Observations From a Small Motorcycle
 

-The Illusion of Life-
 

Day1     Day2    Day3     Day4    Day5

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, learn that I had not lived."  Henry David Thoreau, 1845.

Thoreau wrote these words after walking into the woods beside Walden Pond in Concord, Mass. on July 4, 1845, where he spent two years as an experiment in self reliance and simple observation. This July 4, 2002 I leave for a solo motorcycle journey from Nashville Tennessee to the woods of northern Pennsylvania. My total journey will be only five days; I'll be attending a 250cc motorcycle meet. This is a different day and age from Thoreau's time. Things move at a much faster pace now, but my reasons for traveling this journey on a small motorcycle are the same, "...to live life deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I can not learn what it has to teach, and not, when I came to die, learn that I have never lived."

I can think of no better way to "live deliberately" than traveling by motorcycle. People aren't used to living deliberately these days. Seems that someones always watching out for us, making us wear seat belts, regulating safety, and attempting to protect us from ourselves. Motorcycles are exempt from this unnatural, modern-day philosophy that imparts the belief that people should be protected from themselves, from their own imperfections, from their own humanity. Even with a helmet, it's more than possible to injure yourself on a cycle if you lose sight of the "living deliberately" aspect of riding. Just riding, taking a long trip, or traveling down the street, successfully, gives one a greater appreciation of life and all that it has to offer, a new perspective, and a more fundamental understanding of the things that matter. To live deliberately is to see things in a different perspective. The motorcycle is an excellent tool.

I'll be traveling on a modest 250cc single cylinder motorcycle, a distance of over sixteen hundred miles. What better way "to front only the essential facts of life" than solo, exposed to the elements, on a small, unpretentious motorcycle. The total displacement of this bike is equal to 0.52 pints, or one 8 ounce coffee cup, just 16 tablespoons. Some don't consider it a "real" motorcycle. It has a top speed of around 80 miles-per-hour and achieves 70 miles or more to the gallon of fuel. It's pure transportation in its most simple form. Yet, if we didn't live in a day and age when such mechanical things were so thoroughly understood, even the meager capabilities of this small machine would be viewed as magical. And that's what I feel every time I ride it - magic. I'm looking forward to the long ride, and to making some simple observations about life along the way; observations that might be overlooked if traveled by a more complicated means.
 

Day 1

I wave goodbye and pull from the parking lot of our town home at 7 AM Thursday July the 4th 2002. It's a humid morning, thunderstorms last night, but the temperature is in the low 70's now. Not bad riding weather. I think of Thoreau walking into Walden's woods over a hundred and fifty years ago on this date and wonder what I will learn of life along the way. As I pick up speed, shift through the gears, and head for the highway these thoughts are replaced with the upbeat, carefree lyrics of a favorite song. So much for deep thoughts. Life like being on a motorcycle, encompasses so much more than just one path and one line of thought.

Heading north, I take a roundabout route to avoid Nashville traffic. This will be a slower mostly back roads journey with interstate highways to be avoided where possible. Important details are often overlooked when traveling too fast.

I make my way toward Highway 231 where I plan to catch 31E to Glasgow Kentucky and stop for breakfast, a distance of about 100 miles. The machine is running well in light traffic and relatively cool air. Soon I'm on 231 clipping along at a nice pace through clean country air. I'm on my way.

This machine, a simple single cylinder motorcycle referred to as a "thumper" among the motorcycle crowd, makes a symphony of engine noises. Most motorcycles these days are multi-cylinder and produce a much smoother sound. My other machine, a Honda Rebel, is one such example. It produces a smooth, pleasant buzz, similar to a vacuum cleaner, no matter how it's ridden. But this bike has a different sound for each mood and occasion - dozens of them I'd say. It idles with the rough thump, thump sound that it gets it's name from, which becomes a rough hum as it accelerates. It groans and rattles under a heavy load and purrs like a kitten when letting off the throttle. And it exhibits almost every sound in between depending on a whole slew of conditions. There are technical reasons why this is so. Because it's a single-cylinder, four-stroke engine, it has no "other" cylinder to smooth out the explosive combustion process and must depend on the inertia of the flywheel. The absence of other cylinders contributes to this bike's distinctive character and sounds, which is why "thumpers" have a loyal and eccentric following among some motorcyclists.

