We were up at 6:30am, having eagerly committed to a day of good hard work with Jim. Jim had the craftsman's master eye - he was well-versed in all trades, and had made a practice of gutting houses and flipping them for renting. It felt great to have the exercise and change of pace of a hard day's work. We spent the day on demo duty in Jim's most recent purchase right near the bar district of Kansas City, decimating walls with sledgehammers and crowbars and cleaning up the debris. Dale stopped by around noon to drop off lunch. We finished the day at 3pm, and were given $100 cash each ("the going rate," Jim had told us). We were worked, but psyched. We would have done it for room and board alone, but the generosity was obviously very well-received.
We ate another excellent meal - some local barbecue prepared by Jim and Dale - before retiring to the living room to watch a movie together. Jim and Dale would be leaving in the morning for work, but opened their house to us for anything we might need before departure. We embraced warmly before bed, and reiterated again our appreciation for all they had done for us. If and when they return to our neck of the woods, the return of hospitality was a guarantee.
The next town over had a gas station/cafe, and we chomped down some breakfast sandwiches. The first hour or so of our cruise was a continuation of the sunny pleasantness of the previous day. Then, as we penetrated deeper into Kansas, the winds returned - not as relentless as our days across Minnesota and South Dakota, but more than enough to ride at an angle and cramp up the neck.
While stopped at one gas station, we took notice of a motorcycle shop across the street and an unusual amount of bikers on the road (we had seen none up to that point today). One saw our plates, and struck a conversation right up. "Massachusetts, huh? S'Kennedy country!" he said facetiously. "Man you guys must be a couple grand in the hole from this trip - you're probably techies or something, right?" This man was insufferable. "Actually, I work on a farm." "No shit! We have plenty of farmland out here!!" You don't say? He was riding for charity, which explained the plethora of bikers concentrated in the area all taking a left onto an unassuming side street. The charity was formed for the surviving children of "this black guy with, you know, one of those 'different' names like Mbutu or somethin," who had slit his wife's throat, fled to Albuquerque, then slit his own. "Hell, I just hope I get a pair of chaps out of it - HA! Then I'm gonna head home, pop on the TV, and see what the hell Obama is sayin' now!" I was hoping our reticence implied that we did not want anything to do with this conversation or the man behind it, but he kept on going for a good while until he talked himself into a corner and hit a wall. "Well, you guys take care." Good-fucking-bye.
The winds continued on. We arrived at our destination - the home of Snake's lady love, right outside of Kansas City - beaten and bruised by the elements. She lived in the Boston area now, but her parents were happy to take us in for a few days. They lived on a quiet dead end in the hills overlooking the city, in a beautiful abode that they had built themselves. Jim and Dale couldn't have been more hospitable. Dale saw us drive by in the dark, and she flipped the lights a few times and opened the garage door to signal our destination when we rolled by the house. They cleared a spot in the garage for the bikes, and immediately served hors d'ouevres and cocktails. It was like a five-star resort, without the unwanted crowds. We showered up (each a shower in his own room) and conversed over a lovely dinner before hitting the hay.
We were up at 6:30am, having eagerly committed to a day of good hard work with Jim. Jim had the craftsman's master eye - he was well-versed in all trades, and had made a practice of gutting houses and flipping them for renting. It felt great to have the exercise and change of pace of a hard day's work. We spent the day on demo duty in Jim's most recent purchase right near the bar district of Kansas City, decimating walls with sledgehammers and crowbars and cleaning up the debris. Dale stopped by around noon to drop off lunch. We finished the day at 3pm, and were given $100 cash each ("the going rate," Jim had told us). We were worked, but psyched. We would have done it for room and board alone, but the generosity was obviously very well-received.
We ate another excellent meal - some local barbecue prepared by Jim and Dale - before retiring to the living room to watch a movie together. Jim and Dale would be leaving in the morning for work, but opened their house to us for anything we might need before departure. We embraced warmly before bed, and reiterated again our appreciation for all they had done for us. If and when they return to our neck of the woods, the return of hospitality was a guarantee.
Day 26 - Liberal, KS
The sun was out. On and ever onward.
The weather was pleasant for the duration of the day. Another easy rider day - the silky complacence of the Cruise, with the road ahead, and little to do but ride it.
