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.

Encounters

Truck stop

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April 2000

There’s a restaurant/truck stop in the vast nothingness that is Saskatchewan that has become a regular haunt of mine. Well, regular in the sense that I always stop there when passing through. Why? Because of the butterfly sausages, hash browns and eggs over, of course. Day or night, rain or shine, they’re always the same. There’s something to be said for such consistency in this day and age, don’t you think? Particularly at a roadhouse where the cooks are moving through faster than the trucks.

I’ve not been through here in the last eighteen months or so, but there is one other constant, besides the food, and that is Mel, the waitress. The first time I showed up and sat down, Mel came over to ask the usual questions: where are you headed? where are you from? how long have you been on the road? are you coming back this way?

Over the years I have become a regular, and we have entered into an easy banter about nutty cage drivers, speed traps, truckers (of which there are many that stop here) and motorcycles. She wants to own one some day. Not a Harley of course — too expensive. Rather, something foreign and more affordable.

This time, however, I am in my car. Mel hasn’t recognized me, perhaps because of the length of time since my last stop, but more probably because I’ve arrived by car, and I am sans beard. This has allowed me a great opportunity to pay more attention to the eat-in crowd.

The foursome at the table in front of me consist of two women with their backs to me, and two men facing, one older, the younger on the outside of the booth. The men wear baseball caps with truck logos on them. The younger one wears cowboy boots. Okay, he wears at least one cowboy boot, since I can only see the right foot from where I am sitting. The boot is well-worn and muddy, and has a leather boot strap for half of a set of spurs.

Talk of favorite country and western singers and songs floats across the table. Johnny Cash is mentioned. The titles of trucker movies prevail, although I don’t recognize any of them.

My meal arrives, transported by Mel. She hurries off to wait tables. I must have arrived just before the truck-stop late-dinner rush. I eat in a silence broken by random bits of conversation that echo around the diner.

It is dark and very late, and I am in a hurry to get back on the road. I walk past the four people at the table in front of me, pay my bill and walk out to my car.

I forgot to look for that other spur.

Personal

Decisions, decisions

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March 2000

I’ve been living in a city of 750,000. It’s a nice place in the summer — lots of trees and parks and green space. But it’s miserable in the winter, with long, cold nights and wind and snow. I’ve had enough of that. Winter warmth has beckoned to me more often than not, and I’ve traveled from Africa to the southern U.S. and Mexico to escape the cold.

I have found a new place to live. It’s out west, in southern Alberta. In a small town. The summers will be hot, and the winters will be a lot milder than what I have become accustomed to experiencing. It is also a much shorter ride to the winter warmth of southern California and the Baja.

This new place is furnished. And yes, I know. I have accumulated a lot of things. Upstairs and downstairs is full of treasure – at least it seems like treasure. It is said one man’s treasure is another’s trash, and I’m afraid that might be very true in my case. I have boxes left unpacked from my last move, ten years ago or more. These will be opened and inspected and the contents probably given away. I have papers and books, magazines and photographs, posters, artwork – all the things one collects over the years.

And let’s not forget the furniture. Or the stereo, the television, the laserdisc and dvd players and the movie collection to go with them.

What to keep, what to discard? What to put in storage? Yes, storage. To be sure, not all I own will be sold, destroyed, given to charity.

So many mementos of past times, past lives, past loves. Of course, I will always have those memories.

But good grief! What will I do with the rest of it?

Drifting and dreaming, Personal

Call of the road

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February 2000

I can hear the open road calling my name. I can feel the wind in my face every day. Already I can see the people I’ll be meeting, taste the food I’ll be eating. And in my mind the road just keeps on calling, one long mile at a time.

It’s been a long haul up to now, but it’s finally over. It’s time to lighten the load, and move on. I own too many ‘things’. I’m fed up with a job that presents no real challenges. My thinking has become stale and I’ve become jaded. I’ve been in one place for the longest time ever in my life, and I’m not used to that.

Consequently, I’m selling most of what I own, and going on the road, permanently. First stop: anywhere but here. It won’t happen right away, of course. I must rid myself of the things that have been collected over these past years, as well as one of the containers that holds it all. Some will go into storage, to be sure. After all, treasures collected over a lifetime cannot be dismissed just for the dollar.

Once my affairs are in order, I’m gone! I have no plan, other than to get the rubber on the road and to live life as I have not done so these many years.

As I wind my way up and down the highways and byways of North America I know that I’ll be having many new adventures. There will be people to meet, places to see and women to love. There’ll be towns I want to stay in, and towns I want to leave. There’ll be good food, bad food, and waitresses to flirt with.

I can’t wait!

To all the women I have known in my present incarnation: thanks for the wonderful memories. I’ll not forget any of you.

To all my cyber acquaintances, this is so long. Good bye. It’s been great to know you.

Riding farther, seeing more