Now That We're Home.

We are back home. H__went all the way and splurged on business-class seats back to JFK where we were picked up and driven home in style, both of us sleeping all the way until the driver woke us up for directions five minutes away from our house. Life, in its everyday vacuum, has begun. And speaking of vacuums, it takes a lot to leave California for many reasons, all of which Child#2 has discovered and will, henceforth, only darken our door infrequently and for short periods back "out East."

I am now speaking directly to you Child #2. (And anyone else who lives in their version of California physically or mentally). The realization of your enviable geographic situation is in no way to be taken as approval of your decision to deprive us all back here of your company. I understand that you go to work at a playground where they pay you amounts of money that would far exceed your allowance were you to live at home in your room and hang out in the basement playing video games. I understand that you get paid to play video games upstairs in your office, out in the open with an ever ready band of eager colleagues if you want. Yes, I know that you may wear your pajamas to work if it strikes you as that kind of day, or your ball gown if it strikes you as another kind of day. I know that if you want you can get on those funny little colourful bicycles for a quick whiz over to the jungle gymn, or the endless pool, or the sandbox, or the climbing wall for a break. On company time. On company property. On property provided by the company so that you and their army of hundreds all under the age of twenty seven, and exactly 3 old people of forty-two, might have room to let your creative ideas simmer. I know that these measures are all imperative for optimum productivity at the office. I don't condone your absence but I sure as hell understand it.

Notice, all, that I implied the existence of a California State of Mind which, in my experience, leaves East Coasters grumpy and irritable. Or maybe it is plain fatigue. Every morning at the hotel in Palo Alto, for an entire week, before we rolled out of bed with no other agenda but a leisurely breakfast, H__and I played a guessing game, fully aware of the answer, before throwing open the curtains. Would it be? Would it not? The answer was unchanging. Yes! Another effing day in Paradise. Sunshine would flood the windows, birds would tweet, Koi would swim in the water garden below us and ideal temperatures would await. Yes, we who endured last winter exiting and entering the front door through a tunnel of snow whose walls were higher than either of us, were scathing of the California perfection.

The weeks on the road seem to have unleashed our inner "bring it on", beast. Or mine at least. H__ isn't saying.

Today, I drove a car for the first time since I first sat on my motorcycle three weeks ago. It was comfortable, air conditioned, NPR- tuned. I was physically safer than at any time during the trip and completely shut off from the world. I know, I could have opened a window, turned off my GPS system and my laser detector ( I use it just to remind me not to exceed the speed limit of course) but it is so easy to fall back into old, predictable, patterns. I realize that my "bring it on beast" is chafing at the bit. I must be mindful at all times to give it room to roam.

I realize now that H__and I were disdainful of the perfect days in "effing Paradise" because on some level we were gearing ourselves up for the daily battle against excessive familiarity. We tend to do things the way we do because that's what we've been taught, or that's what we've always done, or what has served us in the past.

We all live life in a vacuum for the most part. Even those of us who take time out to be fully in our consciousness. I am striving for a state of being that allows my mind to hang on to the notion that life is more like a motorcycle than an SUV. It is to be allowed full rein. A Motorcycle State of Mind is one I want to hang out in more often than not. I want to look around, paying attention to the elements, the changing conditions, the unpredictability of life, flirting with a little danger from time to time and experiencing the pure joy of freedom that is mine for the taking.

A Final Send Off

So, we got in the last twelve miles of California riding from the hotel to the shipping depot. Our bikes are going home before us and will be available for pickup in CT next week. It will be hard to sit without feeling the impulse to straddle something. A certain spouse will be disappointed.

My Rapture

I have gone to motorcyclists' heaven and left the rest of you non-riders behind. Check later for re-entry.

And yes folks, this is not a mythical product. It is as effective on all counts as it claims to be, and on some that it does not.

Thank you AMB for easing all kinds of friction.

So Now What?

We are now in Palo Alto, CA. We have travelled 3,793 miles over fourteen days of mostly back road to reach our final destination. The reward at the end point is our son whom we had promised a visit. Yesterday as we set off from our perch in Morro Bay, (the first stopover that really felt like we were in California despite our having been in the state since Friday evening), I felt no joy in the anticipation of achieving"our goal." H__was excited by the idea of this final stretch, as much for the ride up the California coast on Rte 1 as by the idea that we would be achieving our objective. I mounted the bike with a semi-heavy heart since I, too was looking forward to the coast but not to the finality of our last day on the road.

The going had been tough through the Mojave desert with punishing temperatures on our trek from Barstow to Morro Bay, but in the second half of the ride we began to truly appreciate the beauty of our surroundings and some of the most enjoyable riding of the trip, and yes, that includes our ride through the Rocky Mountains. H__ says that those roads proves that God is a motorcyclist and I tend to agree with him. I think the part of God that designed the straight desert roads is a Harley rider but I guess there has to be a little bit of something for everyone. Punishment and indulgence in one tidy package... I think that H__was also anticipating a time when we would be staying put long enough in one place so that we could finally get out of our very faithful riding gear. Well, me actually. Riding gear, although essential to one's safety and well-being does not lend itself to laundering on the road. Slipping into the same gear for fourteen successive days, many of them well beyond the hundred degree mark, leaves one a little, shall we say, freshness challenged.

