Day 4 - Wawa, Ontario

The damp pavement this morning was evidence that rain had fallen considerably overnight, yet we awoke again to patches of blue in the distance. The 40% of rain had fallen, and the 60% of clarity was moving in.

We had breakfast at the restaurant attached to the motel - we paid for it, but I had eggs. And freshly thawed "field berries." The coffee was free refills, which spread my smile even wider.

The morning ritual of packing up began. Our rituals are pretty much identical methodologically, although each contains its own slight gradations, and they do not necessarily occur in the same order. Generally speaking, they consist of this: anything unpacked returns to its home, the bikes are uncovered and the rain covers are put away, the luggage is strapped in with bungees and/or ratchet straps (and in my case, the saddlebags are clipped back on - Snake's are leather and attached, whereas mine are suitcase-style hard plastic, and buckle in and out), the more immediately accessible items are put in their place (in my case, the faring, which holds my glasses, camera, goggles, hat, cell phone, and any small things in need of accessibility like cough drops or chapstick; passport and waterproof case holding license, cards, and cash all go in the jacket), an idiot check is done of the room for anything that may have snuck out of range of the initial survey, and the bikes are fired up (and Moose is rubbed). This is almost entirely done in silence, which allows time to reflect on the previous day and sweep the mind clean for the day to come (among the mental housecleaning is often the residue of the previous night's dreams, as we both have been dreaming vividly every night). This is one of the primary reasons Snake is the ideal co-pilot for me on this journey. We have lived together on and off for 7 years; we have done a number of hikes together, several of which meant days of hiking without uttering more than a sentence to each other, breaking silence only for necessary conversation, or at times just for affirmation. We have a mutual understanding that needs no verbal utterance. Both respect each other's space, and generally, each knows when to give it to the other. I have many wonderful people in my life, but few who have this combination of an easy-going disposition and self-sufficiency with an understanding and respect of my eccentricities - it makes Snake who he is. We can be sitting in a room for hours, each doing his own thing, occasionally chatting to share news, discuss a thought, or just check in on what's up. Many of the stories, web pages, and blogs I read prior to embarking on the excellent adventure advocated going it alone over the burdens the come with another person or a group. I understand the point, and respect it, but am grateful for the solidarity that Snake brings. This morning after breakfast and a review of the day's course, the only words uttered were "I'll go drop the key off and check out," and "Day 4." And that sufficed to put us on the same page for the day to come.

One unfortunate irritation this morning was the realization upon checking our bank accounts that both of us had been charged at an Esso gas station for $97 dollars. He once, me twice - both of us at one Esso, and me at another. The status of these charges is currently "pending," so the good folks at Bank of America (yes, I know, get rid of BOA... believe me, it's in the near future) could not provide any explanation on how this could have happened. We just had to wait and see if they went through, then file for dispute. Had it been just one gas station, we could have blamed the attendant and her silly faux-hawk for jacking our digits, but the fact that it happened twice in a row to me meant something greater was amiss. At any rate, it seemed to affirm the prudence of our decision to leave Canada behind. We couldn't let something petty like money interfere with the excellent adventure, could we?

17W, the Trans-Canadian highway, was a continuation of the pleasant scenery of the previous day. The weather was lovely - high 60s/low 70s, and partly sunny. Several hours later, we arrived at Sault-Ste-Marie, a town on the border of Ontario and Michigan, our lunch destination. We stopped at Mr. Sub, the Canadian version of Subway (although there are nearly as many Subways in Canada as their are Tim Horton's... the equivalent of Dunkin' Donuts in the New England area). The proprietor (as he later came to be called, the Mr. Sub himself), saw us scanning a map, and came over for a conversation. I have heard "Eh" (pronounced like the letter A, if you didn't catch it) used as a substitute for quite a few terms since arriving here, but this man used it so much that I had to withhold smirking for fear of insult. In the way a Valley girl would use "like" 10 times in a sentence completely subconsciously, this man uttered the quintessential Canadian catchword. "Where you headed, eh?" "To San Francisco." "San Francisco, eh! You're a long way from home, eh? Which way you plannin' on goin' there, eh?" We explained that, in an effort to save time and a concern for unfavorable weather, we were going to cross back into the US and go through Michigan. "Ehhhh, can I suggest something eh? You should really be goin' this way eh," pointing to the continuation of 17, which traced the rim of Lake Superior. I told him that we had originally considered that route, but didn't know for time's sake and because of the potential inclimate weather if it'd be a good idea. "You KIDDIN', eh? You'd be kickin' yourselves if you didn't!" I thought to myself, I don't know how that's even possible if we never see it to begin with, but I saw his point. I asked him if there was much to see in Michigan if we chose that route, and he balked at the idea. "But you go this way - what a view! And moose everywhere eh." Moose?!? My ears perked straight up. "Matter o' fact, my sister was ridin' her Harley eh (yes, he used "eh" mid-sentence... more than once), and she slammed right into a bear right around here, eh" (pointing to a spot on the map, with a tone of "eh" that made me wonder if he was asking or telling us). "People slam into Moose all the time." Not the response I was anticipating. "Is your sister all right?" "Oh yeah, she's... shaken no doubt, eh. 5 grand to fix the fender... and she killed the bear. Last memory was the bear's nose right in front of her before she blacked out, eh. Course if you're going into Michigan, eh, you have to look out for the deer eh. The first one runs out, and that's when you slam into the second or third, eh. People hit them all the time. Matter o' fact, my cousin hit a deer down there years back, eh." This conversation was going downhill fast. "But I don't believe you're looking to hit anything, eh?" We all laughed, but I don' t think for the same reasons. Or maybe so - it was a ridiculous comment no matter how you dissected it. "Also, if you're going into Michigan and you're packing anything - joints or any of that - be careful. They have a zero tolerance down there... they're realllly strict about that stuff. So hide the spliffs if you're headed that way, eh. I'm serious, eh. (or maybe, "eh?") We assured him that we had nothing on us, then we all had a quick giggle at the open turn the conversation had taken. Mr. Sub then wished us happy riding, and urged us again to consider rerouting before he disappeared into the backroom. We measured it out - it was roughly the same distance to go around Lake Superior and down than it was to go through Michigan. On the excellent adventure, the name of the game bar none is malleability. We decided to stay in Canada and head north.

