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.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
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.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Day 23 - Flagstaff, AZ
We awoke ready to greet the day with stone-faced tenacity. The highlights had come and gone, and the ride back would be a week and a half of mental endurance. Any scenery along the way would be an added bonus; overall I was preparing for cognitive fasting - pruning the excess of distractions, lukewarm desires, insipid and extraneous thought patterns, and any other clutter in need of purging. The instantaneousness of modern life can effortlessly hinder cultivation of patience, and patience is indispensable to self-knowledge and, ultimately, atonement. In trimming the psychologically extraneous, I intended also to redirect energy into new buds burgeoning off the healthier branches.
We had before us the longest stint to date: just under 500 mi. We hit the road. There is an exotic beauty in the barrenness of the desert from a New Englander point of view; its foreignness brought home a little closer to the heart by contrast. The cloudscape was favorable into Arizona, where we crossed the Colorado River right after the border. I gave a tooting salute in honor of a former excellent adventure, where Snake and I crossed over the Colorado in the base of the Grand Canyon. As we neared exits for Grand Canyon National Park, the sparseness of desert life gave way to a richer landscape.
The folks we have conversed with on the road have been too many to recount, and as diverse as our beautiful and complex country itself. In the abundance of happenings from day to day, only few leave a definitive impression among the blurring multitude - whether for their own characters or for the relevance of their conversations to our own lives. Today there were several - all fellow road warriors. As I parked in front of the pump for a refuel, I noticed out of the corner of my eye a man in a reflective green biker jacket making a beeline for me. He immediately entered into comfortable conversation, as if we were familiar pals. A hand on my shoulder, the other removing his helmet, he looked me dead in the eye: "Whatever you do... don't, don't, don't" (a pat on the shoulder with each syllable) "don't ever sell your bike." He had an R80, and when it was having electrical issues and he was short of time and money, he took advantage of the cheapness of Japanese cycles and traded it in. It was one of his biggest regrets. "You can work on that thing forever." His had 140k on the odometer before he sold it, and was confident it could have gone much longer if he had worked on it. I thought of how, not long ago, I was fearful of having to put it down in Reno. $143 and a little oil later, it was purring as smoothly as day one.
At a later gas station, I pulled up to a couple on an '05 BMW cruiser. "Nice beemer!" I said. "You too! How old is that one?" They had a friend whose old BMW had 300k and still running. All signs assured my desire to keep her on the road as long as possible. As we were getting ready to head out, another couple pulled in on a Harley. The male was sporting a Rte. 66 t-shirt, chaps, and a bandana tied around his neck, his wife in all-black leather. My first inclination was, "this is too American to be American." He approached me, and in broken English, inquired about what kind of gas he should put in his Harley Davidson. They were from Germany. What a wonderful reward it is when good vibes cross the language barrier. Through a system of gestures and very basic English, I explained to them the gas situation - "NO Diesel (hand folded at a right angle, waving horizontally at neck height)... here (point) good, better, best" - and explained that they would have to swipe their card with the attendant, as they did not have a zip code. They smiled cordially when I told them I had relatives in Germany, and hoped to visit there soon. I bid them "auf wiedersehen," which they enthusiastically returned, the woman adding a "very good!"
As the sun set, distant lightning emerged. We were storm chasers again, coasting into the night with the t-storms at our heels. The distant flashes soon became threatening bolts, following us a second time for the last two hours. We arrived in Flagstaff, having barely dodged yet another storm with the insignificant exception of scattered sprinkles. The worst was behind us. So we thought.
We had before us the longest stint to date: just under 500 mi. We hit the road. There is an exotic beauty in the barrenness of the desert from a New Englander point of view; its foreignness brought home a little closer to the heart by contrast. The cloudscape was favorable into Arizona, where we crossed the Colorado River right after the border. I gave a tooting salute in honor of a former excellent adventure, where Snake and I crossed over the Colorado in the base of the Grand Canyon. As we neared exits for Grand Canyon National Park, the sparseness of desert life gave way to a richer landscape.
The folks we have conversed with on the road have been too many to recount, and as diverse as our beautiful and complex country itself. In the abundance of happenings from day to day, only few leave a definitive impression among the blurring multitude - whether for their own characters or for the relevance of their conversations to our own lives. Today there were several - all fellow road warriors. As I parked in front of the pump for a refuel, I noticed out of the corner of my eye a man in a reflective green biker jacket making a beeline for me. He immediately entered into comfortable conversation, as if we were familiar pals. A hand on my shoulder, the other removing his helmet, he looked me dead in the eye: "Whatever you do... don't, don't, don't" (a pat on the shoulder with each syllable) "don't ever sell your bike." He had an R80, and when it was having electrical issues and he was short of time and money, he took advantage of the cheapness of Japanese cycles and traded it in. It was one of his biggest regrets. "You can work on that thing forever." His had 140k on the odometer before he sold it, and was confident it could have gone much longer if he had worked on it. I thought of how, not long ago, I was fearful of having to put it down in Reno. $143 and a little oil later, it was purring as smoothly as day one.
At a later gas station, I pulled up to a couple on an '05 BMW cruiser. "Nice beemer!" I said. "You too! How old is that one?" They had a friend whose old BMW had 300k and still running. All signs assured my desire to keep her on the road as long as possible. As we were getting ready to head out, another couple pulled in on a Harley. The male was sporting a Rte. 66 t-shirt, chaps, and a bandana tied around his neck, his wife in all-black leather. My first inclination was, "this is too American to be American." He approached me, and in broken English, inquired about what kind of gas he should put in his Harley Davidson. They were from Germany. What a wonderful reward it is when good vibes cross the language barrier. Through a system of gestures and very basic English, I explained to them the gas situation - "NO Diesel (hand folded at a right angle, waving horizontally at neck height)... here (point) good, better, best" - and explained that they would have to swipe their card with the attendant, as they did not have a zip code. They smiled cordially when I told them I had relatives in Germany, and hoped to visit there soon. I bid them "auf wiedersehen," which they enthusiastically returned, the woman adding a "very good!"
As the sun set, distant lightning emerged. We were storm chasers again, coasting into the night with the t-storms at our heels. The distant flashes soon became threatening bolts, following us a second time for the last two hours. We arrived in Flagstaff, having barely dodged yet another storm with the insignificant exception of scattered sprinkles. The worst was behind us. So we thought.
Day 22 - Bakersfield, CA
We embraced Big Mike before parting ways, with multiple goodbyes and "I love you man"s. Our time in Frisco was revitalizing on all fronts. Big Mike had the opportunity to touch base with home and show his boys a slice of his present life. We had our batteries recharged, enjoyed new sights and sounds off the bikes, and absorbed the larger-than-life spirit of our host. An energetic exchange, on many levels.
We hit one final cafe for a bite and free wifi (Big Mike's internet was down over the weekend) to plan our next move. We headed back, said goodbye to Maddie (Mikey's canine roommate), packed up and hit the road. We had a late start on the day, and although the mileage wasn't particularly significant, we had a lot of ground to cover traversing the windy passes of the PCH.
As we bid San Francisco adieu, the fog lifted. The PCH was breathtaking. Cruising out of Half Moon Bay (one of the country's largest distributors of organic produce), we saw to our right acres of coastal farmland ceased by cliffs and the oceanic horizon. I was heeding my brother's advice from several days ago, reminding me that despite all that had happened on the east coast over the last few weeks, to just take it all in; it would be over before I knew it. The hours on the bike devoted to relaxing one's attention to simply take it all in has been a marvelous exercise in deep listening - being in a position to receive what resounds outside, and ultimately, disintegrating the boundary altogether.
After winding, ascending, and descending the magnificent cliffs of the Pacific Coast for awhile, we entered woodland - the beginning of Big Sur. The first corner where the trees broke, we saw one of the most spectacular views I have witnessed to date. The mountains rose out of the ocean to our right, and on our left, valleys, rivers, and peaks galore. I could have stayed there for years. Unfortunately, our time was limited as we had a late start on the day. We stopped by the ranger station for directions to Pfeiffer Beach (another Big Mike recommendation). Off 1, it was a narrow and windy wooded descent to the beach parking lot. We hopped off for a few quick pictures, and to see the arch in the rock formation where Big Mike described excitedly his experience of witnessing the setting sun's incandescence. Another amazing beach - but we had miles to go before we slept. As we strolled back into the parking lot, a group of 40s-ish surfer guys were tailgating after a day on the waves. I saw the smirk at the sight of two guys leaving the beach in jeans and leather jackets. One of them said, "yo dudes - you on motorcycles?" "No, we like to hang out at the beach in leather." Fortunately, my joke went over well. They asked where we were coming from, and when we told them about the excellent adventure, we received a "WHOAA! That's heavy!" They could hardly have been more stereotypical, like caricatures from a 90s surfer film; I'm sure we weren't far behind with the "tough guy" motorcycle image, haggard from the road and sporting leather jackets. It was a moment, and it felt good to earn their respect - they already had ours.
At the recommendation of the ranger at Big Sur station, we ventured to Nepenthe, a famous tourist spot, for a bite to eat. I had been turned on to the place awhile back before the excellent adventure was on the horizon, and it was a fantasy come true to be standing on the patio taking in the unbelievable view. We arrived at 4:30, right when they were transitioning to dinner. We would have had to wait a half-hour just to put an order in, which was discouraging - then we caught a glimpse of the prices. Suffice to say, they were out of our range, especially at this leg of the trip. It was discouraging, but we had no choice but to push on.
The exhaustion of hunger pangs were setting in. Fatigue is perhaps the most common source of driver error, and on the cliffed edges we were brushing against, one lazy turn meant a long drop to doom. Big Sur is spectacularly sparse in terms of dwellings and commercial establishments, but when you're hungry, it sucks. I tried to keep my brother's words in the foreground and not let the magnificence of my surroundings be stifled by the demands of the physical, but it was a struggle. We finally found a spot to grab a (pricey) bite, but it had a view of the sunset. The bucolic site of the brilliant orb descending into the Pacific was the most nutritious of soul food. But the moment was interrupted by the realization of the drop in temperature, and the continuation of the windy PCH in the dark. Yikes.
We earned our stripes, and survived the remaining hour of the cliffed coastline in the dark. The waxing moon was overhead - call it superstition, but I feel a sort of lunar magnetism every time I ride under the moonlight, as though the goddess of the dark is safely steering my course. This thought was welcomed at a time where danger was even closer than usual. At the Cambria junction, we bid goodbye to Rt 1, officially changing course eastward as we turned onto 46. In the darkness one could faintly make out what would probably have been a beautiful cruise by day - through hills and past wineries. As the landscape flattened, we saw terror ahead: deep orange bolts on the horizon. We were headed for a thunderstorm.
We were still two hours from our destination, and approaching the storm with undesired swiftness. As we winded a corner, the bolts lit the the darkness up, revealing a field of oil-rig pumps. It was like some mechanistic portrayal of the apocalypse - terror in machine form, conspiring against our co-ed team of man and bike.
We somehow evaded the direct path of lightning, and arrived in Bakersfield unscathed. However, the forecast for the next few days is far from promising.
We hit one final cafe for a bite and free wifi (Big Mike's internet was down over the weekend) to plan our next move. We headed back, said goodbye to Maddie (Mikey's canine roommate), packed up and hit the road. We had a late start on the day, and although the mileage wasn't particularly significant, we had a lot of ground to cover traversing the windy passes of the PCH.
As we bid San Francisco adieu, the fog lifted. The PCH was breathtaking. Cruising out of Half Moon Bay (one of the country's largest distributors of organic produce), we saw to our right acres of coastal farmland ceased by cliffs and the oceanic horizon. I was heeding my brother's advice from several days ago, reminding me that despite all that had happened on the east coast over the last few weeks, to just take it all in; it would be over before I knew it. The hours on the bike devoted to relaxing one's attention to simply take it all in has been a marvelous exercise in deep listening - being in a position to receive what resounds outside, and ultimately, disintegrating the boundary altogether.
