Next Two Chapters, Five and Six, of My Motorcycle Novel- Hope Bats Last; Light the Fire, Get a Cup a Tae, Bring the Wee Dog in, an Relax.

Chapter Five

Day 2 – Somewhere in South Carolina

 

We are significant, precious, and needed, not just for the choices we make and the actions we take, but for our very presence. The scriptures of every major religion attest to it: the love in which we exist loves us for our very being. These words from Isaiah are one example: “I have called you by name and you are mine. You are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you.”

Gerald May

 

I answered the phone early the next morning.

“Dad, how’s the trip going so far?” Colin asked.

“Fine son. No problems. How are you?”

“Good, good, good. Where are you?”

I honestly couldn’t remember. I looked out the window and could make out part of a number in the flashing neon motel sign. There was a restaurant across the street with a sombrero and a cactus painted on the window. “I’m at some motel with a number in its name and there’s a Mexican place across the street.”

“Well, that narrows it down quite a bit.” He laughed.

“How are Siobhan and Stephen?” I asked.

“Good. Siobhan is on Skype with her mother back in Ireland. Stephen’s online playing some internet game with his buddies.”

“Well, I’m doing fine here son. Things okay with you?”

“Yep, yep yep.”

“Well look son. I want to hit the road so I’ll give you a call later.”

“That’s fine dad. Just wanted to make sure you were okay. I heard there were two shootings over in South Carolina yesterday.”

“I heard that too.”

“Well, you be careful.”

“I will son. I love you.”

“I love you too dad.”

 

Last night I drank five Coronas at the Mexican restaurant hoping in vain that each one might help dull the memory of yesterday’s horror. It didn’t work. Alcohol and age seem only to take away the good memories. Why can’t we choose which memories we lose?

Before taking off this morning I did some mindfulness exercises to get my mind back into the present, to let go of what had happened yesterday as well as some painful memories from the past that had been stirred up. Violence begets memories of violence. To ride safely your mind has to be in the here and now. You have to let go of thoughts about the past and worries about the future. You can’t ride with a bunch of ruminations like mental billboards distracting you from the road. Each day is a gift in the cosmic raffle of things and you have to be present to win.

Heading west I cut back into Georgia and rode the old blue highways. On the ancient Rand McNally atlases, the back roads were drawn in blue. These were the tiny roads, the now almost forgotten roads that once stitched the USA together in the early motoring years. Now it’s all interstates. Generally, roads that have even numbers go east and west; odd numbers usually signify a north and south route. So as long as I’m on an even-numbered road and following the sun I’m heading west. That’s all I need to know for now.

I rode for about an hour, came into a small town and stopped for breakfast at a place called the FWW Cafe. It was about half filled. I nodded to folks as I entered, sat at the counter, ordered up some coffee, took off my gloves and jacket and scanned the menu. Grits. You know everything’s gonna be all right if they’ve got grits on the menu. I ordered, “The Widowmaker” which consisted of three eggs, bacon, and sausage, red-eye gravy, a biscuit, pancakes and grits. I closed the menu, handed it to the waitress and glanced around. There was a skinny old man a couple of chairs down from me who saluted me with a forkful of pancake.

“Howdy.” He said.

“Howdy to you too,” I replied and glanced around the place. Old Georgia license plates adorned the walls like trophies celebrating a better time. There were farm and tractor calendars and high school yearbook photos in black and white.

“Where you headed to?”

“California.”

“You couldn’t have started out anywhere closer?”

I smiled. “Nope. Had to start in Savannah.”

“How long do you think it’s gonna take you to get out there?”

“Not sure. I’m not in any hurry. Just want to take my time. Why’s this place called the FWW cafe?”

“Stands for farmers, workers, and widows. Those are the main customers. Get a biker or two like you in now and again. He slid over a chair. My name’s Mike. Mike Crawford.” He offered his hand.

I took it. “Monk.”

“That’s an usual name. Monk what?”