Minutes into the ride, Mr. Sub suddenly assumed the retrospective role of a prophet. Lake Superior was incredible - aqua waves crashing ashore, the body of water extending to the horizon in one direction, an autumnal-toned foothill range in the other. It was absolutely magnificent. We had to stop several times to take it in, and to thank St. Sub for changing our course for the infinitely better. The lakeside highway was a biker's playground - long, slow winding roads, gorgeous views rounding nearly every corner. And the foliage this high up was in peak, moreso than anywhere else thus far. We were in heaven, the small exception being the crosswinds that nearly blew us off our bikes during instances when the view opened up to the Greatest lake I had ever seen. It is still borderline inconceivable to me that a lake can can be so capacious as to pour over the horizon, have its own waves and tides, and carry such strong breezes - ultimately, be any refraction of lunar energy that otherwise seems so great as to only be reserved for the largest bodies of water on the planet. But, then again, small town, lake Massapoag - it's all relative.

We passed several bikers, and chatted with two in particular whose course traced our own. We first saw them at a waterfall stop, where we paused for quite a bit to take it in. There were a handful of photographers with professional gear, awaiting "that one moment when the clouds pass right over the sun." As we were there, the one who relayed this information to me got his moment, and it was wonderful to share it with him. We also met an elderly couple with a half-beagle, half-German Shepard named Kramer; a disposition of kindness to rival the best of 'em. "He's 13 and has arthritis," (he was limping as he hopped about the rocks) "but he just loves being out here, like we all do." We all do. Kramer didn't have to be a human to understand the divinity of the free simplicity of a sunny day in the natural world. Maybe he knew even better than us.

Our biker friends caught up with us at the next scenic turnoff - a cliffed area resembling something one would see on the PCH, with a marvelous panoramic view of the mountainous rim of this side of the lake. Our friends were both riding Goldwings, with huge lighting rigs on the front and rear and headsets in their helmets to communicate on the road. Snake and I had our bikes, and used the good old "pull up and yell" method, both of which seemed a bit primitive in the presence of our technological superiors. I heard a voice behind me say over his engine, "I'm pulling off'," as the first one pulled up, his friend soon to follow. The other man rolled in blasting Creedence Clearwater Revival, and I expressed my approval of his musical taste, "Creedence.... niiiiiiiice." He smiled, and said, " 'S an old beemer, eh? What year is it?" "It's a '77." "Eh! How many miles on that thing?" "Odometer says 92k and change, but it broke a number of years ago." "Ha! good thing eh! Keep riding!" "Yeah! (what?) Enjoy the ride!" We passed them, and they us, several times on our way into our destination for the night, a quaint mountain town named Wawa. It conjured up thoughts of the grocery store in my relatives' town in NJ, which featured as its logo a Canadian goose silhouette backlit by a sun. As we rolled into Wawa, there was a giant Canada goose statue. Coincidence?

We have our first camp night tonight - a site to ourselves - everyone else at the site is in an RV, and we are alone in the camping section - right on a small river. The view I will wake up to looks just like one of those gift shop paintings of the Canadian wilderness. As we rolled into town to pick up a few provisions to accompany our dinner by the fire, the passing sprinkles gave way to a violet sky over the mountains and a full rainbow. The clouds are now passing, and we have our first view of the stars uninterrupted by light pollution. They remind me why I set out on the excellent adventure in the first place. It was not in search of something I didn't yet have per se, but to magnify what I have found so far, so as to articulate in in a way that I can share it with others. This is what I hope to do by writing, and this blog is the brushstroke. The imperfections, the run-on sentences, the tangents, all of it is part of the effort in action. It is a gift I hope to polish. I have been given many gifts for this trip - blankets, knives, clothing layers, Dad's leather jacket, a traveling guitar to play, words of wisdom and caring admonitions. My mother above all others was disapproving of the trip, but despite that she remained mostly reticent out of confidence and respect for my decision making as a budding adult. The subtle nuances of maternality - putting the desire of the other before your own, even if it hurts. This has been the greatest gift I could have possibly been given from her, and if my future writing endeavors have any measure of success, it will be an echo of this loving act of grace. For now, I will let the stars do the talking.

Day 3 - Espanola, Ontario

Meteorologists try their best, but their job is essentially a guessing game. Normally I would be inclined to reproach, but as we woke up to a dry morning, I celebrated their inaccuracy.

Econolodge had the breakfast advantage - make your own waffles. AND they had Cheerios. Suck on that Microtel.