After winding, ascending, and descending the magnificent cliffs of the Pacific Coast for awhile, we entered woodland - the beginning of Big Sur. The first corner where the trees broke, we saw one of the most spectacular views I have witnessed to date. The mountains rose out of the ocean to our right, and on our left, valleys, rivers, and peaks galore. I could have stayed there for years. Unfortunately, our time was limited as we had a late start on the day. We stopped by the ranger station for directions to Pfeiffer Beach (another Big Mike recommendation). Off 1, it was a narrow and windy wooded descent to the beach parking lot. We hopped off for a few quick pictures, and to see the arch in the rock formation where Big Mike described excitedly his experience of witnessing the setting sun's incandescence. Another amazing beach - but we had miles to go before we slept. As we strolled back into the parking lot, a group of 40s-ish surfer guys were tailgating after a day on the waves. I saw the smirk at the sight of two guys leaving the beach in jeans and leather jackets. One of them said, "yo dudes - you on motorcycles?" "No, we like to hang out at the beach in leather." Fortunately, my joke went over well. They asked where we were coming from, and when we told them about the excellent adventure, we received a "WHOAA! That's heavy!" They could hardly have been more stereotypical, like caricatures from a 90s surfer film; I'm sure we weren't far behind with the "tough guy" motorcycle image, haggard from the road and sporting leather jackets. It was a moment, and it felt good to earn their respect - they already had ours.
At the recommendation of the ranger at Big Sur station, we ventured to Nepenthe, a famous tourist spot, for a bite to eat. I had been turned on to the place awhile back before the excellent adventure was on the horizon, and it was a fantasy come true to be standing on the patio taking in the unbelievable view. We arrived at 4:30, right when they were transitioning to dinner. We would have had to wait a half-hour just to put an order in, which was discouraging - then we caught a glimpse of the prices. Suffice to say, they were out of our range, especially at this leg of the trip. It was discouraging, but we had no choice but to push on.
The exhaustion of hunger pangs were setting in. Fatigue is perhaps the most common source of driver error, and on the cliffed edges we were brushing against, one lazy turn meant a long drop to doom. Big Sur is spectacularly sparse in terms of dwellings and commercial establishments, but when you're hungry, it sucks. I tried to keep my brother's words in the foreground and not let the magnificence of my surroundings be stifled by the demands of the physical, but it was a struggle. We finally found a spot to grab a (pricey) bite, but it had a view of the sunset. The bucolic site of the brilliant orb descending into the Pacific was the most nutritious of soul food. But the moment was interrupted by the realization of the drop in temperature, and the continuation of the windy PCH in the dark. Yikes.
We earned our stripes, and survived the remaining hour of the cliffed coastline in the dark. The waxing moon was overhead - call it superstition, but I feel a sort of lunar magnetism every time I ride under the moonlight, as though the goddess of the dark is safely steering my course. This thought was welcomed at a time where danger was even closer than usual. At the Cambria junction, we bid goodbye to Rt 1, officially changing course eastward as we turned onto 46. In the darkness one could faintly make out what would probably have been a beautiful cruise by day - through hills and past wineries. As the landscape flattened, we saw terror ahead: deep orange bolts on the horizon. We were headed for a thunderstorm.
We were still two hours from our destination, and approaching the storm with undesired swiftness. As we winded a corner, the bolts lit the the darkness up, revealing a field of oil-rig pumps. It was like some mechanistic portrayal of the apocalypse - terror in machine form, conspiring against our co-ed team of man and bike.
We somehow evaded the direct path of lightning, and arrived in Bakersfield unscathed. However, the forecast for the next few days is far from promising.
Day 17-21 - San Francisco (mostly)
Forecast: cloudless and warm. We had fallen into the mentality of refusing to dwell on the daunting mileage ahead, so much so that our westernmost destination had appeared a hazy dream of some distant future. Now, the reality of being hours away from the coast kissed us on the cheek. A silent repetition of Rumi became my mantra, his words the earmark of the simplistic bliss of a gorgeous, carefree sunny day:
This is not a day for asking questions,
not a day on any calendar.
This day is conscious of itself.
A day that cares only about the day. As we coasted through Tahoe National Forest, the date, the hour, the season, all time telling dissipated into the mountain air. The waft of evergreen carried home across the country. I have referenced "the divine" and "divinity" multiple times during this blog, and am compelled to employ it again, but not without a necessary clarification. What I mean by divinity is not rooted in theology; rather it is the very roots themselves, to which the branches of all religious traditions bow. Without delving into a discussion on religion, it will hopefully suffice for the present moment to clarify that the term "divinity" signifies the presence of that which is greater than one's own ego - the universal Self, as much within as without. In fact, in such so-called divine moments, it is meaningless to reference any sort of division whatsoever; dichotomies collapse into the now. All that said, home among the trees and warmed by the sun, the day was conscious of itself like sunlight on water. Divine.
Less than two weeks ago in Ontario, I was chilled to the bone with every layer I had on. Now, rounding Sacramento, I was sweating in a t-shirt. We hit some traffic nearing the city, but it was no matter. In our minds, we had already arrived.
Big Mike arguably inherited his nickname from his father - but he earned his title from his larger-than-life personality. Hilarity, positivity, and the undulations of a pure heart make the Man also a Myth and a Legend. We parked the bikes, and called him to inform him of the arrival, although little needed to be said. A solid gold line of randomness, consistent with all that is Big Mike, set the tone for our stay: "You're here! I'm actually on a treadmill right now.... got 3 minutes left and then a shower. Should be there in 15 minutes tops - hang tight." To most, this might easily pass for an average conversation. But for all who have been blessed with this man's presence, it was yet another giggling start to a visit of good vibes.
It was evident instantly that he had made the town his own - not that the matter was ever doubtful. In San Francisco, there was a general vibe that you had to be somebody - not a status game or a notable public figure per se, moreso you have to be a sort of character. In the most trivial form, this can mean something like one who has accumulated more "amazing" experiences than a room full of sorta interesting people combined. In its best form, you have to be a personality. San Fran is the kind of city with a vibrant social atmosphere; there are multiple things to do on a nightly basis, which is true to some degree in most major cities, but the extent to which it was witnessed here was rivaled in my experience only by the city that never sleeps. Frisco (no one actually calls it as such) does sleep, and wakes right up for more. Big Mike is a plumber by profession, but valid puns can be drawn to no end about his ability to work a social pipeline.
Our first night out was intended to be low-key. Mikey brought us to Toronado Pub, a bar serving only the most delectable of beers. It is harvest season, so the specials were all as fresh as it gets. Right off the bat, rumors were confirmed - the city is indeed a mecca of food and drink, and especially so relative to the food deserts we traversed to get here. Before too long, friends old and new of the Legend were pulling up seats to pay their respect to Mikey's boys from home. We were welcomed with open arms, and although (as we later came to find) all of them were compelling characters in their own right with stories for a lifetime, they were no less excited to sit back and hear our tales from the road. The excellence of any excellent adventure is readily identifiable by a fellow adventurer.
As we were strolling home, Big Mike continued catching us up on his excellent Frisco adventures. As we rounded a corner, two bikers slowed as they passed, one yelling "Hey Mikey!", returned with a "What's up man?" The anonymity of the conversation was a perfect example of the continental spread of his celebrity.
While the legend himself was called to the duty of the day job, Snake and I spent the day wandering a bit. At his recommendation, we hit up one of the eleventy-billion cafes within walking distance of his Divisadero apartment. We people watched on Haight St. over a delicious breakfast (and a fantastic espresso), admiring the beauty of passersby and barristas alike. As we cruised upper Haight, I was astounded at the number of bicycles, scooters, and motorcycles. My naive assumption was that the greenness of the city (and green it certainly is), in this respect, would be compromised by the hellacious hills that could easily lead to serious injury or death on a regular basis. But folks bombing around on two wheels seemed unphased, so I laid my surprise to rest.
As we neared Haight/Ashbury, I took notice of a novel phenomenon, largely unbeknownst to me: the hippie-ish demographic of the homeless community, those who seemed more conscientious objectors rather than folks born in the red and repeatedly roasted by the system. Everyone has a unique story, no doubt, but there were enough cases present to us clearly epitomizing what has been termed said phenomenon. They roll in packs, often with pets. They obviously spend a lot of time conceiving and polishing clever one-liners for money, such as "Heya, can you spare the better part of a dollar? If not, the whole buck's good too." One guy strumming nothingness on his guitar, after asking me for change and let down at my reply, retorted sharply, "or it'd be cool if you could just buy me a beer." I found myself for the first time somewhat sympathetic to the slander against homelessness I had heard by those on the other side. Yet my defenses failed me, and I groped for compassion before realizing that it wasn't disgust over their situation I was feeling, but tough love. I find it nearly inconceivable that even the most unsympathetic soul who turns a blind eye towards others in need is wholly devoid of some resulting primordial dissonance; the brushing-up against other walks of life inevitably casts one back into oneself. However distorted it may be, the mirror of the world reflects something back.
My frustration at the sight of what appeared to be the self-chosen homeless community (many of whom, in the younger generation, are runaways or vagabonds I'm told) is a microcosm for a leitmotif woven into this blog: everyone has to make a buck. What does the buck really symbolize here? Every person has to carve out a life. Even the prototypical trust-fund baby must come to terms with some notion of self, and therefore formulate some notion of identity. The conscientiously-homeless dilemma boils down to this: outright rebellion against the System is no more than the other side of the proverbial coin to those with an umbilical dependence upon it. We inherit the System by the fact of our birth. It is, has been, will always be, laden with inequity. The System cannot possibly serve the diversity of wants and needs of the individuals it purports to serve. The ever-evolving needs of any specific historical period demands chronic ratification to such a system. Its tasks, amendments, injustices, and myopisms may require constant revision, but the nature of such a system is fundamentally immutable. It is, ultimately, only what we ascribe to it. No more, no less. The System hinges on faith. If we expiate its demands and iniquities within our own scope, but without compromise to what is more important to us on a basic level, then no effort is wasted extraneously. It is not selling out, nor is it conformity. Rather, it is reconciliation.
When one trods the path of deliberate rebellion in the fashion of the conscientious homeless, one has no choice but to burden others with the system's demands. What was implicitly transmitted to me in the requests along Haight St was "work is for squares. Be rad and hook me up with a beer, bro." I imagine the harbingers of hippiedom are rolling restlessly in their groovy graves. This flavor of rebellion is puerile at best. "Absolve you to yourself, and you shall have the world," declared the Concord sage in Self-Reliance. Absolve yourself to the system, and you shall have a buck. It may very well be, in its essence, just worthless paper, but, echoing Ginsberg's inquiries to the symbol of America, don't hold your breath trying to buy groceries with your good looks. There is no escape from symbolism... especially denial.
Golden Gate Park is overwhelmingly huge. We could have been lost in there for days without a foreseeable exit. Avoiding the risk of never returning, we explored the quarter nearest to the Haight/Ashbury area. With tacit excitement, I pointed out to Snake a sign that said "Dahlia Garden," and he obliged. I am not the least bit to express my adoration of flowers, and dahlias in particular. Snake strolled along and indulged me while I gazed in awe. The strangely lovely dissonance of distant saxophones from opposing directions performed a pleasant soundtrack.
Walking back, we stopped at a garden supplies store called "Plant It Earth," a spot Big Mike had pointed out the previous night as one of his faves, and a potential place of interest for me. I peeked around for something to plant as a gift in his garden. Mikey had mentioned planting some sort of green in one corner; initially I had kale in mind, as both of us being Portuguese, we are lovers of it. They had mostly seeds, which wasn't much of an issue since the weather is conducive to year-round gardening; but alas, they were out of kale seeds. There were several various greens in the store window, and when I inquired about the price, I was told by the friendly staffperson that they were displays for the hydroponic setup. She took a closer look, and after realizing that one of the lettuce greens was bone dry and going to seed, she kindly gave it to me at no charge - "you know what, you can just have it." I thanked her repeatedly, and returned back to la casa de Miguel to trim back and plant some self-sowing lettuce. Getting the hands dirty is therapy, keeping at the forefront of the mind what Rumi articulated as a day conscious of itself.