“Just Monk.”

“You a Catholic monk or one of them Buddhist monks?”

“Yep.”

“Well, which one?”

“Both.”

“You can’t be both.”

“Who says I can’t?”

“It’s in the rules somewhere.”

“What rules?”

“The monk rules.”

“I’ve never seen the monk rules.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.” He shook his head and looked away but then glanced back. “But why ‘Monk’ anyway?”

“A friend thought I acted like a monk. He called me that and it stuck.”

“You married.”

“I was. Twice.”

“Divorced?”

“Nope. Both wives are dead.”

“That’s bad luck.”

“Yep. You?”

“One wife. Just made it to our 50th wedding anniversary last week.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks. She’s a hoot. Said to her last week: ‘I’m proud of you.’ She pretended not to hear me and said: ‘I’m tired of you too.’ Ha! Great sense of humor.”

“You hope so.”

“What? Oh, ha! I get that!”

I grinned at him and then my food came.

We chatted off and on between bites and he told me that he had a daughter and a grandson but that his daughter was married to a “no good peckerwood son of a bitch”.

“That’s rough man. Do you get to see your daughter and grandson much?”

“Yep. She drops him off and we babysit while they’re working.”

“At least you’ve got that.”

“Yep, could be worse.” He looked away and warmed his hands on his coffee mug.

 

Chapter Six

 

We must overturn so many idols, the idol of self first of all, so that we can be humble, and only from our humility can we learn to be redeemers, can learn to work together in the way the world really needs.

Oscar A. Romero

 

I couldn’t finish the pancakes but the rest of the meal was great and soothing. Especially the grits. Nothing like connecting with a memory from your childhood, unless your childhood had been awful. Having said that, grits alone, usually made by a kind grandma, have redeemed many a bad childhood. When I lived in Ireland, every once in a while I’d start jonesing for grits and I’d have my sister send some over. For Colin, she’d throw in a couple of bags of candy corn, another delicacy and southern staple you couldn’t find over there.

I paid my bill, left a tip, said goodbye to Mike and got some recommendations of his for back roads to take.

The clouds to the north and east were gunmetal gray, the wind was stirring and it was decidedly colder. My boots crunched on the gravel as I walked over to the bike and circled it to make sure everything was okay. I pulled on my helmet and gloves, cranked Big Red up and headed out the blue highway that Mike had recommended. I figure that the more I left things to chance the more easily God, Fate or the Universe could intervene.

I hit Dahlonega late in the afternoon and hopped onto GA 60. I leaned into the curves and tight turns and felt a strong connectedness with Big Red and the road. Curvy roads challenge you and bring out the best or worst in your riding skills. I passed the rock pile grave of a Cherokee princess and a place called Woody Gap where the Appalachian Trail crosses the road. Colin and I used to do some hiking on that trail years ago. The bike managed the curves almost effortlessly, which is, of course, the secret to good riding.

Daoism has a concept called wu wei which can apply to motorcycle riding. Wu wei happens when you use your natural abilities and intuition to flow with the environment. Its actual translation is “no doing” but it’s better understood as a kind of effortless action. Applying this to motorcycle riding means finding the flow, going with it and then taking no action or thinking beyond what’s needed. You learn to position yourself in the lane correctly for the curve, trust your intuitions, look where you want to go, relax and just lean into the curve. Inexperienced riders think too much, panic, focus on the obstacles ahead instead of the path, tighten up, overreact and manhandle the bike, often resulting in a crash. If you find a metaphor in there for life you’re welcome to it. I’m too old for metaphors.

Here’s the place I was looking for. I pulled off the road into the parking area of Two Wheels of Suches, a rustic wooden lodge and motorcycle campground I had visited off and on over the years. It had a long porch filled with rocking chairs and picnic benches. The gravel crunched as I rode over it. I backed my bike into a parking area. I put the stand down, switched off the engine and the lights, tapped the tank with my knuckles, thanking God for my safety and climbed off the bike. Next, I pulled my helmet and gloves off, stuck the gloves in my saddlebag and put the helmet on top of my handlebar mirror.