The crust of clouds ahead broke into blue skies, and we were off. Not a drop of rain the whole day. Soft cumulus and bursts of sun were a welcome change from what we had endured thus far. The border patrol officer could not have been friendlier, canceling out her cohort's shenanigans. I inquired about what the concierge at Econolodge had mentioned to us: "do they really scan your plates for the tolls instead of collect?" "They do, but with your bag setup, they probably won't even be able to get a read. But you didn't hear that from me." Bless you, sweet siren of justice.

Over the border, we caught a quick view of Lake Ontario to our right. Growing up in a small town where Lake Massapoag is classified as such, it is overwhelming to see a body of water extend the entire right side of the horizon and identify it as a lake. I guess that's what makes it great.

After navigating through a bit of traffic (and a missed turn) in the Toronto area, we set off on 400N. This was exactly what we expected for our Canadian cruise - more of the autumnal foliage, with dabbles of purple wildflowers, the light maize shades of dry grass, evergreens, rocky landscapes, rivers and ponds. The air was crisp, and the sun peeked out every so often to graze our face. It was glorious. I could feel myself slipping deeper into my own mind; peeling back the layers of my thought process. I wondered how much my memory would preserve of what I was taking in, and with the inquiry, reminded myself that I was here now, and no recollection could be this living, breathing moment. I thought of how the landscapes might reappear in dreams, emblematic of the great sense of peace and dissolution of self-enclosing boundaries that was so present I couldn't yet fully process it. Or perhaps the scenery would symbolize something unrelated - a struggle to remind myself, amidst preoccupation with inevitable trivialities and monotony that accompany being part of a community, of all that has been long before me, and all that will continue to exist after my life ceases.

There is - maybe not for everyone, but certainly for me - the undeniable aesthetic that Nature bears; one which most intimates the otherwise vacuous philosophical "in-itselves," i.e. "This is good in itself," or "This is enjoyable for its own sake." Nearly all life experiences are gateways, relations, connections to other parts of life and other experiences, and cannot be what they are without everything else being what it is. But Nature is beautiful in itself - its beauty does not demand a description or prior understanding to be beautiful. It just is. Beyond this, Nature as a symbol provokes the age old question of why there is something rather than nothing. We can summon various disciplines that have numerous responses readily available, but none can answer the question. They can describe, theorize, conjecture, extrapolate, but cannot get past what is before our eyes. All of this is. How literally awesome is that? I feel compelled to consult a maple tree about its metaphoricity. "You, sir, are. That is awesome. I see a metaphor in you that mirrors my own existence, and I too, hope my leaves blaze with such brilliance before they fall to the ground. Also, will it rain tomorrow? And when am I going to see a damn moose?"

We stopped at a gas station off the highway to refuel, and a gentleman walked out to greet us. Broken-in hat, broken in flannel, big sunglasses, and a scraggly white beard. I thought to myself, the Canadian prototype - until I realized that I was dressed the same, plus a leather jacket and minus the whiteness in what was now lapping the stubble phase. "Motorcycles, eh? Where ya headed?" He said that when he sees bikes pass, it's usually Harleys. "Meh... too lound," I said playfully. He nodded, and added, "they're like a cult." Bingo. A clarification for non-riders reading this - not all who ride Harleys are cultish and elitist, but nearly all who are cultish and elitist on a motorcycle are seated on a Harley. This is a scientific fact. Ask any meteorologist.

The gentleman commented on how he saw a mid-70s BMW cruise through about a week ago - a father with his 11 year-old son seated in a sidecar. He was clearly enthused by this, and I totally understand why. "Just think most of his buddies are tapping their fingers off on those fuckin' video games, and this kid is touring Ontario in a side car! I told him, 'son, do you know how lucky you are?'" The three of us - Snake, this man, and I, certainly did. He also told us about how "Canada is selling itself every chance it gets. Shipping all the jobs overseas and all that." After over two decades with an electrical company, he was cut unexpectedly, "and not even a thank-you." He moved from south of Toronto up to this area, and seemed to be right at home. "I went all over when I was younger; but I don't think I'll do too much traveling now... the world's a lot different these days." I felt compelled to assure him that this is the lesson of all time - things change, but it's never exclusively for the worse. But who was I? A young fella who had probably not seen half of what he had. He concluded my question of what it was like to live in the area, which had prompted most of the aforementioned, with "If I had it my way, it'd be 9 months of fall, and 3 months of dead winter. Just SMACK! Right into winter." I asked how cold it got in the dead of winter. "Oh, about -40 or so. But that's centigrade. The sun's shining... it's beautiful." We could have stayed there and talked all day, but a car pulled up to the gas station. "Well, I gotta run, that's the wife over there. You fellas take care, and good luck with your trip." I shook his hand, and thanked him for the chat. As he walked away, we overheard his voice trail off saying, "Heya honey - got the car washed, eh?" Therein lied the secret to his adoration of the cold, desolate beauty of the north - he had love to keep him warm.

Our gas station friend cautioned us of two things that later crept up hastily - it's started to get cold at night, and a passer-through reported to him that it already snowed in Calgary. Snow is our Achilles' heel on this trip - we are immobilized by its presence. As we pushed on to make up for lost time yesterday, the sun disappeared for the night behind heavy gray clouds. It became cold quick, and we were in search of a campsite to save money while the rain held up (and because we love camping). But the temperature was dropping fast. Panic started to set in as we cruised down our first leg of the trans-Canadian highway, and saw little to no signs of life other than passing cars, and an occasional billboard demanding a metric conversion for us to realize how far away the advertised destination really was. We pulled off a side road, and after a quick pow-wow, we mutually agreed that a good night's rest was invaluable for us to continue on tomorrow. The campsites our friend noted would be along the road came with the caveat that many of them might be closed for the season. To boot, the forecast for tomorrow was a 40% chance of rain. It would be a motel again, but we were not the least bit contentious. In other circumstances, I would leap at the opportunity to camp in the cold. We certainly had the gear for it. But after 360 miles of riding, and an uncertain forecast for the morning, a roof and a bed were sounding mighty good.