We crossed into the northwest corner of Texas. On the outskirts of Dalhart, the first major "city" in the area, were miles and miles of black spots. As we drew nearer, the spots took form - countless acres of stockyard, cows separated into 10x10 pens. The air was rank with methane, so much so that I held my breath as long as possible without choking. It was the embodiment of a moral dilemma. The cows didn't appear any more phased by the cramped quarters than their free-range kin we had encountered elsewhere, and there was no evidence (at least passing through) of flagrant mistreatment. It is a fine line between animals' sentiments of well-being and our anthropomorphization of their concerns. Aside from this trip, where I have had to make exceptions out of lack of options, I don't eat meat often, but it is more for reasons of health than any sort of ethic. It is certainly difficult, when one breaks it down, to rationalize eating something one couldn't kill oneself - but we did not choose to be born into a community where we are twice-removed from the sources of our sustenance. This being said, my guiding principle of what I choose to eat or not eat finds it roots in my own definition of what constitutes life. I have frequently referenced my guidepost aphorism, the terse summary of the great mythologist Joseph Campbell who, when questioned by one of his students about his conception of vegetarianism, humorously responded that they "couldn't hear a carrot scream." The great debate over eating meat is largely fueled by the treatment of animals in large-scale food production - it does not follow from this except through extrapolation that it is inherently wrong to kill and eat animals. Plants too, by our same narrow definition, constitute life. Just because a carrot doesn't have four legs and two "windows to the soul" - just because we can't identify with it in the way we might with a cow (and this is coming from someone who grew up with a wooden cow on his wall marking his love for the docile creatures), does that justify its death? At the farm, I have met neighboring animals who live happy, healthy lives - although the idea of bonding with an animal that later ends up on one's plate is startling, even horrific, to many of us, one has to question the origin of this sentiment. Is it because something is inherently wrong with killing animals, or is it a product of a perception shaped by the twice-removed culture in which we reside? I am strongly inclined toward the latter. At the same time that I have great difficulty with the idea of killing what I eat, I also have tremendous reverence for the indigenous population who hunted bison - sacred bison - and used every part of it. They understood that they were taking a life to perpetuate their own, and had overt cultural expressions of gratitude to celebrate that life. The moral fragmentation of our own cultural carnivorousness seems ultimately a matter of the "how" rather than the "what" - how we do it, rather than whether or not we do it. At the same time that I would never impose my own sentiment on others, I only ask the same - this tangent is devoted to all the vegetarians and vegans who flare with moral indignation at those who don't follow suit. I have great respect for people whose personal, cultural, or religious convictions dissuade them from the practice of eating meat; but, as we all must find our own way to the center of Being, I have little patience for those whose preaching is devoid of the reciprocating this respect.
We stopped in Dalhart for lunch at a little place called Martha's Home Cookin'. We had burgers. At least we knew they were fresh. I overheard our waitress say to the only other gentleman in the joint - an older man, a bona fide cowboy, hat, accent and all - that she traveled an hour and a half each way to work. Her face was painted with exhaustion, but not just the "up all night last night" type of exhaustion - the exhaustion of long-term unremitting routine. When I thanked her for refilling my coffee, she walked away, then turned around about 5 or 6 seconds later, and said with a hollow gaze, "oh, you're welcome." Her conversation with the cowboy was wrapping up when he said to her, "keep on behavin' now," to which she replied, "oh, that's all I ever do." As he walked out the door, she had a brief soliloquy within earshot: "sometimes I wonder if I'm better off bein' like other folks." I turned around (Snake had gone to the restroom at this point), and, just being the two of us there and her eyes - the vacuous gaze of one who lives mostly in dreams - meeting mine, I replied with sincerity, "well, not necessarily. All depends on who you're asking." Her dreamscape interrupted by my response, she stared into space with a slightly different expression while what I said processed, and uttered as she walked away only, "hmmmm..." I remembered again why the road had beckoned to me so strongly. It wasn't a vacation from routine, or a frivolous whim to eschew responsibility - it was to return to the shadowy but nonetheless fortitudinous recesses of why life was livable for me, and what I wanted to devote my time toward. Everyone has their own way of giving back (or not), and at the end of the day, when faith in existence is conveyed with undeniable sincerity, the conduit of process is largely irrespective. Whether one is saving lives through surgery, poetry, or through being the constant affirmation to others serving coffee in a small town, this faith is all that really matters.
