Rides, ramblings and rants on a motorcycle.
- We are scientists, too!
5.10.2008,8:43 PM
Fear and Loathing on Sticks
On the way home from work on the train the other day I closed my eyes and the music piped into my ears by thin wires and earbuds conveyed me on two wheels again. Wind whistled past my sunglasses into my helmet to caress my face. I rushed through islands of odors of green grass, cool streams, flowering trees, horses and cattle, and freshly mowed hay. Like a swan gliding down to a lake of still water, I rode the gray ribbon of road with blurred colors and shapes sweeping past me. The motion, balance, and synchronization of my body with two wheels rolling underneath me.
A smile adorned my tired face, my body almost imperceptibly moving in sway to the leans in and out along the sweeping road. I wondered if this is the same movement that stifles the cry and lulls a baby to sleep. Of certainty it rocks the spirit inside me.
And I miss it. The ride, the movement, the stimulation of the changing scenery, sounds and odors. It's the music that feeds my spirit.
Several times over the last five weeks have found myself loathing these sticks and being bound to motionless inactivity. I haven't read anything relating to motorcycles or traveling; I want to be out there on my own. Doing what I love most.
Fallling down steps on two occasions leave me a bit fearful of stairs. I want nothing to impede or interfere with healing this ankle. Because I must ride again.
Soon.
Soon.
(The title is a quiet tribute to Hunter Thompson, the original gonzo-journalist, who also loved motorcycles. Hunter took his own life, February 2005, at the age of 67 with a broken leg and a looming hip replacement. A hell of a way to express dispair, but I respect his right and decision on his time to go. I re-read his essay "Song of the Sausage Creature" today and smiled the entire read through.)
A smile adorned my tired face, my body almost imperceptibly moving in sway to the leans in and out along the sweeping road. I wondered if this is the same movement that stifles the cry and lulls a baby to sleep. Of certainty it rocks the spirit inside me.
And I miss it. The ride, the movement, the stimulation of the changing scenery, sounds and odors. It's the music that feeds my spirit.
Several times over the last five weeks have found myself loathing these sticks and being bound to motionless inactivity. I haven't read anything relating to motorcycles or traveling; I want to be out there on my own. Doing what I love most.
Fallling down steps on two occasions leave me a bit fearful of stairs. I want nothing to impede or interfere with healing this ankle. Because I must ride again.
Soon.
Soon.
(The title is a quiet tribute to Hunter Thompson, the original gonzo-journalist, who also loved motorcycles. Hunter took his own life, February 2005, at the age of 67 with a broken leg and a looming hip replacement. A hell of a way to express dispair, but I respect his right and decision on his time to go. I re-read his essay "Song of the Sausage Creature" today and smiled the entire read through.)
Labels: musings