We arrived at the hotel, and checked the forecasts for the surrounding area and potential future destinations. The same spirit that guided us to the motel over risking a campsite was the one that has now altered our trajectory. We have nothing to prove to anyone. Safety is the primary concern, and exhaustion - or, worse, arrogance - can easily cost us. We examined the map thoroughly, and decided to alter our route - tomorrow, we enter back into the US. Less risk of cold (and snow!) than continuing further northwest into Canada, less money (the exchange rate sucks at present), and a more direct route to the promised land: the Pacific Northwest. And to our West Coast destination - San Francisco, and the man, the myth, the legend, Big Mike. He is not the only reason we set out to the left coast, but he is certainly up there. More to come on him. For now, let's see if the meteorologists earn their title tomorrow.

Day 2 - Niagra Falls

Let me rescind on yesterday's in-passing comment about continental breakfast being a deal-sealer. I expected eggs. Don't ask me why, but I did. Maybe because I eat them so often that breakfast in my mind usually means some form of eggs. Maybe because I amalgamated my best memories of breakfast at hotels and applied them to anything denoting free breakfast. The options were severely limited, but I made do. Do I sound spoiled? I am. Working on an organic herb farm embedded in a supportive local agricultural community does not mean a six figure salary, but it guarantees the best and freshest food available. I quickly realize how important this has become for me as I sigh at the thought of all the food I will eat (and have already eaten) on this trip. Immersion in a small community centered around food is as enlightening as it is sobering. Food is more than just mere sustenance at the farm, it is a lifestyle. The piquant pallet thrives in such a community. Few things boast a more direct path to communion with the earth than growing and harvesting one's own food - one takes a conscious stock in the entire process, and the reaping is that much more ripe with joy and satisfaction. The sobering element to this otherwise joyous vocation (joyous especially to one who savors the value of hard, honest work) is the burden of being informed. The food production and handling process of a majority of what is available to most is generally deplorable. Now is not the time or place for a rant on this, but I mention it as an example of how in the course of our lives, we find ourselves in situations where we have to suspend a particular ethos, belief, or general practice that is important, even vital, to us - a sacrifice necessary to being a part of a community. For now, I will shut my mouth and make do with Raisin Bran.

Snake and I checked the weather forecast - 80% chance of rain, with an ugly yellow blotch indicating patches of severe showers. Our shoes were still soaked from yesterday, and in an attempt to start fresh today, I brought them to the coin-op dryer we had dryed our garments in and popped them in. As I left, I hoped no one would pass by the washer/dryer room and flee to rescue of the small animal that seemed to be desperately slamming its way out of the dryer.

I stepped outside to uncover my bike - 70s and humid, overcast. A bald man with a long white beard was cleaning up the entrance way, and slowly started sweeping patches of nothing as he inched his way closer. I soon found out he was the owner of the '86 lowrider parked around the corner. "Get soaked yesterday?" "Oh yeah." "Me too - took off from here around 3:30, and was soaked by the time I got home." "We came up from MA." "Oh Jesus."

I came back in to check on the dryer status. Apparently someone had tried to free the animal. He or she must have been disappointed to find two stinky wet pairs of shoes. The dryer door was open, and when I pressed start again, nothing happened. The wall-mounted blowdryer attempts in our room afterward were to no avail. Fortunately, Snake had scored me two small trash bags (he had brought two shopping bags for himself). I watched him tie the bags around his socks, and slide his wrapped feet into his shoes. "Ohhhh that makes much more sense." After my conversation with Patty, I had in mind the "moon boots" look.

We packed up, and fired up the engines. Moose got a belly rub. "Day 2..." "Day 2." The clouds were ominous ahead, but we were savoring the present dryness. 20 minutes or so in, the rain hit, and hit hard. We cruised straight into a deluge. I-90 is a route of choice for semis as well. Between the pounding rain and the spray of truck runoff, we were more soaked in 10 minutes than all of the previous day. Apparently I did not tie my footbags correctly, and instead of keeping my feet dry they backfired and quickly absorbed two small ponds for my feet and socks to drown in. The visibility quickly became so poor that I could barely make out the tail lights in front of me. To continue on would have been suicide. We pulled off somewhere between Oswego and Syracuse, and headed for the first covering we could find - a drop-off area of a sports complex.

It was time to rethink today. We knew that the rain was expected to continue, but we weren't certain how sporadically and for how long over the course of the day. It looked as though we would have to eat a day. Our second day in. The "what are we DOING?" thoughts began to creep in.

We went about a mile up the road to gas up and evaluate the next step. As we did, the rain started to let up, and we saw patches of blue in the distance. Was this a tease? Were we quitting prematurely? Fortunately, our schedule is not so rigid that we fall drastically behind a deadline by taking a day - bad weather is a necessary constituent of the planning process for a trip like this - but there was something defeating about taking a day on the second day of the trip. We decided to push on the next time the rain calmed. 15 minutes later, it seemed as though the yellow patch had made its way through, and we pushed onward with a rekindled tenacity.