“That you Monk?” A voice hailed me from the porch.

“It’s me.” I headed up the path to the steps. “Who’s that?” I said toward a grizzled, bearded man in a leather vest heading toward me.

“It’s me, Skunk. I ain’t seen you in years.”

“Monk,” I said extending my hand while at the same time recognizing the redundancy of my introduction.

“Don’t you remember me, Monk?”

“Skunk, my memory ain’t what it used to be. Never was actually.”

His eyes narrowed and a worried expression swept over his face like the shadow from a Sunday cloud. “You got that Alltimers Monk?”

“The doctor thinks I do but I think I have something else.”

“What’s that?”

“Buddhism.”

“What the difference?”

“Not much from what I can tell. Both say ‘Live in the present’. With Alzheimer’s you can’t remember the past very well; with Buddhism, you want to let go of it.”

He took a step back. “This Buddhism, is it contagious?”

“No, not really, unless you want it to be.”

He waved his hands. “No thanks Monk. I’ve got that shingles and that’s enough for me.”

I smiled, sucked in and let go a deep breath. The air was fresh, smelling like fir trees and the aroma released by freshly dug soil. There was the sound of a nearby waterfall and the tinkling tabulations of a stream.

We sat down in the rockers. “It’s so beautiful up here Skunk. Why don’t we just live here?”

“Dang Monk you say that every time we meet up here. We’d start to lose our ‘preciation of it if we lived here all the time.  All things wear out. Even good things.”

“Especially good things. Where are you staying?”

“I got me a room upstairs. Too old to be camping out anymore. You?”

“I’m in the tent.” I pointed to the little bridge. “Gonna pitch it over there by the stream. This is my last trip.”

“Tent huh? Wait, what do you mean it’s your last trip?”

“Well, uh,” I stuttered, not wanting to say much. “I’m getting old. Not sure how many bike trips I still have ahead of me.” I raised my shoulders. “It’s just a feeling.”

“Huh.” He sat back in his rocker and got a faraway look. “Remember that time when my wife and I met y’all up here? You had that old BMW. Your wife was on the back. Was it Clare?” He leaned toward me and stared.

“Yep, you got a good memory Skunk. That was Clare. Hell, that was a long time ago I had that BMW. It was a black 1966 R60/2. I’d forgotten that. Thanks.”

“No problem Monk.”

“Hey, what did you ever do with that thing?”

I paused and searched my mind but couldn’t remember. “Can’t remember Skunk.”

“And how is Clare?”

“I’m afraid she’s passed. About three years now. Cancer.”

“I’m real sorry to hear that Monk.”  He was shaking his head and I felt like crying.

“What about you? You were married, weren’t you? Sorry, I can’t remember her name.”

“April. Her name was April. She’s fine Monk.”

“I remember her now. She was pretty.”

“Pretty as a speckled puppy under a shiny red wagon. That’s what I used to say.”

I laughed.

“Where’s she now?”

“Busy babysitting the grandkids. We got five. You got any grandkids?”

“Just one, Colin’s boy. Name’s Stephen. Smart as a whip. My daughter Hannah’s married but they don’t have any kids yet.”

“What are your kids up to?”

“Colin works at the public defender’s office in Savannah. Hannah is living out in LA. She’s studying to be an elementary school teacher and is trying to get into some modeling, last I heard tell.”

He smiled, sat back, looked into the distance, rocked a few times and shook his head slowly.

“We’re lucky our kids turned out well Monk. Thank you, Lord.”

“Amen to that brother.” I sighed and looked around. The Lord thanking mood had come and gone off me over the last few years. A steady diet of loss and grief can do that to you. It’s a sad but tireless companion, which you can quickly grow accustomed to having around. And it’s hard to let it go when you don’t have anything to replace it with.  But this trip was about letting go of the siren sadness of the past, and instead riding in the present, where things reveal themselves, and being thankful.