The prairie was smooth and the weather fair as we passed through four states - New Mexico, the corner of Texas, the pan handle of Oklahoma, and the destination border town of Liberal, Kansas. Before even nearing the border, we referenced endlessly the Wizard of Oz and Kansas (the band). It was much to our surprise when we found out, upon checking in to our motel, that Dorothy's house was literally across the street! Right before sunset, we ventured over to the site - a dedication to the Wizard of Oz and to Senor Coronado, the Spanish conquistador who had "first" explored the territory now known as Kansas. We snapped some pictures of the bronze statue of Dorothy and the replica of the house, and examined some of the contributors to the project immortalized on the yellow bricks of the path.
It was a full moon tonight. Before bed, I popped out with a set of binoculars to stare awestruck for awhile. Alan Watts returned into my train of thought - mutual interdependence, the All in each and the each as All. It was a bizarre notion to consider: that the moon was in some way just as dependent on me as I on it. But, as Watts so eloquently summarized, differentiation is not separateness. I am not simply a soul caught in bag of flesh - an organism "in the world." I am - we all are - rather, born out of the world, as inseparable from it as it from us. The more one plumbs the depths of Being, the more that this notion passes from absurd incomprehensibility to near-perfect harmony. But this, too, like all else, is inconclusive - the firmest ground on which we stand, literally and mentally (as if the two were indeed separate), invariably preserves a degree of openness. And isn't that the wonder of it all?
The weather was pleasant for the duration of the day. Another easy rider day - the silky complacence of the Cruise, with the road ahead, and little to do but ride it.
We crossed into the northwest corner of Texas. On the outskirts of Dalhart, the first major "city" in the area, were miles and miles of black spots. As we drew nearer, the spots took form - countless acres of stockyard, cows separated into 10x10 pens. The air was rank with methane, so much so that I held my breath as long as possible without choking. It was the embodiment of a moral dilemma. The cows didn't appear any more phased by the cramped quarters than their free-range kin we had encountered elsewhere, and there was no evidence (at least passing through) of flagrant mistreatment. It is a fine line between animals' sentiments of well-being and our anthropomorphization of their concerns. Aside from this trip, where I have had to make exceptions out of lack of options, I don't eat meat often, but it is more for reasons of health than any sort of ethic. It is certainly difficult, when one breaks it down, to rationalize eating something one couldn't kill oneself - but we did not choose to be born into a community where we are twice-removed from the sources of our sustenance. This being said, my guiding principle of what I choose to eat or not eat finds it roots in my own definition of what constitutes life. I have frequently referenced my guidepost aphorism, the terse summary of the great mythologist Joseph Campbell who, when questioned by one of his students about his conception of vegetarianism, humorously responded that they "couldn't hear a carrot scream." The great debate over eating meat is largely fueled by the treatment of animals in large-scale food production - it does not follow from this except through extrapolation that it is inherently wrong to kill and eat animals. Plants too, by our same narrow definition, constitute life. Just because a carrot doesn't have four legs and two "windows to the soul" - just because we can't identify with it in the way we might with a cow (and this is coming from someone who grew up with a wooden cow on his wall marking his love for the docile creatures), does that justify its death? At the farm, I have met neighboring animals who live happy, healthy lives - although the idea of bonding with an animal that later ends up on one's plate is startling, even horrific, to many of us, one has to question the origin of this sentiment. Is it because something is inherently wrong with killing animals, or is it a product of a perception shaped by the twice-removed culture in which we reside? I am strongly inclined toward the latter. At the same time that I have great difficulty with the idea of killing what I eat, I also have tremendous reverence for the indigenous population who hunted bison - sacred bison - and used every part of it. They understood that they were taking a life to perpetuate their own, and had overt cultural expressions of gratitude to celebrate that life. The moral fragmentation of our own cultural carnivorousness seems ultimately a matter of the "how" rather than the "what" - how we do it, rather than whether or not we do it. At the same time that I would never impose my own sentiment on others, I only ask the same - this tangent is devoted to all the vegetarians and vegans who flare with moral indignation at those who don't follow suit. I have great respect for people whose personal, cultural, or religious convictions dissuade them from the practice of eating meat; but, as we all must find our own way to the center of Being, I have little patience for those whose preaching is devoid of the reciprocating this respect.