We trudged through several less severe patches, and then it happened - the sun burst through the clouds. Snake, in front at the time, threw his hand up victoriously, and I returned the gesture. The spotted red barns and multicolored countryside were all the more glorious after what we had suffered through. A recurrent theme here - one appreciates something all the more that was achieved through great efforts or through strife. Beautiful landscapes, gorgeous weather, and the open road. This was what it was all about, and we were grateful to be back in it.

The sunshine had all but dried us off when we rounded a bend and saw what lied ahead. A darker omen more accurate to the morning's forecast than the last miles had graced us with. As we drew closer to Niagra Falls - our lunch destination - it seemed as though our route might just skirt the edge of the darkness. But with the turn onto 290, the portent of foul weather rang truer than before. We were headed straight for it. We decided to try and tough it out until we arrived at our lunch destination. Again, a deluge, worse than before. Right as the ridiculousness teetered on intolerable, we turned off the highway and stopped an an information center. Welcome to Niagra Falls.

We decided that we had no inclination to continue risking our lives, and resolved to spend the night at the Falls instead of continuing to chase the storm. We entered the information center, which was in actuality one of many tour guide agencies posed as an information center. The woman was informative, but was ultimately trying to sell us a package deal for a shuttle to the Falls, multiple tours, and a discounted rate at one of the nearby hotels. She was a nice lady, but as soon as I became weary of the sales pitch, I was disheartened. I have great resentment for when people treat others like something other than people - in most cases, this is a passionate cry against dehumanization, but this event somehow tapped into the same sore spot in a perverse way. Snake later reminded me of the obvious: "hey, everybody's gotta make a buck." He was right - it wasn't her, it was witnessing the human connection I savor so much suppressed by the demands of the system. Neither of us wanted to spend the money, and after her exhaustive description of the tour package and her (very sincere) recommendations, I didn't have the heart to flat out answer no when the punchline came: "So fellas, how are we feeling about this? Want to go forward with it?" "We'll have to think about it over lunch." She was disappointed. I was returning the very insincerity I resented, but at that moment, we were both just "doing our job" - abiding by the appropriate social code.

We found a great deal at a local Econolodge, and changed into dry clothes before heading to the Falls itself, bound for what had now become an early dinner on the Canadian side. The officer at the border was as stiff as they come - the flagrant counterpart to the innocence of our tour consultant. He asked the standards - "Where are you from," "What is your intention," "How long are you planning on staying," "Do you have any weapons" and so on. He also decided to get a little deeper, and asked us what we do for work. Bill: "I work on a farm," prompting a silent balk - as much as is possible when your stiff reservation is enough to beg the question of how big the stick is that's lodged where the sun don't shine. Snake: "I...don't have a job right now." He left his job shortly before the trip. "If you don't work, how are you funding your trip?" Both of us were taken aback at the question, although Snake handled it smoothly. I wondered whether it was appropriate to try and get a rise out of him, but something about his unrelenting firmness made the interjection less than desirable

The Falls were very lovely, but there was something nauseating to me about the locale. The Canadian side resembled an inbred version of Vegas and a carnival - bright lights, a plethora of souvenir shops, wax museums, head shops, and discount t-shirts, along with casinos (on both sides) overlooking the Falls. Tourist traps abound. I thought again of our tour-guide-that-never-was, and how she went through great lengths to elaborate all the amazing opportunities to see the falls. We would have had the luxury of each view at a package rate - from a boat, from both sides, in the caves, where Marilyn Monroe filmed a movie "well before you two were born." Such exploitation - any opportunity to make money asserting the better, the funner, and the more spectacular - is capitalized upon. They even light up one of the falls at night time with different color lights - a spectacle "you have to see - it's just amazing." But hey, Snake's right - everybody's gotta make a buck. Niagra Falls may be tainted by the extremism of capitalism, but it didn't stop us from purchasing two Cubans (on the Canadian side, of course), and standing there taking it all in. A silent bro-ment, marveling at the true spectacle - the evocation of awe from a beauty and force only Nature can provide. Free of charge.

We got our wish to bring on the rain. Forecast tomorrow: more of the same. At least Econolodge has continental breakfast.

Day 1 - Verona, NY

And so it starts. After securing the gear with extraneous amounts of bungee cords, we stood in disbelief. Are we really going across the country right now? As soon as we started the bikes up, we already knew we weren't turning back. And we hadn't left the street. I don't think I will ever tire of the sound of the engine roaring itself awake - its sonorous bellow is as precious to me as almost anything else that has graced my eardrums.

I rubbed Moose for good luck. Moose is a tye-dye moose on my keychain, purchased in Northern Maine several weeks prior to the trip when we did a practice run of what it actually felt like to be on a bike 8 hrs a day. We didn't realize how necessary that trip was, and are grateful for what we learned. Moose is a reminder of that, and a good luck charm as well. He gets a belly rub before every trip. I'm not a particularly superstitious person at all; in fact, I often find myself at odds with things like good luck charms - trinkets on poker tables, rally caps, good luck undies, and the like. The symbolism of Moose is the nod to uncertainty, an acknowledgment of what is beyond our control. By sustaining this ritual, I keep uncertainty at the forefront of the start of every journey. Rituals are indispensable - unfortunately, they can easily become a habit, which, unlike the kind of ritual I have in mind, is something that is not done consciously, and breaks down an entire chain of meaning when it is neglected. Back to Moose - as I rubbed his belly, I was reminded of my dad's parting words: "just like Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Billy - if that feeling to turn around or change your path occurs, listen to it." Heed the call of uncertainty - listen to it, and trust your instinct was the message, and from a messenger whose tone reflected the wisdom of decades of experience of what I had not yet.

