Monthly Archives: June 2000

Personal

Vagabond

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It is time to be moving on. Perhaps northeast this time. But I won’t go that way directly. I am bound for the coast highway, and then I will head north to Vancouver. From there I will meander east, to finally end up in Ontario.

By far the greatest pleasure in moving on is the road less traveled. Interstates are great for making time, for putting a lot of distance behind me. To really see the country, I have to get on the secondary highways, the “blue highways” on the old road maps. Now these roads are marked in red and don’t have the same mystique when studied in a hotel room, but they go to the same places, and mark much the same distance as many of the roads of old.

Some of these roads I have traveled in previous years, and I know the best roadside diners, the quieter rest stops, the detours to save miles and time. At other times I must feel my way around, and learn by trial and error the best places to stop.

All this takes a willingness to come back and try again, for there is never enough time to discover all the truly interesting places and people. That may not happen for years, and of course by then the best or the worst places might have closed. Familiar, friendly faces may have moved on. The investigative process will start all over again.

If I’m lucky, someone has told me about a town to visit, a restaurant to try, a new landscape to view. If it’s in my path, I’ll take a chance and ride through, eat and be a tourist again. New asphalt, new towns, new people all combine to make for an interesting sojourn into unknown territory.

But then the urge to move on will strike anew, and I’ll head off for a distant horizon, for a new day, for a brighter sunshine or a bluer sky.

One of the hardest parts of the vagabond life is knowing that I may never return, that I may never see new friends and acquaintances again.

The hardest part is never saying goodbye.

Personal

Paying dues

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For most of us, our lives are wrapped up in family and friends to one degree or another. The closest friends we made were in our early school years, having shared the challenges of graduating to another year of public or high school, dating, getting a driver’s licence. If lucky, we kept some of those childhood friends into adulthood, for who else could possibly bring us down to our true size by re-telling an old, embarrassing story? If unlucky, we lost some of our closest friends, and thus a central part of our lives, for without good friends the best of times mean nothing.

We all grew up in a small, one-industry town. Although the prospects for local employment were good, most of my crowd wanted out. I led the way, into a high-risk occupation. Some of the others followed, and thus we started our various adventures.

I spent years traveling around North America and Africa, paid to do so by the company I worked for. For most of that time I lived out of suitcases in hotels and motels, and out of a duffel bag in tents from the arctic to the mountains, from the bush to the desert. It was a nomadic life, perfect for a young man who wanted to experience the world and its offerings.

There were women in every port, but none that could keep me interested for more than a while. Short-timers, I called them. Some were married, some weren’t. Some had family, some didn’t. On occasion I left a trail of emotional destruction in my wake – never intentional, but often disastrous for those left behind. Don’t get me wrong though – I did have some fabulous relationships with some wonderful women, although none lasted the test of absence or time.

As for my friends, well, they started killing themselves. Or rather, getting killed. Aircraft accidents, car crashes and motorcycle wrecks all took their toll. Even some of the friends I had made in adulthood were being decimated by the occupational hazards of our chosen work. When that started happening, I thought it time to move on to other, less hazardous, things.

Which, eventually, I did.

I had certainly led a charmed life until then. And there was a nagging feeling that I owed something for my good fortune. If only the good died young, then to be sure I was bound for hell, I thought.

I still have that feeling.

* * *

We never know when we will be called on to perform a small kindness or a hero’s mission — or something in between. The reward for doing so – if there can be a reward – is in knowing that perhaps dues were paid for past transgressions in life, and sometimes, love. A small comfort for those of us with many dues to pay.

Helpless

Night rider

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I am southbound.

Sweetgrass. Great Falls. Helena. Through Montana I pass over the Continental Divide twice, north and then south of Butte.

Stops for gas are fast and furious, for when I am fresh is when I must make good time. I like knowing that on this run all the pumps I find will accept plastic. I save time by not having to walk into the building. Gas and go in five minutes, max.

Into Idaho. I have spent time in Idaho. Parts of it remind me of where I grew up, although there are no mountains back east. Idaho Falls, Pocatello, Twin Falls — all of them are a blur to me this time.

Experience tells me to take breaks when I need them at rest areas during daylight hours. I get two respites from the wind and the weather — the first when I gas, the second at the rest stop.

South on US93 now, to the border with Nevada. A few miles south there is a rest stop on the west side of the highway. It fronts on Salmon Creek, a tributary of the Snake River. Running water, green grass and trees and high rock walls on both banks make it a welcome break. I rest here for a short time, listening to the fast water. Then, realizing that I have somewhere to be, I mount up and get back out on the highway.

Years of long distance riding have taught me to eat light to avoid becoming drowsy and complacent. Drinking plenty of water is important to avoid dehydration — even more important in the desert that I know will be coming up soon enough.

On through Wells in Nevada. Burning daylight and miles, I make good time in the cool mountain air.

Not too long ago, while on a similar ride, I fell asleep in the saddle. When I woke up, I found myself on the wrong side of the yellow line. Two times. Experience is a good teacher. Living to tell about it is an added bonus.

My decker doesn’t skip a beat, although I am running fast to be clear of the mountains and the deer before late afternoon and early evening, when the deer like to come out onto the road. If I clip one, this trip will come to a sudden end. I have ridden for too many miles to be fooled into thinking that it can’t happen to me.

Once the night comes I will avoid rest areas entirely and leave the bike running by the side of the road. There is no need to waste time securing my ride when I’m only a foot away.

I pass Ely and head southwest, and the downhill run begins. I take the 318 cutoff to save time and many miles, although I still won’t get past the night without riding through it. Slowly the headlight cuts a swath through the early night. To me it always seems as though dusk is harder to light up than the blackness of dark.

Each gas station takes on an eerie pall bathed in the white or yellow light of the tall lamps — an oasis in the night. Sometimes there’s a cluster of them, sometimes not.

As it gets later there are more trucks than cars on the road. Sensible people have pulled off for the night. Only the insensible remain: long distance truckers, people on the move cross-country, locals coming back from the bars.

And me.

The city that never sleeps glimmers in the distance. The last time I rode through Vegas, it was hotter than blazes. Not this time though. I pass by in the dark, and am thankful for that.

There are twelve hundred miles behind me.

This night, my path is traced by a shadow chasing me in the midnight wind. It is only a few days shy of a full moon, and the dark desert night is muted by its silver light. As with thoughts of you, it too is my company on this night ride.

Three hours to go.

Soon I will see you one more time.