We stopped in Dalhart for lunch at a little place called Martha's Home Cookin'. We had burgers. At least we knew they were fresh. I overheard our waitress say to the only other gentleman in the joint - an older man, a bona fide cowboy, hat, accent and all - that she traveled an hour and a half each way to work. Her face was painted with exhaustion, but not just the "up all night last night" type of exhaustion - the exhaustion of long-term unremitting routine. When I thanked her for refilling my coffee, she walked away, then turned around about 5 or 6 seconds later, and said with a hollow gaze, "oh, you're welcome." Her conversation with the cowboy was wrapping up when he said to her, "keep on behavin' now," to which she replied, "oh, that's all I ever do." As he walked out the door, she had a brief soliloquy within earshot: "sometimes I wonder if I'm better off bein' like other folks." I turned around (Snake had gone to the restroom at this point), and, just being the two of us there and her eyes - the vacuous gaze of one who lives mostly in dreams - meeting mine, I replied with sincerity, "well, not necessarily. All depends on who you're asking." Her dreamscape interrupted by my response, she stared into space with a slightly different expression while what I said processed, and uttered as she walked away only, "hmmmm..." I remembered again why the road had beckoned to me so strongly. It wasn't a vacation from routine, or a frivolous whim to eschew responsibility - it was to return to the shadowy but nonetheless fortitudinous recesses of why life was livable for me, and what I wanted to devote my time toward. Everyone has their own way of giving back (or not), and at the end of the day, when faith in existence is conveyed with undeniable sincerity, the conduit of process is largely irrespective. Whether one is saving lives through surgery, poetry, or through being the constant affirmation to others serving coffee in a small town, this faith is all that really matters.
The prairie was smooth and the weather fair as we passed through four states - New Mexico, the corner of Texas, the pan handle of Oklahoma, and the destination border town of Liberal, Kansas. Before even nearing the border, we referenced endlessly the Wizard of Oz and Kansas (the band). It was much to our surprise when we found out, upon checking in to our motel, that Dorothy's house was literally across the street! Right before sunset, we ventured over to the site - a dedication to the Wizard of Oz and to Senor Coronado, the Spanish conquistador who had "first" explored the territory now known as Kansas. We snapped some pictures of the bronze statue of Dorothy and the replica of the house, and examined some of the contributors to the project immortalized on the yellow bricks of the path.
It was a full moon tonight. Before bed, I popped out with a set of binoculars to stare awestruck for awhile. Alan Watts returned into my train of thought - mutual interdependence, the All in each and the each as All. It was a bizarre notion to consider: that the moon was in some way just as dependent on me as I on it. But, as Watts so eloquently summarized, differentiation is not separateness. I am not simply a soul caught in bag of flesh - an organism "in the world." I am - we all are - rather, born out of the world, as inseparable from it as it from us. The more one plumbs the depths of Being, the more that this notion passes from absurd incomprehensibility to near-perfect harmony. But this, too, like all else, is inconclusive - the firmest ground on which we stand, literally and mentally (as if the two were indeed separate), invariably preserves a degree of openness. And isn't that the wonder of it all?
Friday, October 22, 2010
Day 24 & 25 - Albuquerque, NM
Last night, having crushed a 500 mi storm-dodging day, we were feeling on top of our return trip. Until we viewed an updated forecast. What was originally a 30% chance of rain had morphed into multiple-day scattered thunderstorm prediction. We were prepped for whatever the day would bring, but it wasn't looking favorable.
We were startled into an abrupt awakening by a thunder crash that shook our entire room. After a few seconds of sobering silence, I rolled over and said to Snake (whose bed was closest to the window), "no rain yet though, right?" Less than ten seconds later: deluge. The hardest downpour to date. As quickly as it came, it left, and within 15 minutes, the sun was evaporating the precipitous damage.
The first 120 miles of our cruise were ideal. Not too cool, partly sunny, low wind. It brought back the facile bliss of the Cruise - the open road ahead, America the Beautiful in all directions, and no one to answer to but one's own mind. "Born to be Wild" popped into my head, conjuring recollections of Easy Rider and the delighted envy of witnessing the Cruise on film, and wishing that someday I too, could Cruise. There we were - looking for adventure, and whatever comes our way.
130 miles in, what came our way was the all-too-familiar ominous blackness on the horizon. We were riding straight into it. Lightning soon emerged with the greatest frequency so far. We pulled over and broke out the rain gear in preparation, ready to brace the darkness ahead.