After planting and giving the new addition to the garden a little bath, I sat gardenside sipping delectable suds (the convenience store a few blocks away had one of the best beer selections I have ever seen). Snake eventually joined me, as we sat together in silence compiling recollections and scribbling thoughts. It was a vivid metaphor for the excellent adventure camaraderie. One notable advantage of journeying by motorcycle is the simultaneity of sharing daily experience, but doing so largely independently. A majority of most days is devoted to the cruise - at lights, at rest stops, over a bite to eat, our chats are terse yet nevertheless pregnant with solidarity. "Did you see that car cut me off?" "What a view around that pass!" Sometimes purely informative: "One more gas up between here and X." Sometimes monosyllables suffice: "Nice." The journey of two entails a welcomed balance of soliloquy and dialogue.
That night, a group of us returned to Golden Gate Park for a visit to the Academy of Sciences - the world's greenest museum with the mission to "explore, explain, and protect the natural world", and founded on research dedicated to the evolution and sustainability of life. On Thursday evenings, the Academy opens its doors for an evening event, where there talks on the feature exhibit are held and refreshments are served. This month - "Sharktoberfest." No sharks, but many talks on how much sharks rule, as well as dancers in hula attire performing Hawaiian traditional dances honoring the creature. Big Mike received an unwanted call in the late afternoon for one more job, so we were tardier than expected. The four-story rainforest and the planetarium both cut off their lines for the evening, but there was still plenty of kindling to set the wondrous mind ablaze. Some of the exhibits were better received by yours truly than others, however. The most striking example of this was the array of the post-taxidermy. I understand the ability of such practices to further research and foster public understanding, but beholding the sight itself prompts an unnerving visceral reaction in me. Second to this is the mixture of fascination and moroseness upon seeing live animals in tanks and cages. In some cases it is much more of the former, such as with animals who have been rehabilitated, rescued from various circumstances, or monitored for reintroduction in the wild. But more often than not, the creature-as-spectacle evokes in me tinges of sadness; not without gratitude for its sacrifice so that I and others can behold its presence. Ethics and perspectives on what constitutes life aside, these were my reflections on my own reaction while passing the penguins in their small tank and overhearing a girl say to her apparent boyfriend, "they look so bored," or upon seeing the albino alligator open his eyes from slumber due to the clapping and flashing cameras of spectators.
The marvels of the Academy, true to its aim at large, were the intimations of all the wonder and majesty of Being science's reverence seeks to encapsulate. A T-Rex replica grinning in the entryway. An 87-ft blue whale skeleton suspended from the ceiling. And an extensive aquarium (fish have no souls, right? They're probably totally content), including one small tank of particular fascination to me: jellyfish. Amazing and beautifully simplistic in their constitution, movement, and danger (and living similes of previously hazardous storm clouds). My attention was instantly redirected from a strolling conversation throughout the aquarium section, in quintessential philosophical form, with a friend of the Man/Myth/Legend. The narrowness of hyperfocus overtook me: soooo pretty.....
On the walkway of the 2.5-acre roof of native flora were three telescopes, focused on Jupiter and its three moons (currently in the sky, although you need a telescope to see the moons), a binary star cluster, and our very own waxing moon. Interaction with the astronomer representatives at each telescope was an interesting affair. The Jupiter rep was the know-it-all, as eager to display his array of knowledge as he was to stump potential contenders grilling him with questions to flaunt their own display or impress their friends or significant others. The binary star rep was too immersed in another conversation to steal his attention. The moon rep informed us that the vertical row of crater contours visible where the light met dark were due to the position of the sun's light; this meeting of light and dark is known as "the terminator," as he didn't tire of saying with a smile, and after overhearing Big Mike's reference to Dark Side of the Moon ("there is no dark side of the moon, really - matter o' fact, it's all dark"), jumped for joy to discuss Pink Floyd, The Flaming Lips covering Pink Floyd, The Flaming Lips, and music in general. The geeky audiophile in me was happy to have so much in common. Bringing these images within range of the human eye is a tireless source of the wonder of it all.
Throughout our visit, I couldn't ignore the orgiastic Dionysian dimension, to which the science was in many cases secondary - more points of conversation and/or opportunities to flaunt the colorful feathers of personal experience rather than a genuine catalyst for awe. But science can only bring the layperson before the divine intricacies, harmonies, and mystery of life; the choice to drink it in is individual.
Upon arrival, Big Mike gave me a copy of The Book by Alan Watts. We share a great appreciation for the man and his thought, and although I had read and podcasted his work fairly extensively, I had yet to explore what is considered my many to be his most famous writing. Needless to say, it was a gift well-received; revisited and freshly-articulated life lessons notwithstanding, The Book became a micro-metaphor for my time in San Fran. Friday, Snake and I jumped back on the bikes for an exploration cruise. As we neared the Golden Gate Bridge, we had our first taste of the infamous fog that resides in the city year-round. It was like hitting a wall; the division between the sunlight and fog was completely visible. I thought of Watts' depiction of "the game of black and white" - in so many words, how our ego tricks us into wholeheartedly believing in dichotomies of right/wrong, good/evil, dark/light, up/down, and so on, that are in reality (using the term loosely) two facets of the same oneness. Without dark, there can be no such thing as light; therefore, one is entirely contingent upon the other, and therefore we cannot discuss one existing independent of its counterpart. The nature of existence has this twofold structure of unity. Immersed in fog, I was living the concept. There was a visible line between where the sunshine ceased and the fog began.
We crossed the Golden Gate Bridge (although we could barely see it), and headed into the hills; passing by Sausalito, where Watts wrote The Book some 44 years ago. The fog loomed through most of our mountain cruise (1N, part of the PCH (Pacific Coast Highway for those unfamiliar)). When scanning a map prior to our cruise, we took notice of John Muir Memorial Forest, and immediate consideration for a destination. John Muir's intoxication with the natural world is a constant source of inspiration to me. The man writes how he does because he is Nature in human form. Put a certain way, I suppose we all are, it is only a matter of realization. We arrived at the National Memorial to find that it in large part consisted of a redwood forest that escaped the logging craze. A worthier tribute could hardly be conceived. I was doubly ecstatic - one, to witness the grandeur of the forests that had been a major landmark of my destination, the northern Redwood National Forest portion of which was bypassed due to the green meteorological blob; two, that such beauty was the national dedication to the voice of American Nature itself. The experience of being present among these magnificent giants could only be described as magical. These living, breathing creatures, with whom I share in composition and elemental resources, have dwelt on this earth far longer than my best life expectancy - some over 1200 years old. Diplomats from another time, their sovereignty is safeguarded here, in honor of the man who was their tongue. I was drunk on their spirit. On our return back towards the bridge, the fog broke long enough to see it spilling down hillsides from a distance, blanketing all in its path, and before enough we were right back in it.
During a repose in Mikey's back yard, a hummingbird sang its heart out while perched on a trumpet vine spanning three backyards. I called back to it; it bobbed overhead in response, its body a tremendous disparity between still torso and rapidly fluttering wings. We looked at each other for a long moment, then he was back to his perch and his interests, and I to mine. That evening, it was time to take advantage of the abundance of deliciousness. Congregation around the table, and a positive crew coming together over a meal, is a powerful event. I whipped up a coconut curried vegetable dish over red quinoa that was cooked in rooibus tea, while Mikey roasted cauliflower with olive oil and spices. Big Mike's brother Dan (who now resides in Santa Cruz) had joined us, in from a job interview earlier that day, as well as several of Mikey's roommates. Great conversations and great vibes abounded.
Friday night was spent in the good company of Big Mike's friends, at a house party. We heard many an eyewitness account of Mikey's legendary status, solidifying the spread of his infectious personality from one coast to another. I couldn't get over the 8-ft fennel plants in the back yard; they grew so well here. (Subsequently, I found that fennel grows wild all along the northern California coast, so the expression of my excitement must have seemed a bit odd). It was nice to be around folks, but the atmosphere made me nostalgic to be doing the same with my own circle, thousands of miles away.
Saturday we set off to Santa Cruz for an overnight with Dan. Big Brother rode back to Santa Cruz with him while Snake and I took the scenic route down the PCH. Our first taste of the coastal route (another big scenic checkpoint on our list) was enveloped in fog. The few glimpses we did catch of the coastline gave us a taste of the marvel we would behold when we returned to traverse this route before veering east for the return. Big Mike was eager to take us to one of his favorite spots: a tree known as Tree Nine, in the woody campus of UCSC. Tree Nine was known for the rope ladder bringing one up to the base level of one of the best climbing trees around; it was such that one could step from branch to branch, until perching at the top for a view of the California coast. We arrived at the site to witness Big Mike's devastation - the branches had been cut about 50 up the trunk. There was no way to climb the tree even remotely safely. The man who brings the party had, at that moment, lost a bit of faith in humanity. We proceeded to wander around campus in envy of the students lucky enough to traverse forest paths from class to class and socialize without any regard for the fawn snacking on grass next to them.
Next it was off to Cowell's beach, a best-of-the-best local surf spot, where setup was underway for the Coldwater Classic surf tournament commencing in a few days. I have great admiration for surfing, although I have never had the opportunity to give it ago. Here they were, floating about with the unspoken respect code, waiting to catch a wave amongst dolphins and seals and ride it until close to the rocky cliff marking the terminus. We watched for some time, soaking it in, before stopping by Casino Arcade along the Santa Cruz boardwalk. While most of the gang rocked the arcade, I took the oportunity to touch the pacific water and dig my toes in the sand, marking the first half of the excellent adventure.
After an evening on the town, we awoke to an unexpected sight: the first rain in the 4-plus months that Dan, his girlfriend Rayna, and their roommates had been in Santa Cruz. We found ourselves in an interesting predicament, as we had left our rain gear in San Fran, and I had to take Big Mike home on the back of the bike (he did not pack lightly for the occasion either, in addition to my backpack). Rayna continued the good vibes by cooking us a fantastic breakfast while we pondered the ride ahead. Right after breakfast, there was a break in the clouds, so we packed up and hurriedly but sincerely said our goodbyes.
This was Mikey's first time on the back of a motorcycle for a lengthier ride. It was awkward to the point of humor (or terror) at first, and he was understandably a bit frightened, but once we were out of town his calmness took over, and he was one with the Bill/bike. The scent of eucalyptus was ubiquitous, accentuated by the recent precipitation. The eucalyptus, Big Mike informed me, is indomitably invasive in the region. Brought from Australia, it has no natural predators here, and its fallen leaves, having insufficient microorganisms to decompose them, suffocate most of the surface below its branches. I envisioned the borderline nauseating cuteness of importing koalas to quell the crisis, only to have them take over and something else be brought in ad infinitum, a hopeless cycle refusing to come to grips with the human-induced state of affairs. Big Mike commented that despite their invasiveness, our passing by via motorcycle was like "a cough drop up your nose." In a good way.
The rain and clouds eventually broke, and we stopped at one of Big Mike's favorite spots along the PCH - Panther Beach. Every bit as magnificent as anticipated - huge cliffs, crashing waves, and areas of hollowed rock from water damage. Our second destination, due to the growing hours and fatigue of a long night followed by a motorcycle ride, was passed by, but perhaps for the better: a pregnant blue whale had collided for unknown reasons with a boat at sea, and its corpse (and that of the fetus) had washed ashore in Pescadero, a town we were driving through. I was fascinated to behold the event, although Snake seemed less than enthused. According to Dan's description, the whale had completely deflated, with a huge chunk taken out of its center by oceanographers for research. Something to see no doubt, but subject to personal taste.
We spent the evening laying low, with a warm visit from a hometown friend living in San Francisco. Before bed, Mikey put on "The Parrots of Telegraph Hill," a documentary following an individual tending to a flock of parrots that had somehow emerged in San Fran (definitely by human doing, although the direct origin is a subject of debate) and began breeding on their own. It was a compelling bit of local lore to watch. I felt my eyes sinking while thoughts of parrots and the road ahead swirled about consciousness. Tomorrow, we begin the great journey home.
This is not a day for asking questions,
not a day on any calendar.
This day is conscious of itself.