I reach the intersection of 231 and 31E. There's a carnival setup on the other side of the road but nobody's there, too early. Most prominent among the clutter is a huge plastic pig with a smiley face. It has a hinged, counter-top door in its belly. It's a barbecue stand.

Heading North on 31E toward Kentucky, I pass many signs along the roadside. It is possible to get a feel for the mood of the nation by observing the signs along the way. One says, "We ARE One Nation UNDER GOD." Many others say patriotic things like, "God bless America" and "United we stand." Perhaps it would do politicians and court justices well to take a cross-country motorcycle trip occasionally, before making important decisions affecting people.

I'm aware of a whole mixture of feelings as I begin this long journey - aloneness, freedom, and independence, to name a few, and surprisingly, an acute awareness that I alone am in control of my destiny. Exactly as in everyday life, everything I do in the present is profoundly affecting the future. In modern times it's easy to believe that our destiny and our future are determined by factors beyond our control. But it isn't so. The most fundamental aspects of our lives are always within our control. Just hop on a motorcycle headed for a distant destination and this will become abundantly clear. But improper planning, improper maintenance, carelessness, inattention to detail, or simply not caring, can put a real big kink into things, and make us feel totally out of control. Motorcycling takes the fundamental premise - that I, alone, control my destiny and my future - and puts it into a humbling perspective. Don't believe it, or take any of it for granted, and this rational, unforgiving machine, called a motorcycle, will quickly and profoundly show you the error of your ways.

Cows graze in distant fields along the roadside as I approach the TN/KY line, no humans, just endless rolling hills peppered by an occasional solitary tree. I am totally alone as I travel the road. More alone than if I were standing by myself in of one of those distant fields. No one can sneak up on me here, no one can invade my privacy and steal my thoughts. I have only the machine for company; we are one, alone. We are more than the sum of each other. We are in synergy. We go flying across the countryside, living deliberately, propelled by modern day magic, and deliberate thought.

In the town of Glasgow KY, I pull into the McDonald's parking lot. Surprisingly crowded for 9:00 AM on the 4th of July. Lots of older people and farmers. Maybe this is what's done here on a holiday, go out for breakfast. Most people seem to know each other. I have breakfast at a window table with a view of the bike.

Outside and ready to go, it feels much warmer. Must be well into the eighties already. I check the gear on the bike to make sure it hasn't shifted. Everything seems to be holding up well. Here in Glasgow I'll be catching Highway 68 for the rest of the journey across the heartland of Kentucky. I backtrack a bit to an intersection where I remember seeing a sign that said, "To 68." Eventually I'm on my way after a maze of turns and signs directing me through the small town. But not much traffic, guess they're still at McDonald's.

Highway 68 heads east out of town, then turns north and becomes very rural and winding after a few miles. Good road, no traffic, more like a nicely paved secondary road than a US highway.

I feel fortunate to live in a society where I'm free to hop on a motorcycle and head for a faraway destination, to come and go as I please. But most people, even in our "free society," don't know what freedom is. They're enslaved by debt, by jobs, by family obligations, by the desire for more and better things, by the expectations of others. They work harder and harder to afford that new SUV or Harley, that symbol of freedom that will finally set them free, and all it does is imprison them with more debt and obligation. I'm sure there are many people with $30,000 Harleys or expensive SUVs sitting in their garages that are no more free than a prison inmate! I can see it in their faces as they drive to work in the mornings. It's the me against the world, screw you attitude of extreme frustration. No time to relax, no time to contemplate or enjoy the simple things.

My wife, although I'm sure it's difficult for her to understand all that this trip means, is tolerant of my attitude and for that I am grateful. She doesn't demand much. She understands that I have no desire to live up to other's expectations, to own fancy transportation, or to live a showy life style that would take away our freedom. She is, in fact, a lot like me. And I am lucky to be married to her; someone who allows me the freedom to be me, to ride a simple motorcycle across the country. Everyone should be so lucky.

As I slow for the town of Campbellsville KY, the air is getting hot and humid. A sign in front of a bank flashes 92 degrees. More people are out now, enjoying the holiday. I see none of the frustration of stressed out people commuting to work as in the big cities. And that's nice.