“Well, look Skunk, I’m going to go set up my tent and everything, take a shower and then I’ll be back up here later for dinner.”

“Sounds good. But if you want a steak, let me know. They sell out fast.”

“Nah, I’m okay, thanks.”

I walked down the steps to the bike, took the bungee cords off my gear and carried it over toward the tent area. I clomped across the little bridge over the stream and onto some grass and pitched it right there. Thank God the instructions for setting up the tent were still attached to the tent bag because I had poles and pegs heading every which away until I spotted them. After it was up, I threw in my gear, sleeping bag and opened the self-inflating foam pad. I am too old to sleep on the hard ground. I glanced over at the stream and watched it burble and roll. The sound of the water was soothing. You can’t step into the same river twice. The river changes but so do I, moment by moment. Each time I step in I’m a different person. I climbed into the tent.

First two chapters of my novel; Hope Bats Last – a motorcycle mystery, among other things.

Hope you enjoy this. If you do let me know and I’ll keep posting chapters! It’s available on Amazon.

Hope Bats Last

 

By Gene Powers

 

Your soul knows the geography of your destiny. Your soul alone has the map of your future, therefore you can trust this indirect, oblique side of yourself. If you do, it will take you where you need to go, but more important it will teach you a kindness of rhythm in your journey.
 John O’Donohue

 

You start the game with a full pot of luck and an empty pot of experience. The objective is to fill the pot of experience before you empty the pot of luck.

Anonymous

 

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. In the summer of 2014, I did take a cross- country motorcycle trip along the route described in this novel and I kept a diary of the experience. I wanted the story you’re   about to read to feel as real as possible and so much of what happens is inspired by events from that ride and other motorcycle trips I’ve taken. I’ve had a great deal of fun writing the book and I hope that you feel like you’re riding along with me. However, I want to make it clear that the key events that are described as occurring in Chadron and O’Neil, Nebraska and Osceola, Iowa are entirely fictional. For example, I understand there is a Harley Davidson dealer in Osceola but I’ve never had any contact with it. Similarly, there’s a social services agency in Osceola but the events described did not occur there and are instead inspired by my previous work as a social worker. Sadly, there is also no Lancelot dinner, but I really wish there was. I hope you enjoy the ride and the story. Kickstands up.

 

Explanation of the Title: Hope Bats Last

One of my favorite writers, Anne Lamott, uses the expression “Grace Bats Last”. I modified this, for reasons which I hope will become apparent to you as you read the story. The expression “bats last” comes from the American sport baseball. In a baseball match, each team gets a chance to bat and to drive in runs, which are like goals in soccer. The home team always gets to bat last, thus having the opportunity to score and rise from impending defeat. Grace does get us to our most difficult struggles in life, but it is through moving forward in hope that we get through them.

 

 Chapter One

Day 1

 

Every saint has a past and every sinner has a future.

Oscar Wilde.

 

The soft rays of dawn drift and dip in the wake of the tugboat chugging up the Savannah River while I wait for my son to try one last time to talk me out of riding my Harley across the country. He’s always been a bit overprotective. Can’t say I blame him. He’s had three mothers of his die. Two of them were my wives. His heart has been broken so many times that I’d swear I can sometimes hear God whispering: now where does this piece go? My son has a wife and a child, and a sister, my daughter Hannah, in California but it’s still hard for him to let me go. Hard for me to leave. But I’m retired now and may not have that many trips left in me. And when that tiny voice inside you insists you leave then it’s time to pack the saddlebags and put the kickstand up. Still, though I know I have to go, I’ve got enough tears welling up in me that could cause this river to flood its banks. Folks say that growing old isn’t for sissies. Lemme tell you, growing old is easy, it’s grief that ain’t for sissies.

