'84 Honda Shadow, black, dirty, a little rusty. Just this morning my new idle screw arrived. My friend, and the man who owned my bike before me, wrapped wire around the screw and secured it to the bike, just in case it works it's way out again. That new idle screw put me back fifty bucks. Otherwise, simply, the perfect bike for me.
Our trip north.
I've been riding three hours. Since I have no reserve tank and no meter I stopped often; though not often enough. I ran out of fuel just as I was taking my exit into Seattle. No problem. A man called Chris stopped within two minutes of me coasting onto the shoulder. I fully enjoy the view of the bay and the ride on the back of Chris's bike. He rides a nice fat cruiser. He's a fun person to talk to, impossible while we ride. He pulls out his earplugs while I pump gas into a small gas can I've had to acquire for the occasion. We chat about bike maintenance and he wants to know what I plan to do in Seattle. I notice that I try to sound more confident about my plans than I actually feel, the only plan so far is to arrive, and go from there. Chris insists on following me to the Green Tortoise, just in case I have any other issues. There aren't, any issues that is. I throw a grateful wave his direction as he passes. So far so good.
It seems logical to find parking and check in, then desirable to change clothes and get a drink. It takes some time, but eventually I change from jeans into a little blue dress with two large purple buttons on the bodice, it is incredibly comfortable and I wear it without a bra. Leaving my riding boots, I fill my bag with journals, tobacco, and a pen. I step onto the street and follow the music. It is interesting, some rock and blues, appreciating it, though I like to keep walking. I listen from the street and am aware of it's fading as I let one foot fall ahead of the other, in pursuit. I see water and sky, taste and smell fish and salt. Always drawn to the water. I remember that I have been here before, with my sisters and parents. I recall being overwhelmed and exhausted, complaining and horrified that we have purchased a lobster and are going to boil it. It occurs to me to call my parents right away and apologize for not appreciating this place with them. I'll do that soon.
I feel death, the mortal event. Dying alone demands my attention, a key concern. I want to face it, tell my concern a joke, share a drink, make peace. Instead, or in metaphor, I work on my relationship to this bike. The last time she broke down I ended up changing the spark plugs in the middle of the night on 136th, my back to the shadowy entrance of Powell Butte off the Center and Holgate intersection. I worked under street light. I remember consciously breathing through rising fears that I was being watched, that I was vulnerable, that I had made a risky choice; coming out to get this bike running in the dark. She did eventually come around, taking us both safely home, life; still life. Today, my style, gunning this bike from one city to another. No reason. To move too fast, feel too furious, and be with being alone, while avoiding dying in pursuit of tempting fate and running out of time. Refuse fading into walls, shrinking through the fibers of the carpets, holding myself in my bed, alone and paralyzed by the too much comfort, of my own space and quiet.
The drifter, rambler heart is getting stronger and demanding respect, pushing along, reminding me to follow my nose, which is how I am here.
"I am going to Seattle... for no reason."
"Good, enjoy the ride!"
It's been a long day, good evening, surprising interactions. In the end I manage to slide quietly through my room at the Green Tortoise, dorm is full and everyone is sleeping. It is just after midnight. My legs are jelly, my body weak; there are so many hills. I climb a ladder to my bunk, in the dark. Slipping off my boots and socks, I push my belongings to the foot of the bed and against the wall, unbutton my dress and slide it over my head. After folding my blue linen garment over my airline stewardess bag filled with journals, I fall into my mattress. My head sinks easily into the pillow beneath me. I am restless. I feel why I am here. I'm in the right place. I have feeling why I am here, logic fails me. Why I came, to be here; reasonably, I don't know.