It started as a sporadic trickle, and became progressively worse. It wasn't like the previous rains - the pelting was cold and hard. We were being pummeled with hail; lightning striking to the left and right. We couldn't see a thing, and had to pull over until the worst of it passed by. As we slowed to the next exit, a bolt struck about 5 miles to our right. We wiped off our goggles, and a few minutes later, continued to trudge on. A half hour later, the storm was behind us, and we were soaked again.
When we had a sufficient lead, we stopped at a travel stop to dry off a bit and grab a bite to eat. The rain gear we had purchased back in Minnesota was one set each of Coleman pants/jacket. One day's wear, my pants were already tearing along the seams on both legs. Hiking rain gear was not designed for motorcycles. I had given up on my rain pants and jacket yesterday (fortunately, the leather is almost entirely waterproof), and resolved to let the wind dry my jeans, socks, and shoes - my rain gear now consisted of a set of ski goggles and nylon mitten slips for my gloves. Snake's rain pants had rubbed against his exhaust pipe, and melted on a bit, but were in decent shape otherwise, so he kept them on as a good luck charm to ward off the nagging foul weather.
With a lead on the storm, we pressed onward. We crossed the border into New Mexico, reading a greeting sign with the state's motto: "Land of Enchantment." And it was indeed. This was more the painted desertscapes so celebrated by southwestern artists - scattered brush, cliffs and basins of deep maroon contrasted with the traditional desert beige. It was lovely. The SNBF railroad line chugged along parallel to us, and I was transported back to my childhood love of the old stories of the cowboys and Indians of the west. Decades later, the reality of my childhood stories was much more sobering, but the landscape was no less enchanting.
As I was drinking in the surroundings, I looked up to see Snake and a car in the adjacent lane slamming on their brakes. I followed suit. We witnessed our first tumbleweeds blowing across the highway - a larger bush accompanied by its little sibling. Further up the road, I was again startled by random pieces of unidentifiable road scraps. Snake was slowing again, but more gradually this time - he was checking something on his bike. I pulled up next to him to make sure everything was alright, and burst into laughter when I realized the scraps I had seen whizzing by were pieces of his rain pants. His good luck charm were spiraling into destruction; after the last pummeling, their disintegration was ironically appropriate.
We arrived in Albuquerque, exhausted from the third consecutive day of weaving through storms. Our motel was toward the outskirts of town, but on Historic Rt. 66; we didn't anticipate having a problem finding a place to eat around 8 pm. We wandered down the street for several blocks with only fast food chains in sight (both non-chain restaurants were closed). The dark clouds had caught up and it started raining again, so we promptly turned around and settled on the Waffle House next to the motel.
The food verified what was expected - a modicum above McDonald's. Our waitress, however, was very pleasant. We had just missed the tail end of tourist season; the thunderstorms were not uncommon this time of year; the state trivia question was "red or green?" (referring to the chili, which was the pride of New Mexico). She was succinct with her conversation, but informed us of quite a bit. We paid up, bid her goodnight, and walked back to our room. The heart of the storm was passing overhead, and there was a display of lightning like I have never seen before. Bolts off of bolts, momentarily blasting open the night sky. The forecast predicted more of the same for tomorrow. The pre-Yellowstone feeling consumed both of us again - the inescapable subservience to Nature, stifling our desire to press on. The morning would be the ultimate determinant, but it seemed near certain that we would have to eat a day.
I awoke from a poor night's sleep of vivid and bizarre dreams with bad indigestion from last night's meal. I turned one hazy morning eye toward Snake; he had been up for some time researching the current weather patterns extensively. The data was conclusive - we would stay in Albuquerque. In my present state, the verdict came as a relief, and I rolled back over for a few more hours of rest, determined to make the best of it when I awoke.
The air was a bit chilly, but the sun was shining. We were trying not to doubt our decision, but it was hard to believe looking at the sky that anything threatening was on the horizon for the day. But we had adhered to the law of the gut, the Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance golden rule reiterated by my father - my most heroic of road warriors. Reminding ourselves of this, our confidence was victorious over doubt. We stood resolutely by our decision and accepted the present situation with grace.