The fog on the cove outside our departure destination in Cape Cod created a dreamlike haze, at once both surreal and eerily uncertain. A few quick errands, a stop at the gas station, and a rock-pounding "let's do this," and we were off.

The fog followed us all the way down the Mass Pike. We zoomed past an exit for UMass, my old stomping ground (for 2 years, before dropping out due to the preference of social life over studies). I thought to myself, what would myself from 10 years ago say if he saw his future self whizzing by in the mist en route to the other side of the country? Chances are that excitement would overtake him so much that he'd temporarily lose bowel control. Glad to see I've matured, even if my sense of humor hasn't.

Thoughts pass at variable speeds on the bike. Some are as fleeting as a road sign. Others hang around for awhile; much like the grasshopper who found his way onto the faring when I was bound for Provincetown. I admired his persistence - he could have let go at any moment, but even though the wind was blowing every dangling appendage virtually out of its socket, he held on almost effortlessly. He was a strong metaphor. I wonder where he is now.

My thought stream was interrupted, just before we were about to turn off for our first refill, upon hearing an unnerving "CLINK." Just ahead of us, a 10-foot pole soared off the bed of an 18-wheeler and spiraled through the air in front of us, crashing against the pavement of the opposing direction of traffic. A sobering reminder not to ever get too content in the "theater of the mind" (a term I recently heard from my brother and instantly fell in love with). The theater instantly went amok, and a tape reel of what could have been circulated until we were off the highway and we were stopped at the gas pump shaking our heads in disbelief of the last minute of our lives, and our unspoken gratitude for the present minute.

The mist morphed into rain right around the Berkshires. We were getting wet quick. This didn't detract much from the spectacular surroundings - the foliage nearing peak viewing, with hues of bright yellow to deep maroon, and every shade of green imaginable. Absolutely gorgeous - our discomfort was the key to this lushness, and it was totally worth it.

As we crossed into New York, the views only got better. And we only got wetter. The leather kept above the torso plenty dry, but everything else was soaked. The theater of the mind deterred this inconvenience - as we passed rolling countryside, I giggled to myself recollecting the time when, on a band trip to NY, my brother was deprived of window privileges by a mutual friend for yelling "GANDALF!!" out the window repeatedly, in reference to the countryside's striking resemblance to the Shire (i.e. Lord of the Rings - it was a cultural phenomenon, shame on you if you needed that explanation. Get out of your cave!).

When we stopped around 5pm, we alternated pouring the water out of our "waterproof" hiking shoes and rung out our socks outside the rest area. While Snake made a beeline to get hot chocolate, I went to the bathroom and proceeded to bury the mouth of the hand dryer into my shoes one at a time. A white-haired spectacled gentleman washing his hands took special attention to my actions; he seemed to delight in the realization of the origin of my soaked kicks. "On a motorbike are ya?" he said with a grin. I was delighted at his Irish accent, and replied "how could you tell?" What followed made me hope that this jovial hoary gentleman hadn't misinterpreted my initial reply as sarcastic. Patty Gallagher was his name - he had ridden motorcycles from age 16 to 69, but had to give it a rest due to a bad back. "If I'd a-gone over, I'd a-been a basket case, no joke." I told him about the excellent adventure, and was enthralled when he shared stories of his own - twice across Canada, once from Quebec to Vancouver, once to Cali, once to the Yukon, and beyond. "This one time I was comin' across the prairie on a Honda 350 - a 350! no windshield! - and the dragonflies were a'soarin' every which way" (he was gesturing their motions while telling the story) "some whizzed right over me, and some didn't. They SMASHED all over me! I looked like I had that there... oh whatddya call it..." indicating some kind of attire, and I don't know what compelled me to say it, but engagement in his story prompted me to finish his sentence - "camouflage?" "YES! That's it - camouflage! The folks couldn't believe the sight when I arrived."

Patty shared the wisdom only an experienced elder possesses. He had owned an R80, the year after my dad's model. "Great bikes - if you take care of them, they'll take care of you." I thought so, and his confirmation evoked a deep sense of peace. Patty had too many wonderful stories to recollect here in the blog - we also talked for a bit about my visit to Galway and the wonders of his homeland, which he relayed with joy to his impending wife. His parting words were "you might try shopping bags over yer boots. It won't look good... but you'll never see them twice!" (meaning the potentially mocking passersby). We shared a laugh. He concluded, "keep in mind - in the rain, you get uncomfortable, and you can get verrry impatient. That's when mistakes happen. I could talk all day but the wife is waitin'." I shook his hand with deep gratitude, and we went our separate ways. There is something indescribably wonderful about sharing a moment - truly sharing a moment, with presence and sincerity - with a complete stranger. It was a morale booster to say the least.

We decided to forgo our original intention of making it to Niagra today - the longest stint of our trip. We called it quits about 330 miles in, and decided while we have the available credit to rent a room where we can dry our clothes, take a hot shower, decompress and regroup. Tonight we stay in Verona, a casino town. They have continental breakfast, which, after a reasonable price, is an automatic deal-sealer for me. Tomorrow, it's off to cross the boarder, the start of a roughly week-long trek across our neighbor to the north. Forecast for tomorrow: 70s and rainy. But our callouses are thickening. "Bring on the rain," Snake exclaimed. I concur.

(ignition.)

Hello, and welcome. Thank you for being a part of our excellent adventure.

Why is this adventure excellent, you say? Because every adventure is excellent. With the right attitude, one plucks life's ripest fruits along the journey's road.

