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.