My son pulls up on River Street, parks his car and walks over to me. “Dad you aren’t supposed to ride your bike out onto the plaza here. It’s for pedestrians.”

“I know that. I just wanted to see the river one more time before I left.”

He glanced out over the brown-green water and a smile broke across his face. “What was it that old friend of yours in Ireland used to say? Can’t step into the same river twice?”

I laughed. “That was Kevin. Rascal’s still alive over there. Actually it was originally

Heraclitus that said that.”

“I thought it was Pocahontas.”

“I let you watch too many Disney films while growing up. Corrupted what could have been a fine mind.”

He laughed.

“Actually,” I continued, “it was another philosopher Cratylus who bettered him and said you can’t step into the same river even once.”

He smiled and nodded. “Yep, yep yep.” He replied in his customary way. “Nothing wrong with your long-term memory, at least.”

“Secret to happiness son. Short-term memory loss combined with low expectations. I forget who said that.”

“Well, you know I didn’t ask to meet you to talk philosophy.”

I nodded.

“I don’t want you to go, dad. Now wait!” He held up his hands. “Hear me out. I know you can handle the trip physically. You’ve done it enough times in the past. It’s more your mind I’m worried about. You’re not remembering things that well.”

“That’s why the road is the best place for me. I don’t have to remember anything other than gas and oil. And Big Red will let me know if I forget them. I’ll just live in the here and now.”

He cleared his throat. “But dad you have Alzheimer’s.”

“No, I don’t. What I’ve got is called Buddhism! Be here now. Live in the present. Don’t worry about the past and the future.”

“This is not about worrying about them dad, you can’t remember them.”

“Memory’s overrated, always has been. Besides, how do they know I’m losing my memory? It was never very good. They’d need to have a baseline to know I’m losing it. What did my memory used to be like?”

“Okay dad, tell me what you had for lunch yesterday.”

“Who cares about that?” I replied as I slowly opened my left hand where I’d written the answers. He always asks me stuff about yesterday.

“See you don’t know, do you?”

“Okay, if you must know I had a turkey sandwich and a bowl of fruit: watermelon, honeydew, and cantaloupe. Washed it down with some sweet iced tea.”

He tilted his head sideways a few times, grabbed my hand and flipped my palm up. “Wrote it on your hand again didn’t you? And what’s this?” He pulled up the arm sleeve of my shirt. “You’ve got my name and phone number tattooed on your arm.” He dropped and signaled with his fingers; “Let me see the other arm.”

I held it out for him and looked away as he rolled it up. “What’s this?”

“My PIN numbers.”

“On your arm dad? Right where everybody could see it?”

“Best place to hide things. A crook would have to be really stupid to think I’d write my PIN number on my arm.”

“And Hannah’s name and number. What’s all this for? If you get lost?”

“Actually, son, it’s for if I get found.”

He paused and stared at me. “Daaad,” he whined, just like when he was a little boy.

I put my arm on his shoulder and pulled him close for a hug. I held him until he pulled away. That’s the way we always did it. A dad should never end hugs first.

He stepped back a few steps and let out a deep breath. “Are you packing dad?”

“I shore am.”

“You got the old Taurus PT?”

“Nope. I got the Bible, the Tao Te Ching, and Metta, the Lovingkindness Sutra with me. They should be able to handle most things that come up.”

“Daaad” He whined again.

“Naw. Just joking with you. I mean I do have them but I’m carrying the Taurus PT 24/7 and ammo with me in the saddlebag.” I patted one of the black leather bags just to reassure him. At least I think it was in that one.

He put his hands in his pocket and stared down at the bike. “You don’t have your GPS with you.”

“That’s right.”

“You got a map?”

“Yep. It’s folded up in the saddlebag.”

“That’s not gonna help much while you’re riding. Where you heading to tonight, dad?”

“Don’t know. Just heading northwest.”

“You taking the interstates?”

“Nope, I’m doing the back roads, the old blue highways. All the way across this fine country of ours.”