A day that cares only about the day. As we coasted through Tahoe National Forest, the date, the hour, the season, all time telling dissipated into the mountain air. The waft of evergreen carried home across the country. I have referenced "the divine" and "divinity" multiple times during this blog, and am compelled to employ it again, but not without a necessary clarification. What I mean by divinity is not rooted in theology; rather it is the very roots themselves, to which the branches of all religious traditions bow. Without delving into a discussion on religion, it will hopefully suffice for the present moment to clarify that the term "divinity" signifies the presence of that which is greater than one's own ego - the universal Self, as much within as without. In fact, in such so-called divine moments, it is meaningless to reference any sort of division whatsoever; dichotomies collapse into the now. All that said, home among the trees and warmed by the sun, the day was conscious of itself like sunlight on water. Divine.
Less than two weeks ago in Ontario, I was chilled to the bone with every layer I had on. Now, rounding Sacramento, I was sweating in a t-shirt. We hit some traffic nearing the city, but it was no matter. In our minds, we had already arrived.
Big Mike arguably inherited his nickname from his father - but he earned his title from his larger-than-life personality. Hilarity, positivity, and the undulations of a pure heart make the Man also a Myth and a Legend. We parked the bikes, and called him to inform him of the arrival, although little needed to be said. A solid gold line of randomness, consistent with all that is Big Mike, set the tone for our stay: "You're here! I'm actually on a treadmill right now.... got 3 minutes left and then a shower. Should be there in 15 minutes tops - hang tight." To most, this might easily pass for an average conversation. But for all who have been blessed with this man's presence, it was yet another giggling start to a visit of good vibes.
It was evident instantly that he had made the town his own - not that the matter was ever doubtful. In San Francisco, there was a general vibe that you had to be somebody - not a status game or a notable public figure per se, moreso you have to be a sort of character. In the most trivial form, this can mean something like one who has accumulated more "amazing" experiences than a room full of sorta interesting people combined. In its best form, you have to be a personality. San Fran is the kind of city with a vibrant social atmosphere; there are multiple things to do on a nightly basis, which is true to some degree in most major cities, but the extent to which it was witnessed here was rivaled in my experience only by the city that never sleeps. Frisco (no one actually calls it as such) does sleep, and wakes right up for more. Big Mike is a plumber by profession, but valid puns can be drawn to no end about his ability to work a social pipeline.
Our first night out was intended to be low-key. Mikey brought us to Toronado Pub, a bar serving only the most delectable of beers. It is harvest season, so the specials were all as fresh as it gets. Right off the bat, rumors were confirmed - the city is indeed a mecca of food and drink, and especially so relative to the food deserts we traversed to get here. Before too long, friends old and new of the Legend were pulling up seats to pay their respect to Mikey's boys from home. We were welcomed with open arms, and although (as we later came to find) all of them were compelling characters in their own right with stories for a lifetime, they were no less excited to sit back and hear our tales from the road. The excellence of any excellent adventure is readily identifiable by a fellow adventurer.
As we were strolling home, Big Mike continued catching us up on his excellent Frisco adventures. As we rounded a corner, two bikers slowed as they passed, one yelling "Hey Mikey!", returned with a "What's up man?" The anonymity of the conversation was a perfect example of the continental spread of his celebrity.
While the legend himself was called to the duty of the day job, Snake and I spent the day wandering a bit. At his recommendation, we hit up one of the eleventy-billion cafes within walking distance of his Divisadero apartment. We people watched on Haight St. over a delicious breakfast (and a fantastic espresso), admiring the beauty of passersby and barristas alike. As we cruised upper Haight, I was astounded at the number of bicycles, scooters, and motorcycles. My naive assumption was that the greenness of the city (and green it certainly is), in this respect, would be compromised by the hellacious hills that could easily lead to serious injury or death on a regular basis. But folks bombing around on two wheels seemed unphased, so I laid my surprise to rest.
As we neared Haight/Ashbury, I took notice of a novel phenomenon, largely unbeknownst to me: the hippie-ish demographic of the homeless community, those who seemed more conscientious objectors rather than folks born in the red and repeatedly roasted by the system. Everyone has a unique story, no doubt, but there were enough cases present to us clearly epitomizing what has been termed said phenomenon. They roll in packs, often with pets. They obviously spend a lot of time conceiving and polishing clever one-liners for money, such as "Heya, can you spare the better part of a dollar? If not, the whole buck's good too." One guy strumming nothingness on his guitar, after asking me for change and let down at my reply, retorted sharply, "or it'd be cool if you could just buy me a beer." I found myself for the first time somewhat sympathetic to the slander against homelessness I had heard by those on the other side. Yet my defenses failed me, and I groped for compassion before realizing that it wasn't disgust over their situation I was feeling, but tough love. I find it nearly inconceivable that even the most unsympathetic soul who turns a blind eye towards others in need is wholly devoid of some resulting primordial dissonance; the brushing-up against other walks of life inevitably casts one back into oneself. However distorted it may be, the mirror of the world reflects something back.
My frustration at the sight of what appeared to be the self-chosen homeless community (many of whom, in the younger generation, are runaways or vagabonds I'm told) is a microcosm for a leitmotif woven into this blog: everyone has to make a buck. What does the buck really symbolize here? Every person has to carve out a life. Even the prototypical trust-fund baby must come to terms with some notion of self, and therefore formulate some notion of identity. The conscientiously-homeless dilemma boils down to this: outright rebellion against the System is no more than the other side of the proverbial coin to those with an umbilical dependence upon it. We inherit the System by the fact of our birth. It is, has been, will always be, laden with inequity. The System cannot possibly serve the diversity of wants and needs of the individuals it purports to serve. The ever-evolving needs of any specific historical period demands chronic ratification to such a system. Its tasks, amendments, injustices, and myopisms may require constant revision, but the nature of such a system is fundamentally immutable. It is, ultimately, only what we ascribe to it. No more, no less. The System hinges on faith. If we expiate its demands and iniquities within our own scope, but without compromise to what is more important to us on a basic level, then no effort is wasted extraneously. It is not selling out, nor is it conformity. Rather, it is reconciliation.
When one trods the path of deliberate rebellion in the fashion of the conscientious homeless, one has no choice but to burden others with the system's demands. What was implicitly transmitted to me in the requests along Haight St was "work is for squares. Be rad and hook me up with a beer, bro." I imagine the harbingers of hippiedom are rolling restlessly in their groovy graves. This flavor of rebellion is puerile at best. "Absolve you to yourself, and you shall have the world," declared the Concord sage in Self-Reliance. Absolve yourself to the system, and you shall have a buck. It may very well be, in its essence, just worthless paper, but, echoing Ginsberg's inquiries to the symbol of America, don't hold your breath trying to buy groceries with your good looks. There is no escape from symbolism... especially denial.
Golden Gate Park is overwhelmingly huge. We could have been lost in there for days without a foreseeable exit. Avoiding the risk of never returning, we explored the quarter nearest to the Haight/Ashbury area. With tacit excitement, I pointed out to Snake a sign that said "Dahlia Garden," and he obliged. I am not the least bit to express my adoration of flowers, and dahlias in particular. Snake strolled along and indulged me while I gazed in awe. The strangely lovely dissonance of distant saxophones from opposing directions performed a pleasant soundtrack.
Walking back, we stopped at a garden supplies store called "Plant It Earth," a spot Big Mike had pointed out the previous night as one of his faves, and a potential place of interest for me. I peeked around for something to plant as a gift in his garden. Mikey had mentioned planting some sort of green in one corner; initially I had kale in mind, as both of us being Portuguese, we are lovers of it. They had mostly seeds, which wasn't much of an issue since the weather is conducive to year-round gardening; but alas, they were out of kale seeds. There were several various greens in the store window, and when I inquired about the price, I was told by the friendly staffperson that they were displays for the hydroponic setup. She took a closer look, and after realizing that one of the lettuce greens was bone dry and going to seed, she kindly gave it to me at no charge - "you know what, you can just have it." I thanked her repeatedly, and returned back to la casa de Miguel to trim back and plant some self-sowing lettuce. Getting the hands dirty is therapy, keeping at the forefront of the mind what Rumi articulated as a day conscious of itself.
After planting and giving the new addition to the garden a little bath, I sat gardenside sipping delectable suds (the convenience store a few blocks away had one of the best beer selections I have ever seen). Snake eventually joined me, as we sat together in silence compiling recollections and scribbling thoughts. It was a vivid metaphor for the excellent adventure camaraderie. One notable advantage of journeying by motorcycle is the simultaneity of sharing daily experience, but doing so largely independently. A majority of most days is devoted to the cruise - at lights, at rest stops, over a bite to eat, our chats are terse yet nevertheless pregnant with solidarity. "Did you see that car cut me off?" "What a view around that pass!" Sometimes purely informative: "One more gas up between here and X." Sometimes monosyllables suffice: "Nice." The journey of two entails a welcomed balance of soliloquy and dialogue.
That night, a group of us returned to Golden Gate Park for a visit to the Academy of Sciences - the world's greenest museum with the mission to "explore, explain, and protect the natural world", and founded on research dedicated to the evolution and sustainability of life. On Thursday evenings, the Academy opens its doors for an evening event, where there talks on the feature exhibit are held and refreshments are served. This month - "Sharktoberfest." No sharks, but many talks on how much sharks rule, as well as dancers in hula attire performing Hawaiian traditional dances honoring the creature. Big Mike received an unwanted call in the late afternoon for one more job, so we were tardier than expected. The four-story rainforest and the planetarium both cut off their lines for the evening, but there was still plenty of kindling to set the wondrous mind ablaze. Some of the exhibits were better received by yours truly than others, however. The most striking example of this was the array of the post-taxidermy. I understand the ability of such practices to further research and foster public understanding, but beholding the sight itself prompts an unnerving visceral reaction in me. Second to this is the mixture of fascination and moroseness upon seeing live animals in tanks and cages. In some cases it is much more of the former, such as with animals who have been rehabilitated, rescued from various circumstances, or monitored for reintroduction in the wild. But more often than not, the creature-as-spectacle evokes in me tinges of sadness; not without gratitude for its sacrifice so that I and others can behold its presence. Ethics and perspectives on what constitutes life aside, these were my reflections on my own reaction while passing the penguins in their small tank and overhearing a girl say to her apparent boyfriend, "they look so bored," or upon seeing the albino alligator open his eyes from slumber due to the clapping and flashing cameras of spectators.
The marvels of the Academy, true to its aim at large, were the intimations of all the wonder and majesty of Being science's reverence seeks to encapsulate. A T-Rex replica grinning in the entryway. An 87-ft blue whale skeleton suspended from the ceiling. And an extensive aquarium (fish have no souls, right? They're probably totally content), including one small tank of particular fascination to me: jellyfish. Amazing and beautifully simplistic in their constitution, movement, and danger (and living similes of previously hazardous storm clouds). My attention was instantly redirected from a strolling conversation throughout the aquarium section, in quintessential philosophical form, with a friend of the Man/Myth/Legend. The narrowness of hyperfocus overtook me: soooo pretty.....
On the walkway of the 2.5-acre roof of native flora were three telescopes, focused on Jupiter and its three moons (currently in the sky, although you need a telescope to see the moons), a binary star cluster, and our very own waxing moon. Interaction with the astronomer representatives at each telescope was an interesting affair. The Jupiter rep was the know-it-all, as eager to display his array of knowledge as he was to stump potential contenders grilling him with questions to flaunt their own display or impress their friends or significant others. The binary star rep was too immersed in another conversation to steal his attention. The moon rep informed us that the vertical row of crater contours visible where the light met dark were due to the position of the sun's light; this meeting of light and dark is known as "the terminator," as he didn't tire of saying with a smile, and after overhearing Big Mike's reference to Dark Side of the Moon ("there is no dark side of the moon, really - matter o' fact, it's all dark"), jumped for joy to discuss Pink Floyd, The Flaming Lips covering Pink Floyd, The Flaming Lips, and music in general. The geeky audiophile in me was happy to have so much in common. Bringing these images within range of the human eye is a tireless source of the wonder of it all.