We are traveling coast to coast - from Wareham, MA to San Francisco, CA and back - by motorcycle. Why travel cross-country by motorcycle? The answers to this question are perhaps as diverse as the folks who endeavor the journey. There comes to mind immediately two undeniable commonalities - a sense of adventure, and a love of the journey.

I have numerous reasons relative to my own journey, the excellent adventure. If you would be so kind as to allow me a moment of three of your time, I would love to share them with you.

I have, in my 28 years, entertained quite a few ideas on how to make a living. With every orientation in a particular direction, the long-term goal has been a simple one: take up meaningful work in harmony with my own values, and "unite vocation and avocation," as my fellow New Englander Robert Frost so eloquently worded it. This has been too-often subverted by the short-term goal of staying afloat - finding something just to pay the bills. This sucks. The 95% of us not dropped by the stork into the safety net of perpetual wealth have to find some way to make a buck. We can exhaust our energy flipping the institutions that mechanically demand this of us the proverbial bird, or we can face, and come to terms with, the unavoidable reality of our collective situation and redirect that energy toward something constructive. After years of tossing curses at the impersonal establishment, I am now opting for the latter use of energy. Some would call this growing up.

One element - and I do mean element in the most literal sense - of my life I have refused to compromise has been allowing ample room for a creative outlet. This has been absolutely indispensable to a foundational sense of well-being. I shudder at the thought of how many various locking mechanisms would bar the door of the white padded room were I deprived or neglectful of this. Maybe that's an exaggeration. Then again, maybe not. Point being, I never sufficed for the alternative, and am all the better as a result.

As far back as my memory reaches, music has been this creative outlet - the unconditional love, the safe retreat, the means of expressing the restlessness of desire. It has been, is, and will continue to be the language of every recess of my heart resounding in concert.

Several years back, I had the opportunity to satisfy my outstanding undergraduate credits with a month in the jungle of northwest Belize. It was an experience. Being somewhere new inevitably alters one's perspective, if for no other reason (though there are myriad reasons) than the novelty of stimuli one encounters. To boot, it was the first time since I was three years old that I found myself in a situation without a musical instrument for longer than a few days. My muse had soared away, and my heart had fallen dumb.

I had been keeping a journal, given to me by my parents at the start of college, which I brought along with me. Up to that point, it was a turgid reflection of my failed attempts at poetry and prose, and my frustration with the ineptitude of the written word to convey and communicate. The pen couldn't sing. Suddenly, my desperation scrambling for an outlet in the sweltering humidity of the rainforest, I began to write. Not a day passed unrecorded. Subsequently I came to the same realization that my quarrels with the system had brought me to: one can waste energy in bitterness toward what is, or one can channel the same energy in a constructive way. Voila! Desperation had an inherent alternative latent within; I chose that alternative, and writing blossomed virtually overnight into an outlet commensurate with my beloved muse.

As we bid the jungle farewell en route to the airport, the Belizean countryside silently whizzing by, a peer tapped me on the shoulder and, aware that I was a musician, politely stated "I bet you could use this," her iPod shuffle in hand. I gratefully accepted. The first song that shuffled its way on was U2's "Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For." I had no significant connection to the song or the band prior, but at that moment, it symbolized a culmination; a coherence of all the disjointed and contradictory sentiments I had experienced. The sun's resplendence on the rolling hills of the countryside mirrored the clarity of the moment. For the first time in my life, I stood resolute in the winds of indecision. I was going to write.

The years following, I flirted with numerous false-starts. Grad school papers. Freelancing. Dabbling in poetry (again). None proved an outlet to the degree of magnitude I had envisioned. The most meaningful writing exercises and/or experiments was the journal, where I began making a practice of distilling experience to the tersest aphorisms possible. But a majority of it, I became increasingly aware, was esoteric to the point of public meaningless. Something was missing. Nevertheless, I pushed on.

Inspiration ebbed and flowed, but I mustered up enough of it during low points to continue entertaining the idea of taking myself seriously as a writer. However, constantly looming was the dark cloud of the system. How could I ever make a living doing this?

If one is open to inspiration, possibility pokes its head out at unexpected times and in unexpected places. It has been said many times, in many ways, that you can't force inspiration - the best bet is to keep the door unlocked and be ready to answer when there is a knock. Or, if you're especially open, you can remove the door altogether.

I have drawn inspiration from innumerable sources. As far as writers go, it is most often in wrestling with their ideas that I find peace of mind. But every once in a long while, someone comes by my eyes or ears and articulates their experience in a way as exciting as it is haunting - because I can hear myself speaking or writing those very words. Among these more recently has been Mary Oliver. We are primed for similar prosody - a mutual love of Emerson and the outskirts of Cape Cod, among other reasons. While engrossed in one of her writings one day, inspiration knocked in a familiar form - a pithy four-word maxim concluding the piece: "All narrative is metaphor." I couldn't resist exclaiming out loud (by myself) "RIGHT ON GIRL!" That was it! Up to then, my most meaningful writing attempts had tried to hold as their subject Life (with a capital L). The scope was so broad that it lost focus - all clouds, no ground. My grandiose efforts were nearly devoid of the temperament of simply relating experience, and by doing so, letting Life emerge of its own accord.

Wow, I have gone on quite a tangent. But, as a mentor wiser than myself once said, "when you're circle is wide enough, nothing's a tangent. Everything's in the circle!" If you are still reading, bless your patience and attention span. If you would be so kind as to let me indulge for a wee bit longer, I will close this circle (albeit only to draw a larger one later).