“Yeah, but where are you aiming for today?”

“Not really aiming for anywhere.”

He flashed a curt smile and shook his head in disbelief. “So dad, you don’t even know where you’re going today! You’re gonna get lost.”

I smiled back. “Well if you don’t know where you’re going you can’t really get lost.”

He sighed loudly. “Okay, but remember our deal is that you’ll phone me when you’re east of the Mississippi and you’ll phone Hannah when you’re west of it. I mean, you can still phone me too.”

“Let me hug you, son, one more time before I go,” I said, and we embraced. This time I wouldn’t let go when he tried to pull away. “I’ll be all right son. You take care of Siobhan and Stephen.” The tears started flooding out. “I love you, Colin.” I blubbered. “God protect and bless you and your family.” There’s never any more to say after you’ve said that. I squeezed him hard and let go.

 

Chapter Two

 

Where you come from is gone, where you thought you were going to never was there, and where you are is no good unless you can get away from it.
Flannery O’ Connor

 

I watched as Colin walked away and drove off. I shook my head. He was a great son, a good brother to his younger sister Hannah and, from what I could reckon, a loving husband and father. He just worried too much. If he didn’t have enough of his own he’d borrow worry from others. His shoulders were slightly curved, a feature he’d had since childhood. It somehow helped him bear the pain he’d experienced in those early years, the psychic weight of all the emotions, the hurt and sadness, which when we spoke of them we just called “hadness”. The curved shoulders were like body armor, a somatic and psychic defense against the lifelong family traumas he believed would continue to strike him. He wasn’t far from wrong on that.

A policeman came walking up the cobblestone street and signaled for me to move the bike. I waved at him, checked the neutral light and cranked up the Harley. He came over to the bike and tilted his head side-wise at me.

“Connor isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is. Who are you?”

He took off his hat as if thinking that would somehow help me remember him, but I didn’t. I just stared.

“McMillan. You trained me. Must be about twenty years ago.”

I did sort of remember a McMillan from my years on the force before I left to become a child protection worker.

He continued: “We worked the case of that dead crack prostitute, Mary something or whatever.”

“Fitzpatrick,” I said in a harsh tone and stared at him. “And she wasn’t a prostitute. And she had been clean for two years.”

He scanned the area. “Whatever.” He said dismissively and tapped the bike handle. “You be careful out there. Keep the shiny side up!” He added as he walked away.

Mary Fitzpatrick. I shook my head and let out a long sigh. God almighty, what can I say about her? When I was a rookie about forty years ago and she was a child I removed her from her abusive mother and put her in foster care. Years later, when she was grown, had kids of her own and was addicted to crack I end up removing her kids. That removal hadn’t gone well. My job that day had only been to protect Karen, the social worker, ensure her safety and that of the kids. But I hadn’t been observant enough. Mary’s paramour suddenly appeared with a gun and shot and killed Karen. I remember her last scream, her mouth contorted like the one in Munch’s painting. Echoes of her scream are still there inside of me, in a quieter place, but I can still hear them. I tackled Mary’s boyfriend and ended up throwing us both off the third-floor balcony. He grasped my shirt as we dropped. I remember us hitting the ground, his body arched unnaturally beneath me, having broken my fall. He was dead; his eyes wide in fear, his arms around me like a scared little brother’s. Before I passed out I heard the sudden peaceful silence and the siren song of a distant ice cream truck.

I quit the force then, the first time, left Savannah and ended up somehow in Ireland for a few years, again working for the police. Then I moved home here and worked as a detective again. I used to go around and see Mary and her family every week but she never stopped hating me, blaming me for removing her from her mother, from removing her own children from her, somehow landing her in the dismal life she was now in. There was some justice in that. The last time I saw Mary was about 20 years ago when I had been working as a detective again for a while. It was a rainy, overcast and muddy night and I stumbled upon her body in a ditch just across the river over there on Hutchinson’s Island. She was half covered in moss and mud with her face caved in, unrecognizable except for the silver necklace with the word “Hope” on it I had given to her sometime earlier. I couldn’t take it anymore. After that night I quit the force again and wandered like a lost Ishmael around the country for a while until a buddy convinced me to try child protection work. I did that until I retired. And thank God not a child died on my shift.