Throughout our visit, I couldn't ignore the orgiastic Dionysian dimension, to which the science was in many cases secondary - more points of conversation and/or opportunities to flaunt the colorful feathers of personal experience rather than a genuine catalyst for awe. But science can only bring the layperson before the divine intricacies, harmonies, and mystery of life; the choice to drink it in is individual.
Upon arrival, Big Mike gave me a copy of The Book by Alan Watts. We share a great appreciation for the man and his thought, and although I had read and podcasted his work fairly extensively, I had yet to explore what is considered my many to be his most famous writing. Needless to say, it was a gift well-received; revisited and freshly-articulated life lessons notwithstanding, The Book became a micro-metaphor for my time in San Fran. Friday, Snake and I jumped back on the bikes for an exploration cruise. As we neared the Golden Gate Bridge, we had our first taste of the infamous fog that resides in the city year-round. It was like hitting a wall; the division between the sunlight and fog was completely visible. I thought of Watts' depiction of "the game of black and white" - in so many words, how our ego tricks us into wholeheartedly believing in dichotomies of right/wrong, good/evil, dark/light, up/down, and so on, that are in reality (using the term loosely) two facets of the same oneness. Without dark, there can be no such thing as light; therefore, one is entirely contingent upon the other, and therefore we cannot discuss one existing independent of its counterpart. The nature of existence has this twofold structure of unity. Immersed in fog, I was living the concept. There was a visible line between where the sunshine ceased and the fog began.
We crossed the Golden Gate Bridge (although we could barely see it), and headed into the hills; passing by Sausalito, where Watts wrote The Book some 44 years ago. The fog loomed through most of our mountain cruise (1N, part of the PCH (Pacific Coast Highway for those unfamiliar)). When scanning a map prior to our cruise, we took notice of John Muir Memorial Forest, and immediate consideration for a destination. John Muir's intoxication with the natural world is a constant source of inspiration to me. The man writes how he does because he is Nature in human form. Put a certain way, I suppose we all are, it is only a matter of realization. We arrived at the National Memorial to find that it in large part consisted of a redwood forest that escaped the logging craze. A worthier tribute could hardly be conceived. I was doubly ecstatic - one, to witness the grandeur of the forests that had been a major landmark of my destination, the northern Redwood National Forest portion of which was bypassed due to the green meteorological blob; two, that such beauty was the national dedication to the voice of American Nature itself. The experience of being present among these magnificent giants could only be described as magical. These living, breathing creatures, with whom I share in composition and elemental resources, have dwelt on this earth far longer than my best life expectancy - some over 1200 years old. Diplomats from another time, their sovereignty is safeguarded here, in honor of the man who was their tongue. I was drunk on their spirit. On our return back towards the bridge, the fog broke long enough to see it spilling down hillsides from a distance, blanketing all in its path, and before enough we were right back in it.
During a repose in Mikey's back yard, a hummingbird sang its heart out while perched on a trumpet vine spanning three backyards. I called back to it; it bobbed overhead in response, its body a tremendous disparity between still torso and rapidly fluttering wings. We looked at each other for a long moment, then he was back to his perch and his interests, and I to mine. That evening, it was time to take advantage of the abundance of deliciousness. Congregation around the table, and a positive crew coming together over a meal, is a powerful event. I whipped up a coconut curried vegetable dish over red quinoa that was cooked in rooibus tea, while Mikey roasted cauliflower with olive oil and spices. Big Mike's brother Dan (who now resides in Santa Cruz) had joined us, in from a job interview earlier that day, as well as several of Mikey's roommates. Great conversations and great vibes abounded.
Friday night was spent in the good company of Big Mike's friends, at a house party. We heard many an eyewitness account of Mikey's legendary status, solidifying the spread of his infectious personality from one coast to another. I couldn't get over the 8-ft fennel plants in the back yard; they grew so well here. (Subsequently, I found that fennel grows wild all along the northern California coast, so the expression of my excitement must have seemed a bit odd). It was nice to be around folks, but the atmosphere made me nostalgic to be doing the same with my own circle, thousands of miles away.
Saturday we set off to Santa Cruz for an overnight with Dan. Big Brother rode back to Santa Cruz with him while Snake and I took the scenic route down the PCH. Our first taste of the coastal route (another big scenic checkpoint on our list) was enveloped in fog. The few glimpses we did catch of the coastline gave us a taste of the marvel we would behold when we returned to traverse this route before veering east for the return. Big Mike was eager to take us to one of his favorite spots: a tree known as Tree Nine, in the woody campus of UCSC. Tree Nine was known for the rope ladder bringing one up to the base level of one of the best climbing trees around; it was such that one could step from branch to branch, until perching at the top for a view of the California coast. We arrived at the site to witness Big Mike's devastation - the branches had been cut about 50 up the trunk. There was no way to climb the tree even remotely safely. The man who brings the party had, at that moment, lost a bit of faith in humanity. We proceeded to wander around campus in envy of the students lucky enough to traverse forest paths from class to class and socialize without any regard for the fawn snacking on grass next to them.
Next it was off to Cowell's beach, a best-of-the-best local surf spot, where setup was underway for the Coldwater Classic surf tournament commencing in a few days. I have great admiration for surfing, although I have never had the opportunity to give it ago. Here they were, floating about with the unspoken respect code, waiting to catch a wave amongst dolphins and seals and ride it until close to the rocky cliff marking the terminus. We watched for some time, soaking it in, before stopping by Casino Arcade along the Santa Cruz boardwalk. While most of the gang rocked the arcade, I took the oportunity to touch the pacific water and dig my toes in the sand, marking the first half of the excellent adventure.
After an evening on the town, we awoke to an unexpected sight: the first rain in the 4-plus months that Dan, his girlfriend Rayna, and their roommates had been in Santa Cruz. We found ourselves in an interesting predicament, as we had left our rain gear in San Fran, and I had to take Big Mike home on the back of the bike (he did not pack lightly for the occasion either, in addition to my backpack). Rayna continued the good vibes by cooking us a fantastic breakfast while we pondered the ride ahead. Right after breakfast, there was a break in the clouds, so we packed up and hurriedly but sincerely said our goodbyes.
This was Mikey's first time on the back of a motorcycle for a lengthier ride. It was awkward to the point of humor (or terror) at first, and he was understandably a bit frightened, but once we were out of town his calmness took over, and he was one with the Bill/bike. The scent of eucalyptus was ubiquitous, accentuated by the recent precipitation. The eucalyptus, Big Mike informed me, is indomitably invasive in the region. Brought from Australia, it has no natural predators here, and its fallen leaves, having insufficient microorganisms to decompose them, suffocate most of the surface below its branches. I envisioned the borderline nauseating cuteness of importing koalas to quell the crisis, only to have them take over and something else be brought in ad infinitum, a hopeless cycle refusing to come to grips with the human-induced state of affairs. Big Mike commented that despite their invasiveness, our passing by via motorcycle was like "a cough drop up your nose." In a good way.
The rain and clouds eventually broke, and we stopped at one of Big Mike's favorite spots along the PCH - Panther Beach. Every bit as magnificent as anticipated - huge cliffs, crashing waves, and areas of hollowed rock from water damage. Our second destination, due to the growing hours and fatigue of a long night followed by a motorcycle ride, was passed by, but perhaps for the better: a pregnant blue whale had collided for unknown reasons with a boat at sea, and its corpse (and that of the fetus) had washed ashore in Pescadero, a town we were driving through. I was fascinated to behold the event, although Snake seemed less than enthused. According to Dan's description, the whale had completely deflated, with a huge chunk taken out of its center by oceanographers for research. Something to see no doubt, but subject to personal taste.
We spent the evening laying low, with a warm visit from a hometown friend living in San Francisco. Before bed, Mikey put on "The Parrots of Telegraph Hill," a documentary following an individual tending to a flock of parrots that had somehow emerged in San Fran (definitely by human doing, although the direct origin is a subject of debate) and began breeding on their own. It was a compelling bit of local lore to watch. I felt my eyes sinking while thoughts of parrots and the road ahead swirled about consciousness. Tomorrow, we begin the great journey home.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Day 16 - Reno... still
It is a common misconception, overshadowed by excitement and anticipation of an excellent adventure, that all which is vacated remains suspended until one's return. Ill health of others, financial woes, occupational responsibilities are hung up on the rack to hibernate during one's grace period of R and R. This phenomenon is of course an imaginary one - the suspension is purely mental. Life goes on, in presence or absence. The roots of that from which we flee on voyages afar hold firm in our core. They are inescapable, because they are as much a part of ourselves as that which we most cherish. We are usurped by all that is unatoned within us; any sense of escape is transient.
It was only by traveling 4000 miles that it became evident: what I had set out to accomplish, with greater discipline, could have been done so from my bedroom. The myriad experiences on the excellent adventure have all come back to this point. There have been times of divine radiance, but their sum alone has been insufficient to eradicate all that remains unsettled in the saddle bag.
I received word this morning that another family member passed away. He had mouth cancer, which rapidly metastasized. His time was expected to be short, but this was sudden nonetheless. On a personal level, the loss is coupled along side another demand of self-reconciliation with being absent among loved ones in a time of support. The pangs returned, exacerbated by being nearly broke, and the uncertain outcome of the bike. And we weren't even to the coast. If the bike's repairs aren't worth the money, I have to put her down, and figure out how the hell to get anywhere - San Francisco, home, on another bike. Lamenting over the worst-case scenarios is paralyzing; I see no choice but to plan for the worst. Where there is action, there is movement. Action stifles doubt. Negative thoughts swirl about again: Will I have to play the insolvent, self-loathing mendicant and plea with my parents to bail me out? Will I feel forever unresolved calling it quits? How, in the devotion to absolving myself to the world for a cause greater than self, have I become such a burden to others by acting upon my own desires? Have faith in love. What drives me, above and beyond all else, is that which is inexplicable, not spoken but known through its incandescent self-evidence. With all the tribulations that have come with the time on the road, such shallow lamentations have peeled back my layers, revealing a core that, with continuously cultivated roots, will remain unshakable.
Snake and I cruised to the Triumph dealership, to drool over more bikes - but most importantly for me, to pursue the possibility of financing the bike of my dreams (a 2010 Triumph America) should my first love have to remain in Reno. The possibility looked bleak, and sitting on the dream bike was more salt in the wound than the bittersweetest alternative. We came back to the hotel. The casino is draining the life out of me. Although we are lodging very inexpensively, everything else in the casino compensates for the imbalanced room rate. I am through wasting attempts of luck, but I still have to eat, and that has racked up quick here. I returned to the pool area. After sitting in the sauna for a bit to purge unwanted feelings, I exited for a glass of OJ before sitting poolside again to read. The music in the men's locker room was a very delicate new-agey solo piano, reminiscent for me of George Winston, a love since childhood. Clashing against the music was the din of Fox News soundbytes in an empty lounge room - a Minnesota tea-partyer talking audaciously about the need for those who know their values enough not to melt in Washington, and how she personally will be offering classes on the Constitution for anyone on the Hill and beyond interested. Her boldness was hollow, her words vacuous. It was clear as day in my present mood that she was another theatrical pawn appealing to party politics. All flashy leaves, but no roots. I have remained demure about politics for the most part in this blog, and for a reason. I do not advocate one side or the other; it is the entire infrastructure that is desperate need of re-examination. But, once again, not the time or place. This particular example happened to be emblematic of how the behavior of others, in a certain state of mind, can be as transparent as air. There is an acuteness in sorrow, if one remains focused instead of heeding to the intoxicating blurriness of despair.
I received word late in the afternoon that the bike was good, and only cost $143 total. Her valves were so tight that they compromised compression, and she was a quart low on oil. We have checked the bikes daily, but after pouring a fresh quart in before I left and not noticing the oil light come on, I neglected this. A rookie move - never again. We celebrated by dinner at the famed In N Out Burger, only available in the west. Tomorrow, we reach the coast. The fog lifted, and the excitement and anticipation, joined now by a peaceful sense of relief, returned. Once again, the dwelling was not in regret, or self-doubt, or despair, but possibility, the glimmering reflection of the divine light itself. Tomorrow, we arrive in San Francisco.