Although I don't need to, I decide to stop here for gas at a busy gas station; it has some of the cheapest prices I've seen. After refueling, I buy a bottle of water to keep in the tank bag for easy access. While making a notation in the log book, and packing away the bottled water, an older gentleman on the other side of the pump asks, "what kind of mileage you get?" I tell him about 75, and he want's to know if I'd like to trade the motorcycle for his wife's Buick (he's driving a fairly new Buick, and his wife is in the car with the air on and the windows rolled up). I laugh, and we carry on a short conversation before riding off. People don't seem to be as intimidated by smaller bikes, especially when packed with luggage and camping equipment. Maybe it's a freedom kind of thing, or just a matter of vicarious curiosity about the rider. I have many conversations like this along the way.

The landscape in South Central Kentucky rolls and undulates in a peculiar manner. One of the worlds largest cave systems, the Mammoth Cave system, is beneath it. Crater-like impressions, almost as regular as dimples on a golf ball, mold the land into what should be thousands of small lakes and ponds. But none exist. No creeks, that I can see, exist either. The water, rather than pooling into those indentions or running into streams, sinks into the ground, feeding the cave system and leaving behind fertile grazing ground. Bluegrass country.

Where the grass in the fields has not been grazed or harvested as hay, it has turned a golden brown and blades of new green grass have grown in among it, making for an almost surreal landscape. It's difficult to tell by the color of the distant fields whether it's spring, summer, or late fall, like a painting by a drunken artist.

The air is hot and heavy with humidity; it's really starting to heat up now. Many cows have retreated to the cover of shade provided by the trees. The cycle is developing a tired, labored sound as it pulls up the hills and through the long sweeping curves. It's a sound that this little thumper makes anyway, so I'm not concerned about it, only with the heat and hot air it's doing it much more easily.

I ride through the town of Harrodsburg KY without stopping. There aren't as many people stirring about in this town. A bank sign is flashing 98 degrees as I pass by. Making a mental note NOT to look at bank thermometer signs anymore, I tell myself they're probably not accurate anyway. Nevertheless, it feels really, really hot. I stop under the shade of a big tree in an empty school parking lot just outside of town and have bottled water from the tank bag, and give the cycle a rest.

Sitting on the pavement in the shade, I observe the bike. Waves of heat radiate from the engine and exhaust and the hot metal makes a light kink, kink sound. I pick up a clean stick and test the slackness of the chain. It's ok. I touch the chain lightly with my finger and a small amount of lubricant comes off. Good. This check is done often to see if more lubrication is needed from a spray can that I carry in the tank bag. I'm meticulous about motorcycle maintenance.

Some people look at a motorcycle and see only the appearance. I look at a motorcycle and see mostly the functionality of the components, and may not even notice the outward appearance unless something is obviously wrong. I guess that explains why this motorcycle is so dirty. I'm not too concerned about the 'sling-off' of the lubricant from the chain. It forms a light film over the spokes, rims and engine that looks really bad to some people. But the lubricant protects the metal. It's functional. If it bothered me, I could wipe it off and the metal would look new. I use a light lubricant that doesn't harm metal and is easy to remove just for this reason, because my bike stays outside under a cover most of the time.

This "mess" would drive many people crazy - it's ugly. And for some, image is everything. What it looks like is more important than what it DOES. These people buy expensive machines that look good. They keep them locked in the garage, and only ride them in pretty weather when they won't get dirty. What functionality does that serve... perhaps only the vanity of the rider.

But no one could accuse this humble machine of appealing to anyone's vanity. And that's the way it should be; feelings should come from the heart, not from the ego. I have no need to impress anyone on this long journey, only to learn what I can during this short life. The perfect tool stands before me.

Cruising even at 55 MPH, is very uncomfortable. The air is thick with moisture and heat. The cycle doesn't like the heat, and neither do I. It causes the air to be less dense making it more difficult to breath. This reduces the power output of the cycle and makes me feel sluggish. But we should be in Lexington soon, something to look forward to.

The trees along the road become more numerous. The cycle leans sharply and smoothly, swerving to stay in the cool shade along the road as much as possible. It's almost as though it has a mind of its own. The road becomes more curvy and we begin a steep descent, the cycle really seems to like this. It is unexpected; we descend into the Kentucky River Valley by many curves and switchbacks, in shade and in coolness.

