I am coming home.
yesterday to visit family in Pennsylvania. It’s normally an ideal trip
for a motorcycle. The roads there lead through god’s country. If you
ride a motorcycle, you live for these roads and this weather.
two laners, twisty and well maintained. They follow the contour of the
rolling hills of North Eastern PA. Serpentine.
land, forests, woods, small towns, little cities, many dying as they
have for years and will continue to do so. Hill and Dale.
uplifting and glorious, I always come back feeling refreshed. I
fantasize about living here in nature’s glory. Then winter sets in and I
get back to reality. I hate shoveling snow, its cold.
this trip. In the state of “fight or flight” this was flight. I raced up
the roads at speeds that garner tickets and huge fines. I wasn’t the
only one. I barely kept up with my teammates. I was keenly focused on
the flight; the sense of needed exhaustion that running from pain gives.
paused only once, only once did I loose that focus. Going over the
George Washington Bridge, I turned my head to the left, looking for
that I wasn’t focused on my driving or the hazards of the ride. No, I
was more finely focused then my other rides. My flight demanded it. The
pain drove it.
there I felt the soreness in the throat from running too long. My legs
ached, and I was cold. The sun was low, and we were in the country now.
I pulled over to add layers.
focus. I had run. Hard. Long. Like a long scream. I was exhausted.
the relief that programmed response promised.
couldn’t get my flow back. My riding was bad, I missed my exit, took the
next, all roads lead to family. I saw nothing, felt nothing. The layers
were stiff, confining, and I didn’t have the energy to break free and
ride well. To be well.
stopped at a country store and wandered the almost bare aisles for food.
I hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. Again. Bare aisles were
explained by the “this family business for sale” flyer taped to the
wall. Victims too. Maybe now too late to sell.
mini-ATM beeped every 10 seconds, incessantly, unhappily. It had lost
connection, to its mother. At ground zero.
here, this poor country cousin automaton cried for its loss.
my turkey on rye and drank my chocolate milk (safety food) on the bench
outside. The NY Times had the least sensationalist headlines and I went
back and purchased it after smearing mustard over half the front page.
last 30 miles were unimportant. I tried to focus and stay aware. I
didn’t succeed in being a good uncle, nephew, brother or brother-in-law.
Just before dinner, I went upstairs to vegetate, hoping that 90 cable
channels would offer something other then ground zero. Motorcycle
racing. I was asleep in minutes.
the best sleep the whole week. No aircraft, no sirens, no smoke. Just
awakened at 10:30 so I could go to my own bed. I wanted to write. So I
ate. I watched TV, something was on. I promised myself every half hour
and I gave in to sloth and went to bed.
to sirens and fear. Will it never end? I pushed the noise back and
went to sleep. Later I realized it was the hot water heat expanding the
driving back home, slower and unsatisfied.
over the bridge.
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