It was only by traveling 4000 miles that it became evident: what I had set out to accomplish, with greater discipline, could have been done so from my bedroom. The myriad experiences on the excellent adventure have all come back to this point. There have been times of divine radiance, but their sum alone has been insufficient to eradicate all that remains unsettled in the saddle bag.
I received word this morning that another family member passed away. He had mouth cancer, which rapidly metastasized. His time was expected to be short, but this was sudden nonetheless. On a personal level, the loss is coupled along side another demand of self-reconciliation with being absent among loved ones in a time of support. The pangs returned, exacerbated by being nearly broke, and the uncertain outcome of the bike. And we weren't even to the coast. If the bike's repairs aren't worth the money, I have to put her down, and figure out how the hell to get anywhere - San Francisco, home, on another bike. Lamenting over the worst-case scenarios is paralyzing; I see no choice but to plan for the worst. Where there is action, there is movement. Action stifles doubt. Negative thoughts swirl about again: Will I have to play the insolvent, self-loathing mendicant and plea with my parents to bail me out? Will I feel forever unresolved calling it quits? How, in the devotion to absolving myself to the world for a cause greater than self, have I become such a burden to others by acting upon my own desires? Have faith in love. What drives me, above and beyond all else, is that which is inexplicable, not spoken but known through its incandescent self-evidence. With all the tribulations that have come with the time on the road, such shallow lamentations have peeled back my layers, revealing a core that, with continuously cultivated roots, will remain unshakable.
Snake and I cruised to the Triumph dealership, to drool over more bikes - but most importantly for me, to pursue the possibility of financing the bike of my dreams (a 2010 Triumph America) should my first love have to remain in Reno. The possibility looked bleak, and sitting on the dream bike was more salt in the wound than the bittersweetest alternative. We came back to the hotel. The casino is draining the life out of me. Although we are lodging very inexpensively, everything else in the casino compensates for the imbalanced room rate. I am through wasting attempts of luck, but I still have to eat, and that has racked up quick here. I returned to the pool area. After sitting in the sauna for a bit to purge unwanted feelings, I exited for a glass of OJ before sitting poolside again to read. The music in the men's locker room was a very delicate new-agey solo piano, reminiscent for me of George Winston, a love since childhood. Clashing against the music was the din of Fox News soundbytes in an empty lounge room - a Minnesota tea-partyer talking audaciously about the need for those who know their values enough not to melt in Washington, and how she personally will be offering classes on the Constitution for anyone on the Hill and beyond interested. Her boldness was hollow, her words vacuous. It was clear as day in my present mood that she was another theatrical pawn appealing to party politics. All flashy leaves, but no roots. I have remained demure about politics for the most part in this blog, and for a reason. I do not advocate one side or the other; it is the entire infrastructure that is desperate need of re-examination. But, once again, not the time or place. This particular example happened to be emblematic of how the behavior of others, in a certain state of mind, can be as transparent as air. There is an acuteness in sorrow, if one remains focused instead of heeding to the intoxicating blurriness of despair.
I received word late in the afternoon that the bike was good, and only cost $143 total. Her valves were so tight that they compromised compression, and she was a quart low on oil. We have checked the bikes daily, but after pouring a fresh quart in before I left and not noticing the oil light come on, I neglected this. A rookie move - never again. We celebrated by dinner at the famed In N Out Burger, only available in the west. Tomorrow, we reach the coast. The fog lifted, and the excitement and anticipation, joined now by a peaceful sense of relief, returned. Once again, the dwelling was not in regret, or self-doubt, or despair, but possibility, the glimmering reflection of the divine light itself. Tomorrow, we arrive in San Francisco.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Day 15 - Reno (pt. 2)
We extended our stay at the Silver Legacy and decided to make the best of a day off while awaiting the BMW dealership to open tomorrow and assess the status of the bike. Of all the desolate stretches that something could have gone wrong and made for a very unwanted situation, the only sites of woe have been in proximity to motorcycle repair shops. This is a good thing. Sparks, the next town over from Reno, has a dealership that is exclusively BMW motorcycles. The likelihood of finding this elsewhere is slim to none.
We wandered seamlessly into a neighboring casino for breakfast, after seeing the line at the one open restaurant in our own. The casinos, as is common in places like Reno and Las Vegas, flow into each other so deftly that it can easily go unnoticed. It was only when I read the cover of our menu that I realized we were next door. Following breakfast, the Kafkae-esque feeling of anxious disorientation meandered its way in, and I decided to step out to the pool area to alleviate the malaise of the rank air of imprisonment.
It was a sunny day in Reno. The passing clouds and gentle breeze made for a pleasant environment to sit poolside and read. After burning off some steam on an exercise bike, followed by a good stretch session, I took the opportunity to do just that. The act of engaging mind and body was soothing. It was nice to be off the road for a day, yet not devoid of battling the impatience of the waiting game. Our time cut into San Francisco is irretrievable; we have the same date of departure irrespective of arrival, as riding into November is highly unpredictable (and undesirable). There is no other choice than to roll with the punches, even if one has to be beaten into malleability.
I received word this afternoon that Gepetto was brought into the local clinic. He has a urinary tract infection, not uncommon among felines, and often stress-induced. He was given a shot and prescribed antibiotics, and it was recommended to monitor his urination activity. The earnest care of those one surrounds oneself with is a major cause for gratitude. One such kindred soul to whom Gep is in the care of assured me of what I already knew - that he was in the best of hands. "He's one of us," he said, referring to puss as part of the pack. It weighed on my soul to have caused those I care about the inconvenience of time and energy, but I never doubted for a moment that they would do it without thinking twice.
We bummed around Reno during the afternoon and ended up in an empty bar, misled by an expired "lunch specials!" sign. We had a beer and chatted with the bartender and one woman waiting for a friend, who talked excessively about Sturgis and Burningman and partying with Axl Rose and all the rock stars she hangs with and how she needs to start being compensated for her networking abilities and on and on and on and on. She was well-intentioned though, and our initial reaction of "oh god we just ordered tall beers and have to hear her squawk for the entirety of finishing them" wore off and gave way to a general interest of more stories from the road. Everyone has one to tell, and there is something to be taken from all of them.
We spent the remainder of the afternoon and evening relaxing. I read and played guitar, Snake strolled out to try his luck one more time and snap a picture of the famous Reno sign two blocks away. Tomorrow's events will set the course of the remainder of the excellent adventure... but that is true of any day.
We wandered seamlessly into a neighboring casino for breakfast, after seeing the line at the one open restaurant in our own. The casinos, as is common in places like Reno and Las Vegas, flow into each other so deftly that it can easily go unnoticed. It was only when I read the cover of our menu that I realized we were next door. Following breakfast, the Kafkae-esque feeling of anxious disorientation meandered its way in, and I decided to step out to the pool area to alleviate the malaise of the rank air of imprisonment.
It was a sunny day in Reno. The passing clouds and gentle breeze made for a pleasant environment to sit poolside and read. After burning off some steam on an exercise bike, followed by a good stretch session, I took the opportunity to do just that. The act of engaging mind and body was soothing. It was nice to be off the road for a day, yet not devoid of battling the impatience of the waiting game. Our time cut into San Francisco is irretrievable; we have the same date of departure irrespective of arrival, as riding into November is highly unpredictable (and undesirable). There is no other choice than to roll with the punches, even if one has to be beaten into malleability.
I received word this afternoon that Gepetto was brought into the local clinic. He has a urinary tract infection, not uncommon among felines, and often stress-induced. He was given a shot and prescribed antibiotics, and it was recommended to monitor his urination activity. The earnest care of those one surrounds oneself with is a major cause for gratitude. One such kindred soul to whom Gep is in the care of assured me of what I already knew - that he was in the best of hands. "He's one of us," he said, referring to puss as part of the pack. It weighed on my soul to have caused those I care about the inconvenience of time and energy, but I never doubted for a moment that they would do it without thinking twice.
We bummed around Reno during the afternoon and ended up in an empty bar, misled by an expired "lunch specials!" sign. We had a beer and chatted with the bartender and one woman waiting for a friend, who talked excessively about Sturgis and Burningman and partying with Axl Rose and all the rock stars she hangs with and how she needs to start being compensated for her networking abilities and on and on and on and on. She was well-intentioned though, and our initial reaction of "oh god we just ordered tall beers and have to hear her squawk for the entirety of finishing them" wore off and gave way to a general interest of more stories from the road. Everyone has one to tell, and there is something to be taken from all of them.
We spent the remainder of the afternoon and evening relaxing. I read and played guitar, Snake strolled out to try his luck one more time and snap a picture of the famous Reno sign two blocks away. Tomorrow's events will set the course of the remainder of the excellent adventure... but that is true of any day.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Day 14 - Reno, NV
Wendover is a strange place. A small and lonely casino town miles away from anything but the highway, it straddles both the Utah and Nevada border (half the town is in one, half the other) and the Mountain and Pacific time zones. Nice mountain view, but a somber place to stay longer than a night.
My health, and the bike's health, have been increasingly shaky. My body has been accustomed to a diet of low-meat, non-processed, mostly organic sustenance, and the curve ball the food deserts of the road has thrown is noticeably accumulating force. Today, I awoke with a returning scratch in my throat and sinus congestion, hauntingly similar to a bug that lingered on and off for about a month and disappeared once we hit the trail. I have what would be considered a solid immune system, but one noticeable affliction comes with days of rapid weather change. Today, it was borderline hot, and I was feeling nauseous on top of the aforementioned scratch/sinus return. The bike has been coughing and spitting more and more, and having greater difficulty starting up. My initial association of these symptoms with elevation and temperature drop didn't hold well in Wendover, where we were closer to sea level on a warm day. To boot, when the RPMs drop below 2000, the bike coughs and stalls. This was happening before only when the engine was cold - now it is clearer that the carburetor is having issues. Every time I slow to a stop, I have to simultaneously hold the hand brake and give it steady gas, or else I find myself on the side of the road waiting to for the injection to reignite.
After she was started up (and died at the gas station, and started up again), we hit the road. Our assumption of the direct route to San Francisco, I-80, being a desert version of the monotony of the prairie was pleasantly mistaken. The beige-brown desert mountains of the western end of Utah continued on, and the cruise was very pleasant. The road was relatively quiet on a Sunday, with mostly big rigs that we strategically weaved in and out of. Except one. There crept up on us an 18-wheeler with ventilated sides and rear, transporting horses. The driver was averaging 15 mph over the speed limit (which was 75), and was passing vehicles left and right. He was largely unsympathetic to our presence and the gusts caused by his wake and, while passing other trucks, cut in front of us and slowed slightly. We were unavoidably caught behind him for a good half hour, keeping a safe distance - but not safe enough to avoid the back spray of horse urine that eventually misted our faces and windshields.
Songs in shops and rest stops have played a marginally significant role in the excellent adventure. Dropping off the bike for the clutch cable and tire replacement, for example, "Patience" by Guns and Roses was overheard in the shop; a mutual love of Snake's and mine assuring us that "just a little patience" would get us through the predicament at that time. At the gas station today, the U2 song mentioned at the beginning of this blog came on, and I felt a turn towards expiation of the previous day's inadequacies as I gazed upon distant snow-capped mountains contrasted against the desert. Songs speak to us undoubtedly - the particular significance observed in this case is timing. It further supports the sentiment that something larger than ourselves, beyond our control, is at work. There is a scientific element of truth to that aside from matters of faith - but it is more what is normally attributed to superstition that strikes a chord here.
