On The Road

On a spring morning in 1974 I bungeed a sleeping bag over the rear fender of my R60/2 and packed my saddle bags. A toothbrush, an extra pair of jeans, two hits of acid, and enough hand tools to meet almost any mechanical need. I was bound for Alaska, to work on the pipeline. 

It was the impulse of Ishmael for water, of Dean Moriarity for asphalt. The communion of the highway: this is my engine, this is my oil. The harmony of twin unbaffled exhaust pipes. The living, galloping creature between my legs. The meditative anonymity of the interstate.

No, that’s all a lie. I was lonely.

The details of the journey are tangled with other cross country ramblings.  A few crystalize through the fog of the decades. The turbulence from a car hauling trailer that knocked me halfway across my lane. A brief stop on Bourbon Street, where the offering of sensual pleasures promptly delivered me back to the saddle. Deep into that deep black night, the blacktop string line from Lafayette to Lake Charles. Nothing distinguishable except the white line along the shoulder, and the illusion of continuously descending for 60 miles. Manic rush hour traffic between Dallas and Ft Worth. Most of all, the shimmering of Santa Fe, coming into view, as night fell while rounding the toe of the Sangre de Cristos. Where I stopped for a visit, and stayed 6 years.