In the New Mexico magazine perched on a stand in our motel room, I took notice of a column on local breweries. I have four delightful weaknesses when it comes to spending money on the road: books, cafes, vinyl records, and delicious beer. The shoestring budget I was already borrowing against was my primary regulator; lack of space ruled out altogether records and books (records would almost certainly be damaged, and I had filled up the remaining space in my saddlebag with some new reading); and the day's coffee had already been consumed. There was only one option left, rationalized by collapsing the brewery visit into the big meal for the day. We jumped on the bikes and for a cruise down Historic Rt. 66. Aside from the famous insignia working its way infrequently into business logos, the historic road was indistinct from homogeneous American state routes - chain restaurants, car dealerships, motels, gas stations, convenience stores, and the like. Pretty run-of-the-mill. Marble Brewery (given an A- by Beer Advocate, my litmus test of beer reviews) was off an unassuming industrial side street. We parked and headed in. The bar is built off the brewery; they have no kitchen, but a neighboring brewery prepares food daily. The food was par for the course, but the beer was excellent. I opted for several small samples - The Wildflower Wheat (brewed with a touch of local honey), Pumpkin Ale, and Oatmeal Stout - while Snake ordered a pint of the Amber Ale. All were delicious. We were content.
As we left, we observed the sky - partly sunny on the one side, black on the other. We high-tailed it back to the motel, and as we entered our section of town, it was evident that the storm had recently passed through. The section of street the sunlight had not yet reached was drenched. When we parked at the motel, water was gushing off of the roof near the gutters, and we noticed patches of what looked like snow. At first, Snake remarked, "must have just emptied the ice machine." We crossed the street to grab some juice at the gas station, and noticed other such patches still shadowed by signs, buildings, and dark corners. We looked at them curiously then each other, than went in for a closer inspection: thawing pellets of hail. Enough to have stuck on ground not yet frozen by the season, in 60 degree weather. We had chosen wisely.
We were startled into an abrupt awakening by a thunder crash that shook our entire room. After a few seconds of sobering silence, I rolled over and said to Snake (whose bed was closest to the window), "no rain yet though, right?" Less than ten seconds later: deluge. The hardest downpour to date. As quickly as it came, it left, and within 15 minutes, the sun was evaporating the precipitous damage.
The first 120 miles of our cruise were ideal. Not too cool, partly sunny, low wind. It brought back the facile bliss of the Cruise - the open road ahead, America the Beautiful in all directions, and no one to answer to but one's own mind. "Born to be Wild" popped into my head, conjuring recollections of Easy Rider and the delighted envy of witnessing the Cruise on film, and wishing that someday I too, could Cruise. There we were - looking for adventure, and whatever comes our way.
130 miles in, what came our way was the all-too-familiar ominous blackness on the horizon. We were riding straight into it. Lightning soon emerged with the greatest frequency so far. We pulled over and broke out the rain gear in preparation, ready to brace the darkness ahead.
It started as a sporadic trickle, and became progressively worse. It wasn't like the previous rains - the pelting was cold and hard. We were being pummeled with hail; lightning striking to the left and right. We couldn't see a thing, and had to pull over until the worst of it passed by. As we slowed to the next exit, a bolt struck about 5 miles to our right. We wiped off our goggles, and a few minutes later, continued to trudge on. A half hour later, the storm was behind us, and we were soaked again.
When we had a sufficient lead, we stopped at a travel stop to dry off a bit and grab a bite to eat. The rain gear we had purchased back in Minnesota was one set each of Coleman pants/jacket. One day's wear, my pants were already tearing along the seams on both legs. Hiking rain gear was not designed for motorcycles. I had given up on my rain pants and jacket yesterday (fortunately, the leather is almost entirely waterproof), and resolved to let the wind dry my jeans, socks, and shoes - my rain gear now consisted of a set of ski goggles and nylon mitten slips for my gloves. Snake's rain pants had rubbed against his exhaust pipe, and melted on a bit, but were in decent shape otherwise, so he kept them on as a good luck charm to ward off the nagging foul weather.
With a lead on the storm, we pressed onward. We crossed the border into New Mexico, reading a greeting sign with the state's motto: "Land of Enchantment." And it was indeed. This was more the painted desertscapes so celebrated by southwestern artists - scattered brush, cliffs and basins of deep maroon contrasted with the traditional desert beige. It was lovely. The SNBF railroad line chugged along parallel to us, and I was transported back to my childhood love of the old stories of the cowboys and Indians of the west. Decades later, the reality of my childhood stories was much more sobering, but the landscape was no less enchanting.