At the bottom is another land, refreshingly cool and moist. The air has a damp fertile smell, and the valley is rich in vegetation with rhododendrons and broad leaf plants growing along the river's edge. We cross the river and head into the trees and vegetation on the other side, beginning a series of ascending curves and switchbacks that will take us out of the valley. I'm sad to leave this unexpected surprise behind and wish I could stay longer, but we've many miles to cover before the day ends.

Outside of Lexington KY, it's as hot as ever. Slowing for the traffic lights is almost unbearable. Literature sometimes equates heat with lust and desire. I fail to see the connection - I'm just plain uncomfortable.

In the center of town a holiday celebration is going on, maybe a concert of some kind, I can't tell for sure. There are literally thousands of people on foot along the street and traffic is almost at a standstill. Had I known, I would have taken an alternate route. But it's too late now. I'm not familiar with this city and am unable to navigate around the congestion. Instead I ride through it.

In the middle of an intersection I get caught by stopped traffic and have to pull beside the car in front of me to avoid blocking cross traffic. Not good. As in almost all states, I'm certain "lane-splitting" on motorcycles is NOT legal and hope I don't have to stay in this situation long.

Eventually the traffic clears and I accelerate, only to be stopped by a policeman at the next intersection. With a large sweep of one hand and a palm forward motion he stops all traffic, not just me, to allow a large group of pedestrians to cross. Watching the people is interesting, but I'm anxious to get through town and on the road again, moving, to cool off. It's no fun sitting on an idling motorcycle in 100 degree heat. Under the shade of the awning of a building next to me, I notice an attractive young couple passionately making out. She notices me looking, and appears to smile, but doesn't stop. Maybe it's the heat, I would normally look away, but continue to watch. I'm distracted by the sound of a whistle blow and notice the policeman is pointing at me. Another temporary fright, am I not supposed to be watching people kissing in the hot street? No, the crowd has crossed and he just wants me to move on.

The couple appeared to be experiencing NO discomfort, but surely they were hot in this heat. I follow the officer's signal and ride away having completely forgotten the temperature. Being uncomfortable is mostly a condition of the mind, more of an attitude than anything else. Riding a motorcycle in weather like this would be very uncomfortable, IF IT WEREN'T SO ENJOYABLE.

I'm heading north on Highway 68 toward Ohio and it feels good to be moving again. Still hot and humid, up ahead a few large clouds are beginning to appear in the afternoon heat. I find myself wishing it would rain.

In the town of Athens Kentucky, I stop for gas. After the tank is filled, I push the cycle away from the pumps into the shade of a large shrub next to the building, go in and pay. Not really hungry, maybe due to the heat, I buy a large soda and drink it in the shade.

The cycle seems to be running well all things considered. Good maintenance. I observe the bike while relaxing on the curb. The exhaust pipes at the cylinder heads have turned a little bluer than they were, but they don't look bad. That's probably not unusual in heat like this. I grasp the handlebars without getting up and pull them toward me, balancing the motorcycle carefully in an upright position, while looking at the clear sight-glass on the side of the engine. The oil level of the engine comes to the center of the sight-glass; that's good, that's what this round, glass peephole is for, checking the oil level. The oil is still a dark golden color - I changed it before I left. As it gets older it turns a dark gray, and then eventually black in color. But I never let it go that long before changing it. This ritual of checking the oil is enjoyable for me. Staring into a small window into the heart of the machine seems to provide more insight than shiny metal could. But I really can't see anything, except the oil. This insight is just an illusion. To get any useful information about the machine's condition, about how things really are on the inside, I have to ride it, and observe with my senses. Feelings and intuition are sometimes better than direct observation.

On the last long stretch of highway before we get to the Ohio River and cross over at Maysville KY, big thunderheads are becoming more numerous. But still nothing really threatening. There's something about moving down the highway on a motorcycle that makes you feel everything's going to be OK, whether true or not. Maybe it's something from childhood. Humans seem to instinctively enjoy movement. Babies go to sleep with a rocking motion, we bounce them to make them laugh, and hug them with a rotating motion to comfort them. Combine these childhood subliminal sensations with the deliberate effort of traveling down the highway at 60 miles-per-hour balancing 300 pounds of rotating, oscillating mass beneath you, while watching the ground fly by six inches beneath your feet and, like a child, you just don't have much time to worry about the future - too much excitement going on in the present.