“We ain’t got all day!” I heard someone shout. It was McMillan about a hundred yards away.

I waved, put the kickstand up and rode across the brick and onto the old cobblestone of River Street. It was an act of penance to ride this bumpy road. If life hadn’t shaken the hell out of you by this point in your existence, then this road would do it. I climbed a branch of the road up to Bay Street and headed west toward the bridge to South Carolina.

     As I rode across the high bridge I felt the wind on my face, carrying the scent of the ocean which was just a few miles away. It’s May here, and Savannah is blooming with camellias, hibiscus, and magnolias. A rich, earthy scent pervades and promises hope, renewal. Below me now was the copper-colored Savannah River, tugboats pulling foreign named container ships, and the swishing avocado green, ochre, and golden marsh grass. If you ask me there have been too many metaphors with bridges in them. Bridges are just ways of getting you from one place to another. They’re nothing magical. When you cross a bridge you’re still the same person you always were. Sure, you’re in a new place, sometimes a better place. Not that I’m saying South Carolina is a better place, not saying it isn’t. But it doesn’t matter because the old self is still there, just a stowaway which you’ve trundled along into the new world.  There are no bridges, no shortcuts, to anywhere worth going. There’s only the road.

I rode onto Hutchinson’s island, a small interstice between the Savannah River and the Back River.  Once there were rice plantations here, built and managed on the backs of slaves. But the place was always cursed. Two hurricanes flooded the island killing slaves and pilling boats up on the foot of the bluff. Then yellow fever swept through the area. While Sherman was marching into Savannah during the American Civil War, Confederate General Hardee under the cover of darkness was escaping through here with his men. Later, Hutchison Island became a dumping ground for waste and murder victims. Now it carries a fancy hotel, convention center, and golf course. Life moves on.

Riding farther I passed bottomland hardwoods, marshes, swamps, and wetlands where gators roam and the remnants of the old levees and dikes are still visible.

My bike is called “Big Red”. She’s a 2004 Harley Davidson Road King Classic with a 95 cubic inch engine and she weighs about 750 pounds naked, right out of the shower.  But she’s also loaded up with my tent, sleeping bag, and ground pad and her black leather saddlebags carry my supplies and tools. Behind me, velcroed to my seat I’ve got a big charcoal colored bag carrying my clothes, medicines and sundry items. The whole shebang is strapped down with bungee cords. Even with all this weight, she can easily cruise at 80 mph with still plenty of throttle left in her.  I once got her up to 102 mph on a back road in Missouri before the front end began to shimmy.   We were both younger then.

Also attached to the bike are a few items to help keep my mind and my soul in the right place as I ride. Hooked onto one of my windscreen bags I’ve got a green Connemara marble penal rosary. An Paidrin Beag. It’s a small eleven bead rosary with a cross at one end and a ring for your finger at the other. Catholicism was banned for a while in Ireland and praying the rosary could get you thrown in jail or worse. This rosary was so small that it could be easily hidden in a pocket or under some clothing, so the person could pray without being detected. The rosary is there to remind me to be openly reverent on the trip.

Wrapped around the handlebar I’ve got a leather bracelet with a pewter Yin Yang symbol from Taoism on it. Stay in the here and now. Trust your journey, it says to me. Stay balanced.

Finally, I’ve got a hula girl where my clock used to be. She dances around and reminds me to be silly, to not take myself too seriously.