On our ride through Bryce Canyon a couple of days earlier, H__ had gone into a general store in hopes of procuring himself a bottle of concentrated Febreze. Lest you are thinking that his concern was for my delicate sensibilities since we were sharing a room on a nightly basis, let me be quite clear, but as delicate as possible....the Febreze attack was intended for my riding apparel. Such a gentleman, and he even offered to spray them for me, sweet smelling rose that God made him...
Route 1 was as wonderful as we had remembered from a drive taken several years before. The breathtaking vista did not disappoint and what is more is that we were beside the Pacific Ocean with its wonderful salty smell that always tells me that I've come home, no matter where I have found that sea. We twisted and wound and switched back. We stopped to take photographs, both of us eager to take a little of this back with us. I revelled in the smell of sea-spray intermingled later with pine and eucalyptus as we drew nearer to our destination. I sensed how lost I would feel and how much I would grieve when I woke the next morning and not be subject to the sensual surprises and, more often than not, delights that have come to be so much a part of my everyday experience.

Being on my motorcycle reminds me of who I am. It is a meditation, a runway, a church. It is the way in which I remind myself that I can be as limitless as I allow myself to be. When I ride my feet are six inches off the ground, my eyes are on the road and my spirit is soaring with the stars somewhere on the other side of clouds. The challenge will be in holding onto this when we are back home and this particular adventure is over.

I will continue to share my thoughts and discoveries if you will come back and read them. This particular adventure is closing but it is the opening for another.

Oh Say Can You see....

This is the beginning of the end of this adventure. We have arrived in Barstow, CA after 330 miles of interstate riding from Cedar City, Utah in temperatures varying from 115F according to my thermometer, to a low of 99F. This kind of a day is pretty joyless even for those determined to find the beauty in everything. I had almost convinced myself that I could be one of those people today but the best that can be said of our trek through the Nevada desert is that it is over and we are here in one piece. Two, actually, if you count H___. We have come close to the 3,400 mile mark and spent nearly two weeks on the road and the thing that has impressed itself most on me, other than the sheer vastness of this land, is the insanity of Americans.I have seen examples of this over and over again. Let's face it folks. Las Vegas was an insane idea that should never have worked in the first place.It thrives, lush in its hectic hedonism despite the arid, hostile environment that spawned it. People not only live there, they come to visit in droves. They arrive from everywhere in their cars travelling along I 15, especially on a Friday afternoon of a long 4th of July weekend cutting off unsuspecting and overly heated motorcyclists. They spend unbelieveable millions of dollars on 'entertainment', usually in the form of gambling. Most actually believe that they will come away winners. Are you following me on this one? This kind of illogical thinking is a form of...That's right, you say it with me.Two days ago as we drove through the spectacularly red Utah desert, I was dumbstruck by my first sighting of an expanse of green. Acres of it. A virtual oasis. Lawn, in actual fact. In the middle of the desert. Yes, the great Colorado River was the source of irrigation for these acres of tended grass, but that's a whole lot of watering in my opinion. This was an oft repeated theme and I urged H__ to pull over on to the shoulder once so that I could get photographic evidence. Luckily for me, one of these lawn-rich estates turned out to be Sorrel Canyon Ranch, one of the world's leading small hotels and, happily for us, situated on the banks of the Colorado River. Even luckier was the fact that their restaurant was serving lunch and we had been on the lookout for some sort of an establishment that in addition to wonderful scenery, provided wonderful air-conditioning. We'll be back to visit despite the extensive irrigation.

This idea of a national insanity (now don't get riled up at the notion, keep reading) first presented itself to me somewhere in the middle of Iowa when the enormity of the terrain we were set to traverse dawned on me. At least a couple thousand miles loomed ahead of us and we were still in the same country. Hell, we drove through states that took us two days to escape. Cross. I mean cross. Who but Americans could think that they could unite these vast, diverse and often ideologically oppositional regions and make them work together as one country? Isn't that thinking a little kind of? ...you know. But yet, here we are. With our own flag.

Two days ago, H__was fretting. We had booked a hotel room for the night and the location seemed so far away given the difficult time we were having, he was worrying actively about whether or not we would get there. It did not occur to me for one moment to be worried about the possibility of our not making it. "We've made it this far, haven't we?" I asked. And he agreed that indeed we had.

Some might think me insane for conceiving of this trip. Some might think that we were insane to think that we could make it at all, far less just the two of us, doing mostly back roads from one coast of the country to the other, seeing that neither of us was handy with mechanics and the furthest we had been was to Lake Placid from our home on the shoreline-- and that with a bunch of guys. I guess living here for fifteen years has had some kind of an effect on me. To those who dare to ask the question, I say "why no, I'm not insane, I'm thinking like an American."

Oh say can you see...

On the Road.

We're sorry. We are unavailable to take your call at this time. We are about to get on the road for a full day of interstate riding. This is my least favourite type of riding and the temperature is expected to be a sultry 114F degrees as we go through the desert. My camel back is filled, my cooling vest has been soaked to its limit. Meanwhile, here's a glimpse of yesterday's perfect ride through Bryce Canyon, one of America's truly great parks. Can you say hoodoos?

More to come later. Hang in there with me folks.