At present, I have found myself in the ideal circumstances to give this writing thing an honest go. My gratitude to those whose assistance I have received is bottomless. But the question remains: why the motorcycle trip?

From antiquity through modernity, rites of passage have been a cornerstone in human experience. Some are explicit, - the indigenous American youth's first hunt - some are overtly ceremonial, - a Bar Mitzvah - others are more subtle - the first job one supports oneself with. All are symbolic. Rites of passage signify a transition from one shore to another; a new perspective with which one views Life and one's place in it. One may very well remain steadfast to one's initial trajectory - the rite of passage is not of necessity a new direction. Rather, it is a re-orientation, a mile-marker gauging the departure of one's previous stasis and a revision - or, at times, a re-writing - for another. Relative to my own life, as I prepare to give my attempt at writing the due respect and attentiveness it has been long overdue for, the excellent adventure is, to employ a vivid metaphor from one of my kindred spirits, "sharpening the knife before making the cut." It is the seminal work for public eyes, carrying with it the spirit that my most earnest undertakings strive to convey - a simultaneous expression and invitation. By inviting the engagement and participation of others (you!), I am in my own way "giving back to the grid"; blowing a kiss to that which is infinitely greater than my idea of self - the great cosmic dance of which we are all a part.

The shore in view is the undertone of every current effort: autonomy. Not the flavor of autonomy that entails a severance from the world, or a standing undaunted in the face of it. Such a notion of autonomy is, in my humble opinion, a derivative offspring of a myopic paradigm; one that demands self-mastery be a sort of militant conquering. My understanding of autonomy is something quite distinct, even opposite. It is no conquering, but an awakening - a realization of the Suchness of all that is. If this reeks of idealistic rhapsodizing to you, pause a moment and consider the following: all that we know of the world, the universe, and each other, can be physiologically explained by a shared set of elemental "particles." The most recent convictions maintained in quantum mechanics posit that, from micro to macro, the (all-too-human) search for the immutable particle, the fundamental building block which comprises all that is, cannot be pinpointed. Rather, all that can be verified with the most sophisticated and encompassing paradigms is interactions. Energetic exchanges. What is depicted as fixed and immutable is only appears so within a certain framework.

From another vantage point, consider this: what idea, what behavior, what accomplishment in your own life can you isolate as being utterly and completely your own? Think as openly as possible. Did you create a particular opportunity exclusively by yourself, or were there prior conditions creating the possibility of that opportunity? Did you think a thought independent of all other thoughts, uninfluenced by them, without a language that is in some form common to others? If, after careful consideration, you believe it to be the case that you have thought, done, earned, or achieved something wholly independently of anything or anyone else... I am humbly calling your bluff.

My conception - by no means a unique one - of autonomy is, psychologically speaking, a dissolving of self into world. A realization of the arbitrariness of boundaries when taken objectively and, by virtue of this, my proper place amongst the grand scheme of it all.

So... WHY THE MOTORCYCLE TRIP?!?

All too rare are moments in the theoretical average life that present themselves as an opportunity to channel focus (although one could rightly argue that any moment can be this opportunity... I would say so). Motorcycles lend - even force- this opportunity. There is an undeniable zen to finding balance and experiencing peace amidst chaos. One could say that this very act is zen itself (and also isn't, might the koan say). The imminence of danger is one's co-pilot - unpredictable topography of the road, uncertain weather vicissitudes, reckless drivers (especially in Boston), and, most notably, oneself. Lose focus for one unfortunate instant, and no amount of leather will save your hide. Yet master all this, with the engine roaring and the wind howling as you chase the horizon, and, as the Irish blessing goes, the road rises to meet you. The demand to focus brings with it an emptying of mental din and pristine perspective. Metaphors abound, even before the narrative commences.

If all of my ramblings are insufficient to explain the excellent adventure, let it remain unsaid. The best things in life often are. Fortunately, the wild tangents will be honed in on the excellent adventure by way of the affirmation of solidarity. Enter Snake. Snake is my boy. He is the ideal companion in many ways, and this would likely be impossible without him. More to come on that - and him - I'm sure. Suffice to say at present that the two of us ask similar questions of Life, and Life casts into the winds answers that are riddles begging the questions to come.

Snake's trusty steed is a Honda Shadow 600. It is his first, and only, bike - the one that, in conjunction with a leather jacket and a love of 80's metal and 90's punk, earned him the present moniker. I'll leave the rest for him to tell. I sit atop my father's 1977 BMW R75/7, a 750cc. Although the driver's seat is relatively new - I say "relatively" because, although I have only been driving legally for a few months (a bit of hours in without an M on my license.... shhhhh), I have banked more miles in those few months than most Sunday drivers ride in a lifetime - although this seat is new, the bike is as familiar to me as a C major on the piano. Pictures from infancy have me poised on the gas tank. Childhood through adolescence was the back seat (and with it the familiar view of the back of my dad's head). Now it's on to the cockpit. The feeling of riding is simultaneously thrillingly new and extra-temporally intimate. I have a self-imposed duty to keep the proverbial torch ablaze, and I will carry it out, come hell or high water. Or a flat.

Now that the excellent adventure is hopefully coming into focus for you, I vow to keep daily entries to a much briefer length; just some preliminary information to put things in perspective. Who knows, maybe I'll ramble longer - we do have almost 10,000 miles of time-with-mind. On the excellent adventure, as in life, we have to be prepared for uncertainty above all else. Hop on, and enjoy the ride.