My road name is “Monk”. There’s a long story behind that but we’ll leave it for another time. Right now, I’ve got to concentrate on the road. It’s a two-lane highway that doesn’t get much use. There are plenty of road gators, bits of tire and metal, cowering mostly on the edge of the road, and a few potholes and tar snakes. The wind’s beginning to gust, blowing out of the northeast. Grayish-purple thunderclouds are gathering in the distance toward Bluffton, a veil of rain filling the sky. A good enough omen to cause me to head due west.

Day 7: Following Signs, Omens and Portents; A Practical Guide for the Clueless.

I was filled with sadness heading out this morning. My eyes were burning. I didn’t want to say goodbye to my kids, Colin and Hannah, and Hannah’s husband Bill. They live so far away. I’d already been feeling sad what with the recent bomb in Manchester and the sudden death of a friend back home. But it’s time to leave.
This is the part of my journey that I’m leaving up to divine providence, so I have no destination in mind. I hope to be guided in my choice of direction by clear omens, hunches and uncertain feelings of certainty. However, it’s one thing to trust that the old signs and portents will appear and it’s another to find oneself stuck at an intersection in the middle of Anywhere, USA and having no clear inclination, or even funny feeling as to which way to go.
In one of my novels, Hope Bats Last, I address just such a possibility and come up with this guidance for the protagonist:
Always head away from bad weather, unless some omen tells me otherwise. When I don’t know which way to go, go left and then right the next time, and then left… If I must choose between two towns and can’t, choose the one that starts with the earliest letter in the alphabet. Trust the journey.
I’ve added a few since:
Don’t book any motels in advance because you don’t know where you’re going.
When you have a choice of motels and feel no preference, choose the one with a number in its name. If there’s more that one, pick the motel with the highest number. If there are no numbers pick the one whose name comes first alphabetically.
Talk to anyone who wants to talk with you for as long as they want to talk.
Don’t avoid homeless people; they could be Elijah the prophet in disguise.
If someone mentions a place I should visit, I must go there.
If I have a funny feeling about something, I should listen to it.
What can go wrong?

Cross Country Motorcycle Trip Four! Abandonment to Divine Providence.

On May 12, the Lord willing and the Creek don’t rise, Big Red, my 2004 Harley Road King Classic, and I’ll be heading out on another cross country trip. My first primary destination will be Los Angeles where I’ll be attending my daughter’s college graduation. After that, all bets are off.

In my motorcycle novel, Hope Bats Last, the protagonist talks about abandoning himself to fate, to divine providence and seeing where he ends up. So when I leave LA, instead of having a route planned I’m going to try and listen to the signs and portents and discern my direction. Signs might come through a suggestion of a passerby at a convenience store, a dream, a detour, maybe just a feeling that I should take that road. No, not that road, that road.

You can put whatever name you want on where that mysterious guidance comes from. Is it Fate? Destiny? The Universe speaking? Is it the Tao? Wu wei? Is it the Zen Buddhist idea of living in the present? Is it Hegel’s the infinite unfolding of itself? Or is it God (as you may believe)?

The best description I ever heard of this process comes from Jean-Pierre de Caussade’s, an eighteenth century French Jesuit priest and writer, who folks believe wrote the book, Abandonment to Divine Providence.

“In the state of abandonment the only rule is the duty of the present moment. In this the soul is light as a feather, liquid as water, simple as a child, active as a ball in receiving and following all the inspirations of grace. Such souls have no more consistence and rigidity than molten metal. As this takes any form according to the mould into which it is poured, so these souls are pliant and easily receptive of any form that God chooses to give them. In a word, their disposition resembles the atmosphere, which is affected by every breeze; or water, which flows into any shaped vessel exactly filling every crevice. They are before God like a perfectly woven fabric with a clear surface; and neither think, nor seek to know what God will be pleased to trace thereon, because they have confidence in Him, they abandon themselves to Him, and, entirely absorbed by their duty, they think not of themselves, nor of what may be necessary for them, nor of how to obtain it.”

It’s kind of a mixture of Kerouac’s Dharma Bums and mystical Christianity, but on a motorcycle.

I’ll keep you posted.