At Maysville there's one huge, dark thunderstorm directly ahead in the distance. I've been watching it for miles. I'm not sure if Ohio Hwy. 41, the road I'm planning to take, will lead me into this storm, but I can see from the map it's the only direct route north once the Ohio River is crossed. As I'm stopped at a stoplight in the gusty impending wind, a rectangular road sign suspended above the highway ahead sways on a cable. The writing on the sign is facing the other direction, all I see is the gray aluminum backside in the distance. It's the same color and intensity of the storm clouds ahead, making it appear almost invisible. An illusion. It swings one direction and because of the angle of the light, becomes bright white. Then it swings the other direction and becomes almost pitch-black. I'm sitting at an intersection on a highway in Kentucky watching what appears to be a strange rectangular portal through the fabric of the sky into another dimension. It opens and closes into a vast space beyond the clouds even as I stare. The universe revealed is sometimes filled with darkness, and sometimes with light; it's the direction I'm headed.

Highway 41 on the other side of the river, in Ohio, looks a lot like places in Tennessee, very wooded and rural with sparse rundown houses and mobile homes. The road is wet and curvy; not a combination that I'm fond of. Although it isn't raining now, it must have just a few minutes ago. The clouds are dark and close. I proceed with caution.

When it appears that I'm going to miss the storm, the road curves and heads directly toward it. This happens many times before it actually hits. Just outside a small town consisting of one rundown store and a small, well-maintained church, there's a heavy wall of rain in the road ahead.

I brake, do a U-turn in the road, and head back to the church parking lot to put on a rain suit. Just as I finish zipping the jacket, it begins to pour. With no shelter to be found and a schedule to keep, I ride ahead in the heavy rain.

Riding in the rain has some advantages. I'm no longer aware of the heat. Fortunately there's no traffic and I take my time, which is good because the rain is heavy and the visibility is poor. A few weeks before leaving, I replaced the almost worn-out front tire on this cycle with a new one. It's an economy brand that someone on an Internet news group described as "cheap junk." For some, nothing but the best will do. People like that don't usually ride motorcycles like this. But right now I'm very glad to have this new front tire and to be riding a motorcycle that, although, some might describe as cheap junk, is as well maintained and as efficient as I can make it. It is delivering everything that is asked of it under less than ideal circumstances, which is all anyone can ask.

The rain lets up as I ride into a rather large little town. For the first time I am aware of close thunder and lightning. The brunt of the storm has just passed through. There are several places in the road where large washes of water quickly flow across. I proceed through these with care, but because of traffic, can't go slowly enough to prevent water from spraying over the engine and my feet. Surprisingly, the engine never stumbles. With all the water splashing on it, it must be running much cooler than it was designed for. It seems to be faring much better than my boots, as my feet and socks are completely soaked.

Outside town the roads are dry and the sun is hot. I feel like pulling over and removing the hot rain suit but up ahead the sky is still dark. About ten minutes later and I'm in the rain again, but this storm isn't as bad. The heavy rain only lasts for several minutes and then I'm out on the other side in hot sun and dry pavement.

At the intersection of Highways 41 and 32, I pull into a convenience store parking lot and remove the hot rain suit. I'll be turning east onto 32. Although the sun is shining now, toward the east the sky looks dark, maybe rainy. But at this point I don't care. This rain suit is just too hot to wear - it must be above 90 degrees still.

While I'm removing the rain suit I look the cycle over, check the chain and notice it's dry. Most of the lubricant has washed off - not uncommon when riding in heavy rain. I want to get moving again and cool off, but instead, remove the can of lubricant from the tank bag and lubricate the chain before I head out.

Heading east on Highway 32, and without the rain suit, it's much cooler. I really didn't do a proper job of lubricating the chain back there. To do a good job, I have to lift the rear wheel off the ground and spin the wheel to lubricate it evenly. Also, I usually wipe it down first with an oily rag to remove the dirt and grit. But that can all be done tonight, when I've stopped for the day and have more time. What's done quickly may be sufficient, but it's usually less than ideal.

Traffic is sparse on this divided four-lane. I see only a few cars in the other direction over the course of many miles. In places the road is a bit wet from earlier heavy rain. But I never ride through anything more than light drizzle despite the earlier dark clouds. The signs along the road call this the "Appalachian Highway." It's a nice ride and I make good time.

