It never ceases to amaze me how a little motorcycle ride can be so therapeutic.
I was supposed to visit with a friend this eve, but when I stopped to fill up my bike’s gas tank, I realized I didn’t want to stop. I sent off a text message, and was on my way.
The moon is almost full. Did you see it? It’s beautiful tonight. I rode into the moon-rise and wish I could have ridden right onto the moon. I think I need a large ramp for that feat. Instead, it seemed like I was chasing the moon into the night. I love that feeling. Serene, with only the moon and thoughts for company.
I rode east with the intention of traveling to a little twisty road for an evening run. I ended up missing my exit off the highway and discovered that when you take the 202 loop to where it bends back west a bit, it smells like farm. Ah, smells of home. Phew! Smells of home. Whoa.
After I realized I missed my exit, I turned around on possibly the loneliest exit ramp I’ve ever been on. There were no street lights, the exit ramp rode down with a dead-end road to the right, a road to nowhere to the left, and the u-turn to the on-ramp back north-east. Zip! That’s my direction.
At that point, I was hungry! I made my way to get some shrimp spring rolls only to find the restaurant closing the doors. The owner offered me a beer, which I declined, and went to get back on my bike. Bowie’s “Rebel, Rebel” wafted through the almost closed doors and took me back to high school days.
There was a cemetery I used to go to for quiet time. Who is going to bother you at a cemetery, after all? Two friends were buried there. One was the older brother of a close friend of mine who had taken his own life. The other was a girl who had been in a drunken car accident. At sixteen years old, I didn’t quite know what it all meant. I still don’t, but I have a firmer grasp on my mortality than I did back then. Just north of the gravestones ran an old railroad track. A few abandoned rail cars grew mossy over the years and provided an excellent space for dissatisfied teens to hang out. A close friend and I lugged an old recliner chair into a car we had decided to claim, and she came back one day with a can of spray paint. She painted in bright red on the inside wall, so you could see it as you walked up to the train car, “Rebel, Rebel I love you so!” and “Fuck socioty!” I pointed out to her that she had misspelled “society.” We stood there for a few minutes contemplating this mistake. I decided that it was appropriate for the sentiment. She pulled out a joint.
Since the restaurant was closed, and I was still hungry, I put my helmet back on and rode home with the strains of “Rebel, Rebel” singing in my head. I rode a little over 100 miles tonight, just to clear my head. I write a lot about Why We Ride and rarely include the unique effects it can have on ones psyche.
Between the pull of the crazy moon – it’s almost full after all – and the long ride, I’m ready to sleep soundly.