Encounters

To all the hometown girls

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I wanted to go. I really did. It had been exactly half of my lifetime, and I hadn’t seen any of them for at least that long. So I rode past the cemetery where friends rest, past the factory where I worked for one restless summer, and along the riverbank and into the past.

The warm-up parties were in full swing in the hotel in which I’d registered. I could hear them all as I checked in and found my room: women and men, voices too loud, trying to have too much fun.

She had seen too much sun. Wrinkled. Sun-damaged skin. Still pretty. But immensely aged. I used to chase after her when I was drunk. That was back in my drinking days, of course, when I lived here. Now she was just – different. A lifetime different.

And if I hadn’t been introduced to her, I’d not have known who she was.

I’m sure she wouldn’t have known me either.

During Friday night’s warm-up for out-of-towners I watched a friend greet a former girlfriend – both married to others now: the way each looked at the other for far too long; the hug that lasted too long. And all this in front of his wife. Had I not been temporarily dumbfounded I’d surely have made a feeble joke, tried to draw the wife away from the embarrassment of the moment. But I couldn’t.

So much for the evening’s warm-up for out-of-towners.

About a thousand were scheduled to attend Saturday’s event. I walked into that morass of humanity, looked around for a couple of minutes, and then turned around and walked out and away from the past. I never looked back.

So, here’s to all the hometown girls, to all of you who broke my heart, to some of you who didn’t, to the ones whose hearts I broke:

You’re in my memories, to remain forever young.

I’m sorry that I couldn’t bring myself to see you all, but I know you’re just as beautiful now as you were back then.

And I adore you all to this very day.

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.

Helpless

A lonely road

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I am leaving you today.

Yesterday I told you that I would be gone early in the morning, but I cannot. How could I not see you one last time?

Your arms are outstretched for a hug, but I cannot, for it would be too hard. I wonder if you understand why.

I have knelt by your bed and held your hand and told you stories of time spent in the deserts of Africa. I was your age then, but unlike you, footloose and irresponsible. Some would say I have not changed.

I relived for you each night’s starry southern cross, the white sand of the ocean shore going on for miles and miles against the background of blue seascape, how the sharks were drawn to the sound of the helicopter’s beating blades.

I have read to you to while away the endless hours when you were awake.

I watched as you closed your eyes, and listened.

I watched as you closed your eyes, and slept.

I wonder if you will remember.

I know I will.

*  *   *   *

It is not a long ride home, as rides go, but it has been lonely. I am comforted by the knowledge that Teresa’s daughter, family and friends remain behind to help her through the nights and days to come.

Helpless

Time

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May 10 – May 17, 2000

Time is measured in seconds. Minutes. Hours. Days.

Time is the blink of an eye.

Time is what it takes for the pain to go away after an injection.

Time is what is spent zoning in and out of consciousness.

Time is the split second of faint recognition, and the weak smile that follows.

A hand held.

Throat soothed with water.

Parched lips balmed.

Hair combed and then brushed.

Teeth cleaned.

Time heals.

I watch her get better, minute by agonizing minute, hour by hour, day by endless day. It is not easy for me to see such pain. I think to myself that I would trade places if I could, but in my heart I know that is a lie, for I could never suffer such pain.

And through it all, she smiles. Not for long. Not easily. But she smiles.

My heart melts.

Time changes some things forever.

Encounters, Helpless

Riding partner

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I met her in a motorcycle shop in the high desert, where she worked behind the parts counter. I noticed her because she wore overalls. Yes, I know. There’s nothing special about overalls. So sue me.

We got to talking while she was cleaning up the wall display at the back of the shop. I was bored, and since she could carry on a conversation, she was interesting. Once the ice was broken I discovered that she had a ready smile, and blue eyes that sparkled when she smiled.

She rode a brand-new pearl-white Sporty with a solo seat that had barely a thousand miles on it. I teased her about that, and learned that she had no one to ride with as often as she’d like. She was new to the area, and didn’t have many friends that rode.

No problem.

On the 4th we took a ride out the 10 to Beaumont, then north through Cherry Valley. She was amazed at the change as we rode up the mountain. It was so different from the desert where she had moved to only months before. There was plenty of green grass, pine trees, cedars — all under a clear blue mountain sky.

We stopped often, and at Big Bear we had lunch at a small family-run restaurant. I teased her into letting me take her picture with the lake surrounded by pine trees and the snow-capped mountain peaks in the background.

On the way back she couldn’t stop talking about how beautiful the ride had been, so of course I had to ask her if she’d like to go on another. The answer was yes. Monday at noon we would meet up and go.

On the weekend, I rode in to Marina del Rey. Late Sunday, on my return, I learned that Teresa had been hit by a car turning left in front of her while she rode to work that morning.

Riding farther, seeing more