We continued our haul down I-80. With every refuel, I pumped my body full of whatever beverage had the highest vitamin C content. We stopped for a brief lunch in Battle Mountain - a deli attached to a liquor store, across from the gas station. The chicken sandwich did not agree with me. Feeling a surge of nausea, I checked my cell phone - mostly to divert my mind from the sickly feeling, but also to see if word had come from friends that were close to the area. I noticed a text message from one of my friends kind enough to take care of my beloved cats while I was on the road - one of them, Gepetto, was growling and peeing pink. For those unaware, I have a borderline irrational love of my felines - they are the yin to my yang. The thought of either of them in less than exceptional condition broke my heart. The nausea increased tenfold. I called my friend to find out the details, and she reassured me that it was nothing demanding immediate attention. I trust her word, as she has great experience with animals, and takes good care of my boys. She would take him in to the free clinic tomorrow for a diagnosis. In the back of my mind was the sinking feeling of losing another loved one on this trip; a thought which only something like the alone head-time of the road can mitigate.
As we pushed on, I reverted to breathing exercises to regulate the sickly feeling. Years ago, when I began to dabble in meditative practice, the crucial nature of breath control was fully illuminated. At first glance, the vitality of breathing is obvious - no breath, no life. But digging deeper into that statement discloses an entire outlook on life relative to breath. When we were bracing the Canadian elements last week, I recounted silently to myself a story I had been told of Buddhist monks who, in deep meditation, were able to maintain consistent bodily temperature while seated in lotus position under a frigid waterfall. The potency of this story has never left me - when one masters consciousness of breath, and can regulate it at will, one controls life. My entire existence henceforward has had embedded within it this kernel of breath mastery.
It helped in the cold, and it was helping now. I started to feel better. In the practice of doing so, it came into awareness that a dear friend - a big sister figure in my life, who has expanded my boundaries in many ways - was undergoing Reiki certification. She mentioned to me how an advanced level of Reiki entailed distance Reiki, and that she would attempt intention toward me while I was on the road. Whether or not one believes in such practices is wholly a matter of personal choice - I for one choose to remain open to the possibilities, as so many forces that we accept as givens (gravity, electromagnetism, lunar relations to tides, etc) are outside our immediate sensory experience. There was a time before any of these were even observed, let alone accepted - who is to say we know it all now? At any rate, as I felt the impact of breath exercises to quell my nausea, the thought of my friend's distance Reiki appeared in my scope of awareness, and acting upon the thought, I started to intend the current to heal sore muscles and stiffness of back. Whether it was her force or not, it was helping. The mind is a powerful thing. I also attempted to channel the force of what I was feeling to Gepetto. If only he could speak
English.
We were at our final spot before our evening destination, sitting on the curb taking a few minutes, when a Buick pulled up not far away with an elderly couple and their 50s-ish year old son. The father came out, and with a warm smile and surprising energy, declared to us, "Alright halftime - let's switch!" His bonhomie was energizing. They inquired about our trip, and uttered the second most popular comment to date (behind "You're a long way from home"): "From Boston, huh? You don't have the accent." The stereotype is perpetuated that anyone from the area affirms statements with "wicked pissah" and omits the letter R from their vocabulary almost entirely. I told him, "get a few drinks in us, then we'll see." They chuckled. The son told us about how, at this very gas station several months back, two young guys had pulled up on Kawasaki dual-purpose bikes, covered in mud. They were on an excellent adventure of their own - apparently, a trail has been mapped from Georgia to the Oregon coast that is entirely dirt-road. GPS units are available for rent or purchase to follow the route. The dirt bikers were on their way to the coast, then planned to extend their trip down to the South American tip, and by boat, off to Europe. They kept an excellent adventure blog as well, and passed the URL onto this gentleman, who said that after bypassing by boat certain parts of Central America due to guerrilla warfare, they called it quits in South America. "There is much in Nature against us," said the nature-loving sage Robert Frost. The road abides to Nature. The son commented before leaving, "man... you guys are living every guy's dream." The thought then returned to me that living the dream always entails tribulations omitted from the dream in its purely fantastic form. But if there were no bitterness in life, sweetness would taste bland. The father left us with a parting magic trick he performed in hospitals - he pulled out a bouncy ball, bounced it once, then motioned throwing it in the air as it disappeared from his short-sleeved grip. It was a great little trick, and I wondered to myself at what future occasion the ball might stupefyingly fall from the sky.
Our longest stint to date, across the state of Nevada, terminated in the biggest little city in the world - Reno. The casinos have stellar hotel rates to lure folks in to spend spend spend. We had reservations at a 4-star hotel and casino for $45/night, lower than any lodging to date except camping. When we pulled off the exit, the bike sputtered with the throttle maxed and the bike puttering at 1500 RPM. I pulled over, and after a few minutes, the high end of the carburetor kicked in and I carried on precariously. As we rounded a corner to the parking garage of our hotel, the bike stalled. After multiple attempts, she started up again, only to die on the first level of the garage. I tried unsuccessfully for about 15 minutes to restart it, and after backfiring loud enough to summon a bomb squad, the engine smoking, it was time to call it quits. Snake helped me push it into a motorcycle parking area. I stood for awhile staring at the bike in disbelief. The day was a microcosm of the greater roller coaster this trip has been. As I stood there, memories flooded in of childhood rides on the bike, looking at it in our family's garage in awe, rides to school and sports practice - I choked up at the thought of having to put it down. Motorcycle shops adhere to a schedule identical to barbers, and none will be open until Tuesday. For the time being, I vowed not to bother myself to the point of despair with the situation. Snake and I checked in, and headed down to grab a bite and test our luck.
I am not a casino guy. The casino environment from my vantage point is laden with a tragic underpinning. Exploitation of hopes and dreams, disgusting gaudiness, excessive indulgence on all fronts, and worst of all - a pedestalization of the dollar, the golden calf of human existence. It also doesn't help that I suck at poker.
We had a coupon from the hotel for $5 off the all-you-can-indulge buffet restaurant. We had barely eaten anything in our course of hauling ass across Nevada (breakfast at the Wendover motel was a meager bowl of cereal), and took the opportunity to eat ourselves into gluttony. While immobilized in the downtime of digestion, I took notice of the ubiquitous displays of fake flowers hedging the restaurant from the casino. The waitstaff appeared automata - desensitized to their surroundings to maintain sanity, a vacuous look about their eyes. I watched a busboy clear plates off a table - having worked in restaurants for more than one job, and conscious of the amount of food that is wasted on a daily basis, I trembled at the reality of all who are dying worldwide of starvation while Jr's third helping of eye-of-the-round gets chucked without even being touched. The amount of food discarded, between patrons and nightly leftovers, in this buffet alone could probably feed an entire province for a day. Multiplying that by the number of restaurants in this casino, the number of casinos in Reno, the number worldwide, my food tried to make an escape out the wrong chute. But what about the wonder of it all? The thrill of chance? Let's try our luck and live a little!
One of the bars were offering mixed drinks for $2 each, so we capitalized on the deal. The only way I could cope with reality at present was to take the edge off, and whiskey did the trick. Before too long, I was perched at the Harley Davidson electronic slot machine, and like a rat demanding feeding pellets, pumped singles in for my one-in-thirty-trillion chance to win a new bike. Like the array casinos, the electronic slots are identical with different visages, but the stakes of this one were more relevant at present. Voa loved gambling - she was always responsible about spending, and joyful at the simple pleasure of the thrill of the risk. It also didn't hurt that, most often, luck was on her side, and she would often return well in the positive monetarily. I however, did not inherit the gene. I played for her, for dad's bike, for an opportunity to participate in blind chance. If you don't play, you don't win. If you do play, and you have had the kind of day like today, the deal is sealed on your fleeting luck. We conceded, and called it a night.
My health, and the bike's health, have been increasingly shaky. My body has been accustomed to a diet of low-meat, non-processed, mostly organic sustenance, and the curve ball the food deserts of the road has thrown is noticeably accumulating force. Today, I awoke with a returning scratch in my throat and sinus congestion, hauntingly similar to a bug that lingered on and off for about a month and disappeared once we hit the trail. I have what would be considered a solid immune system, but one noticeable affliction comes with days of rapid weather change. Today, it was borderline hot, and I was feeling nauseous on top of the aforementioned scratch/sinus return. The bike has been coughing and spitting more and more, and having greater difficulty starting up. My initial association of these symptoms with elevation and temperature drop didn't hold well in Wendover, where we were closer to sea level on a warm day. To boot, when the RPMs drop below 2000, the bike coughs and stalls. This was happening before only when the engine was cold - now it is clearer that the carburetor is having issues. Every time I slow to a stop, I have to simultaneously hold the hand brake and give it steady gas, or else I find myself on the side of the road waiting to for the injection to reignite.
After she was started up (and died at the gas station, and started up again), we hit the road. Our assumption of the direct route to San Francisco, I-80, being a desert version of the monotony of the prairie was pleasantly mistaken. The beige-brown desert mountains of the western end of Utah continued on, and the cruise was very pleasant. The road was relatively quiet on a Sunday, with mostly big rigs that we strategically weaved in and out of. Except one. There crept up on us an 18-wheeler with ventilated sides and rear, transporting horses. The driver was averaging 15 mph over the speed limit (which was 75), and was passing vehicles left and right. He was largely unsympathetic to our presence and the gusts caused by his wake and, while passing other trucks, cut in front of us and slowed slightly. We were unavoidably caught behind him for a good half hour, keeping a safe distance - but not safe enough to avoid the back spray of horse urine that eventually misted our faces and windshields.
Songs in shops and rest stops have played a marginally significant role in the excellent adventure. Dropping off the bike for the clutch cable and tire replacement, for example, "Patience" by Guns and Roses was overheard in the shop; a mutual love of Snake's and mine assuring us that "just a little patience" would get us through the predicament at that time. At the gas station today, the U2 song mentioned at the beginning of this blog came on, and I felt a turn towards expiation of the previous day's inadequacies as I gazed upon distant snow-capped mountains contrasted against the desert. Songs speak to us undoubtedly - the particular significance observed in this case is timing. It further supports the sentiment that something larger than ourselves, beyond our control, is at work. There is a scientific element of truth to that aside from matters of faith - but it is more what is normally attributed to superstition that strikes a chord here.
We continued our haul down I-80. With every refuel, I pumped my body full of whatever beverage had the highest vitamin C content. We stopped for a brief lunch in Battle Mountain - a deli attached to a liquor store, across from the gas station. The chicken sandwich did not agree with me. Feeling a surge of nausea, I checked my cell phone - mostly to divert my mind from the sickly feeling, but also to see if word had come from friends that were close to the area. I noticed a text message from one of my friends kind enough to take care of my beloved cats while I was on the road - one of them, Gepetto, was growling and peeing pink. For those unaware, I have a borderline irrational love of my felines - they are the yin to my yang. The thought of either of them in less than exceptional condition broke my heart. The nausea increased tenfold. I called my friend to find out the details, and she reassured me that it was nothing demanding immediate attention. I trust her word, as she has great experience with animals, and takes good care of my boys. She would take him in to the free clinic tomorrow for a diagnosis. In the back of my mind was the sinking feeling of losing another loved one on this trip; a thought which only something like the alone head-time of the road can mitigate.
As we pushed on, I reverted to breathing exercises to regulate the sickly feeling. Years ago, when I began to dabble in meditative practice, the crucial nature of breath control was fully illuminated. At first glance, the vitality of breathing is obvious - no breath, no life. But digging deeper into that statement discloses an entire outlook on life relative to breath. When we were bracing the Canadian elements last week, I recounted silently to myself a story I had been told of Buddhist monks who, in deep meditation, were able to maintain consistent bodily temperature while seated in lotus position under a frigid waterfall. The potency of this story has never left me - when one masters consciousness of breath, and can regulate it at will, one controls life. My entire existence henceforward has had embedded within it this kernel of breath mastery.
It helped in the cold, and it was helping now. I started to feel better. In the practice of doing so, it came into awareness that a dear friend - a big sister figure in my life, who has expanded my boundaries in many ways - was undergoing Reiki certification. She mentioned to me how an advanced level of Reiki entailed distance Reiki, and that she would attempt intention toward me while I was on the road. Whether or not one believes in such practices is wholly a matter of personal choice - I for one choose to remain open to the possibilities, as so many forces that we accept as givens (gravity, electromagnetism, lunar relations to tides, etc) are outside our immediate sensory experience. There was a time before any of these were even observed, let alone accepted - who is to say we know it all now? At any rate, as I felt the impact of breath exercises to quell my nausea, the thought of my friend's distance Reiki appeared in my scope of awareness, and acting upon the thought, I started to intend the current to heal sore muscles and stiffness of back. Whether it was her force or not, it was helping. The mind is a powerful thing. I also attempted to channel the force of what I was feeling to Gepetto. If only he could speak
English.