As I was drinking in the surroundings, I looked up to see Snake and a car in the adjacent lane slamming on their brakes. I followed suit. We witnessed our first tumbleweeds blowing across the highway - a larger bush accompanied by its little sibling. Further up the road, I was again startled by random pieces of unidentifiable road scraps. Snake was slowing again, but more gradually this time - he was checking something on his bike. I pulled up next to him to make sure everything was alright, and burst into laughter when I realized the scraps I had seen whizzing by were pieces of his rain pants. His good luck charm were spiraling into destruction; after the last pummeling, their disintegration was ironically appropriate.
We arrived in Albuquerque, exhausted from the third consecutive day of weaving through storms. Our motel was toward the outskirts of town, but on Historic Rt. 66; we didn't anticipate having a problem finding a place to eat around 8 pm. We wandered down the street for several blocks with only fast food chains in sight (both non-chain restaurants were closed). The dark clouds had caught up and it started raining again, so we promptly turned around and settled on the Waffle House next to the motel.
The food verified what was expected - a modicum above McDonald's. Our waitress, however, was very pleasant. We had just missed the tail end of tourist season; the thunderstorms were not uncommon this time of year; the state trivia question was "red or green?" (referring to the chili, which was the pride of New Mexico). She was succinct with her conversation, but informed us of quite a bit. We paid up, bid her goodnight, and walked back to our room. The heart of the storm was passing overhead, and there was a display of lightning like I have never seen before. Bolts off of bolts, momentarily blasting open the night sky. The forecast predicted more of the same for tomorrow. The pre-Yellowstone feeling consumed both of us again - the inescapable subservience to Nature, stifling our desire to press on. The morning would be the ultimate determinant, but it seemed near certain that we would have to eat a day.
I awoke from a poor night's sleep of vivid and bizarre dreams with bad indigestion from last night's meal. I turned one hazy morning eye toward Snake; he had been up for some time researching the current weather patterns extensively. The data was conclusive - we would stay in Albuquerque. In my present state, the verdict came as a relief, and I rolled back over for a few more hours of rest, determined to make the best of it when I awoke.
The air was a bit chilly, but the sun was shining. We were trying not to doubt our decision, but it was hard to believe looking at the sky that anything threatening was on the horizon for the day. But we had adhered to the law of the gut, the Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance golden rule reiterated by my father - my most heroic of road warriors. Reminding ourselves of this, our confidence was victorious over doubt. We stood resolutely by our decision and accepted the present situation with grace.
In the New Mexico magazine perched on a stand in our motel room, I took notice of a column on local breweries. I have four delightful weaknesses when it comes to spending money on the road: books, cafes, vinyl records, and delicious beer. The shoestring budget I was already borrowing against was my primary regulator; lack of space ruled out altogether records and books (records would almost certainly be damaged, and I had filled up the remaining space in my saddlebag with some new reading); and the day's coffee had already been consumed. There was only one option left, rationalized by collapsing the brewery visit into the big meal for the day. We jumped on the bikes and for a cruise down Historic Rt. 66. Aside from the famous insignia working its way infrequently into business logos, the historic road was indistinct from homogeneous American state routes - chain restaurants, car dealerships, motels, gas stations, convenience stores, and the like. Pretty run-of-the-mill. Marble Brewery (given an A- by Beer Advocate, my litmus test of beer reviews) was off an unassuming industrial side street. We parked and headed in. The bar is built off the brewery; they have no kitchen, but a neighboring brewery prepares food daily. The food was par for the course, but the beer was excellent. I opted for several small samples - The Wildflower Wheat (brewed with a touch of local honey), Pumpkin Ale, and Oatmeal Stout - while Snake ordered a pint of the Amber Ale. All were delicious. We were content.
As we left, we observed the sky - partly sunny on the one side, black on the other. We high-tailed it back to the motel, and as we entered our section of town, it was evident that the storm had recently passed through. The section of street the sunlight had not yet reached was drenched. When we parked at the motel, water was gushing off of the roof near the gutters, and we noticed patches of what looked like snow. At first, Snake remarked, "must have just emptied the ice machine." We crossed the street to grab some juice at the gas station, and noticed other such patches still shadowed by signs, buildings, and dark corners. We looked at them curiously then each other, than went in for a closer inspection: thawing pellets of hail. Enough to have stuck on ground not yet frozen by the season, in 60 degree weather. We had chosen wisely.
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