We were at our final spot before our evening destination, sitting on the curb taking a few minutes, when a Buick pulled up not far away with an elderly couple and their 50s-ish year old son. The father came out, and with a warm smile and surprising energy, declared to us, "Alright halftime - let's switch!" His bonhomie was energizing. They inquired about our trip, and uttered the second most popular comment to date (behind "You're a long way from home"): "From Boston, huh? You don't have the accent." The stereotype is perpetuated that anyone from the area affirms statements with "wicked pissah" and omits the letter R from their vocabulary almost entirely. I told him, "get a few drinks in us, then we'll see." They chuckled. The son told us about how, at this very gas station several months back, two young guys had pulled up on Kawasaki dual-purpose bikes, covered in mud. They were on an excellent adventure of their own - apparently, a trail has been mapped from Georgia to the Oregon coast that is entirely dirt-road. GPS units are available for rent or purchase to follow the route. The dirt bikers were on their way to the coast, then planned to extend their trip down to the South American tip, and by boat, off to Europe. They kept an excellent adventure blog as well, and passed the URL onto this gentleman, who said that after bypassing by boat certain parts of Central America due to guerrilla warfare, they called it quits in South America. "There is much in Nature against us," said the nature-loving sage Robert Frost. The road abides to Nature. The son commented before leaving, "man... you guys are living every guy's dream." The thought then returned to me that living the dream always entails tribulations omitted from the dream in its purely fantastic form. But if there were no bitterness in life, sweetness would taste bland. The father left us with a parting magic trick he performed in hospitals - he pulled out a bouncy ball, bounced it once, then motioned throwing it in the air as it disappeared from his short-sleeved grip. It was a great little trick, and I wondered to myself at what future occasion the ball might stupefyingly fall from the sky.
Our longest stint to date, across the state of Nevada, terminated in the biggest little city in the world - Reno. The casinos have stellar hotel rates to lure folks in to spend spend spend. We had reservations at a 4-star hotel and casino for $45/night, lower than any lodging to date except camping. When we pulled off the exit, the bike sputtered with the throttle maxed and the bike puttering at 1500 RPM. I pulled over, and after a few minutes, the high end of the carburetor kicked in and I carried on precariously. As we rounded a corner to the parking garage of our hotel, the bike stalled. After multiple attempts, she started up again, only to die on the first level of the garage. I tried unsuccessfully for about 15 minutes to restart it, and after backfiring loud enough to summon a bomb squad, the engine smoking, it was time to call it quits. Snake helped me push it into a motorcycle parking area. I stood for awhile staring at the bike in disbelief. The day was a microcosm of the greater roller coaster this trip has been. As I stood there, memories flooded in of childhood rides on the bike, looking at it in our family's garage in awe, rides to school and sports practice - I choked up at the thought of having to put it down. Motorcycle shops adhere to a schedule identical to barbers, and none will be open until Tuesday. For the time being, I vowed not to bother myself to the point of despair with the situation. Snake and I checked in, and headed down to grab a bite and test our luck.
I am not a casino guy. The casino environment from my vantage point is laden with a tragic underpinning. Exploitation of hopes and dreams, disgusting gaudiness, excessive indulgence on all fronts, and worst of all - a pedestalization of the dollar, the golden calf of human existence. It also doesn't help that I suck at poker.
We had a coupon from the hotel for $5 off the all-you-can-indulge buffet restaurant. We had barely eaten anything in our course of hauling ass across Nevada (breakfast at the Wendover motel was a meager bowl of cereal), and took the opportunity to eat ourselves into gluttony. While immobilized in the downtime of digestion, I took notice of the ubiquitous displays of fake flowers hedging the restaurant from the casino. The waitstaff appeared automata - desensitized to their surroundings to maintain sanity, a vacuous look about their eyes. I watched a busboy clear plates off a table - having worked in restaurants for more than one job, and conscious of the amount of food that is wasted on a daily basis, I trembled at the reality of all who are dying worldwide of starvation while Jr's third helping of eye-of-the-round gets chucked without even being touched. The amount of food discarded, between patrons and nightly leftovers, in this buffet alone could probably feed an entire province for a day. Multiplying that by the number of restaurants in this casino, the number of casinos in Reno, the number worldwide, my food tried to make an escape out the wrong chute. But what about the wonder of it all? The thrill of chance? Let's try our luck and live a little!
One of the bars were offering mixed drinks for $2 each, so we capitalized on the deal. The only way I could cope with reality at present was to take the edge off, and whiskey did the trick. Before too long, I was perched at the Harley Davidson electronic slot machine, and like a rat demanding feeding pellets, pumped singles in for my one-in-thirty-trillion chance to win a new bike. Like the array casinos, the electronic slots are identical with different visages, but the stakes of this one were more relevant at present. Voa loved gambling - she was always responsible about spending, and joyful at the simple pleasure of the thrill of the risk. It also didn't hurt that, most often, luck was on her side, and she would often return well in the positive monetarily. I however, did not inherit the gene. I played for her, for dad's bike, for an opportunity to participate in blind chance. If you don't play, you don't win. If you do play, and you have had the kind of day like today, the deal is sealed on your fleeting luck. We conceded, and called it a night.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Day 13 - Wendover, UT/NV
This morning I awoke with inspiration from a friend:
"This is the ultimate fact which we so quickly reach on this, as on every topic, the resolution of all into the ever-blessed ONE. Self-existence is the attribute of the Supreme Cause, and it constitutes the measure of good by the degree in which it enters into all lower forms... Power is, in nature, the essential measure of right. Nature suffers nothing to remain in her kingdoms which cannot help itself. The genesis and maturation of a planet, its poise and orbit, the bended tree recovering itself from the strong wind, the vital resources of every animal and vegetable, are demonstrations of the self-sufficing and therefore self-relying soul." -Emerson, Self-Reliance
Inspiration, however, did not keep all day. The day was an adventure, and was excellent; yet in repose, the narrative was prosaic at best. I carried on with the exercise of writing, hoping to capture a modicum of profundity. I typed out into sentence form the notes of today's thoughts, trudged through a post hoping that it would amount to something. As a result of a computer malfunction, the great effort was lost, the auto-save mechanism having froze. In disbelief, I felt like abandoning the effort altogether. After all, the blog has undergone a metamorphosis from documenting the narrative of daily experience to recording personal brushstrokes of thought; at a time like this, the present discouragement and futile attempt at forced inspiration were, on a broader scale, as though the caterpillar was cut out of the cocoon before it could develop wings, left to wither from malnourishment without ever having flown.
There were certainly highlights with their accompanying metaphors from today, as has been true of all days on the excellent adventure. The increasing sleepiness of the bike during cold mornings in high altitude: the demand of adherence to patience and love when it refuses to start, or dies at a traffic light. The Utah mountains along I-80: their uncanny presence dissolving the human sense of time grafted onto the world, and casting the manifold dramas orbiting a human life into the wind as mere trifles, like pebbles swept off their summits. The grazing of a tire shard from an 18-wheeler blowout off of my hip while passing through the Salt Lake City highway: how one moment can alter the course of a life entirely. The small pools of water remaining in the desert sand: a reminder of how we dodged a meteorological bullet over the last few days, and the underlying unpredictability of all we try with false certainty to forecast. All narrative is metaphor, as everything is what it is only relative to everything else. Yet one cannot dwell in profundity uninterrupted; one is always called back down to the ground. And the coldness of the smack into hard earth is sobering.
Perhaps it is the eager anticipation of reaching San Francisco - an impetus for our journey, the reunion with a kindred soul, the symbolism of coast-to-coast, and everything else - that prompts the current fleeting and wayward thoughts. Perhaps it is the hyper-stimulation, each day of the excellent adventure electrifying our being into numbness. Perhaps it is the projection of expectations, and the disappointment in the failure of insipid attempts to meet them. Perhaps it is all of these, or none at all.
In the spirit of autonomy, living only by the words of others eschews the universe within oneself; blindly pontificating the words of one's sages deprives them of the chance of absorption, to be internalized and articulated with one's own voice. Yet, when words are stepping stones that bridge the abyss, they are words to live by nonetheless. Tonight I visited another old friend, the angel-incarnate Rumi, and was nourished yet again by his guidance:
"Keep walking, though there's no place to get to.
Don't try to see through the distances.
That's not for human beings. Move within,
but don't move the way fear makes you move."
In the thick of the fog, the clarity that surrounds it is not visible. But keep on, and it will come again soon. As I finish typing this, a moth has fluttered by. He earned his wings. There's a lesson in that.
"This is the ultimate fact which we so quickly reach on this, as on every topic, the resolution of all into the ever-blessed ONE. Self-existence is the attribute of the Supreme Cause, and it constitutes the measure of good by the degree in which it enters into all lower forms... Power is, in nature, the essential measure of right. Nature suffers nothing to remain in her kingdoms which cannot help itself. The genesis and maturation of a planet, its poise and orbit, the bended tree recovering itself from the strong wind, the vital resources of every animal and vegetable, are demonstrations of the self-sufficing and therefore self-relying soul." -Emerson, Self-Reliance
Inspiration, however, did not keep all day. The day was an adventure, and was excellent; yet in repose, the narrative was prosaic at best. I carried on with the exercise of writing, hoping to capture a modicum of profundity. I typed out into sentence form the notes of today's thoughts, trudged through a post hoping that it would amount to something. As a result of a computer malfunction, the great effort was lost, the auto-save mechanism having froze. In disbelief, I felt like abandoning the effort altogether. After all, the blog has undergone a metamorphosis from documenting the narrative of daily experience to recording personal brushstrokes of thought; at a time like this, the present discouragement and futile attempt at forced inspiration were, on a broader scale, as though the caterpillar was cut out of the cocoon before it could develop wings, left to wither from malnourishment without ever having flown.
There were certainly highlights with their accompanying metaphors from today, as has been true of all days on the excellent adventure. The increasing sleepiness of the bike during cold mornings in high altitude: the demand of adherence to patience and love when it refuses to start, or dies at a traffic light. The Utah mountains along I-80: their uncanny presence dissolving the human sense of time grafted onto the world, and casting the manifold dramas orbiting a human life into the wind as mere trifles, like pebbles swept off their summits. The grazing of a tire shard from an 18-wheeler blowout off of my hip while passing through the Salt Lake City highway: how one moment can alter the course of a life entirely. The small pools of water remaining in the desert sand: a reminder of how we dodged a meteorological bullet over the last few days, and the underlying unpredictability of all we try with false certainty to forecast. All narrative is metaphor, as everything is what it is only relative to everything else. Yet one cannot dwell in profundity uninterrupted; one is always called back down to the ground. And the coldness of the smack into hard earth is sobering.
Perhaps it is the eager anticipation of reaching San Francisco - an impetus for our journey, the reunion with a kindred soul, the symbolism of coast-to-coast, and everything else - that prompts the current fleeting and wayward thoughts. Perhaps it is the hyper-stimulation, each day of the excellent adventure electrifying our being into numbness. Perhaps it is the projection of expectations, and the disappointment in the failure of insipid attempts to meet them. Perhaps it is all of these, or none at all.
In the spirit of autonomy, living only by the words of others eschews the universe within oneself; blindly pontificating the words of one's sages deprives them of the chance of absorption, to be internalized and articulated with one's own voice. Yet, when words are stepping stones that bridge the abyss, they are words to live by nonetheless. Tonight I visited another old friend, the angel-incarnate Rumi, and was nourished yet again by his guidance:
"Keep walking, though there's no place to get to.
Don't try to see through the distances.
That's not for human beings. Move within,
but don't move the way fear makes you move."
In the thick of the fog, the clarity that surrounds it is not visible. But keep on, and it will come again soon. As I finish typing this, a moth has fluttered by. He earned his wings. There's a lesson in that.
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