The sun is low in the sky and night appears to be closing in, but part of the fading light is due to the overcast. I look at the map in the clear pocket of the tank bag and see the city of Athens, Ohio is about forty-five minutes straight ahead. That's probably a good place to stop for the night. I have camping equipment but would rather not risk the weather, and I'm tired from the heat and the rain.

As I ride into Athens there's a Budget Host motel on a hill to the right and I stop. It's a bit old and run down, but good enough for me. It's designed so that all the rooms face the parking lot - the bike can be parked right outside the room, which is good. After checking in at the front desk, I get a room a few doors down from the main office. The motel is almost empty.

The room, inside, is hot. I turn on the small, window air conditioner in the back wall, and go outside to unpack.

Everything is held on the bike with elastic bungee cords. From the passenger seat, I undo the throw-across canvas saddlebags, the sleeping bag, the foam sleeping pad, and the small tent. From the luggage rack in the rear, I unhook the round tail bag. Then everything is carried in except for the magnetic tank bag which, for now, stays on the tank - I plan to go into town to find a place to eat and may need the map.

Inside the motel room it's still hot although the small air conditioner is producing cold air. Just not enough of it. I had planned to take a shower and relax for a while before going out but, instead, decide to leave now and let the room cool. I grab my gloves, helmet, and jacket.

As I walk outside, I notice the bike is tilting at an odd angle. Weird. Upon closer inspection I see that the kickstand has sunk about two inches into the hot pavement! Another few minutes and the bike would have been down. I must remember to find something to put under the kickstand before I park it for the night.

Riding around the town of Athens, Ohio University can be seen in the direction of the setting sun. Large place. A partially dry river runs around three sides of it. I find a row of fast-food restaurants on the edge of campus that are open but mostly deserted. Not much going on here on the 4th of July. Many students have gone home to be with family and friends, I suppose.

At dinner the fast-food place is empty except for me and a table of young people, probably college students, not speaking in English. French maybe? I look out the window and pretend I'm in Paris. I see an old couple casually walking down the sidewalk holding hands, enjoying the early evening calmness. Yes, this could be France... or perhaps Ohio, I've never been to either that I recall.

On the way back to the motel I stop at a gas station to refuel for tomorrow's journey. The attendant is very attractive, probably a college student, or maybe a local girl. She asks, "what kind of motorcycle is that?" as I pay. (It's difficult to see the bike from inside.) Wow, I think, a cute girl who's into bikes! I say in my friendliest voice, "a Suzuki." She seems... unimpressed. Sensing this, I quickly add, "it's a 250!" She seems... unimpressed. At this point, I don't bother telling her that I'm staying in the Budget Host motel down the street. Some people are just hard to impress.

"Thou art that" and "there is no difference between what one believes and what one perceives." This wisdom comes from many religions. Some people see a dirty little bike, cheap at that. Others see a vehicle of great wisdom and adventure. Same thing. Different perception. God looks out for us sometimes, and for that, I am glad.

Back at the motel, I remove the tank bag and take everything inside. It feels better in the room now, still not cool, but not unpleasant either. I take a can of spray lubricant, a rag in a zip-lock bag, and a block of wood, outside to the bike. The first thing that's done is to find a crushed aluminum can to rest the kickstand on so it doesn't sink into the pavement again. Then I chock the rear wheel off the ground with the block of wood, and properly lubricate and clean the chain. Also, the dead bugs are cleaned from the front fork tubes so they don't damage the seals. Everything is checked over and appears to be in good condition. I lock the front forks, put a padlock in the brake rotor, and go inside for the night.
 

Day 2

The next morning it's beautiful out, and cool. At one point I woke up last night, looked out the window, and noticed it was raining. The bike and portions of the parking lot are still wet. I unlock the seat and remove it from the bike to dump the water out, then pack everything up, return the motel key to the office, and start the bike. It idles with a slow, familiar sound. It's going to be a good day for traveling on a motorcycle.

Out of the motel parking lot and up the hill to the main highway, as I lightly accelerate, the bike stumbles, something it's never done before. Or at least I think it does. It was brief and slight, and I'm unable to make it happen again. Could it have been my imagination? Was it real, an illusion? It's hard to tell.

The bike is running flawlessly as I travel a brief stretch of interstate north of Athens on my way to pick up Highway 550 east. The engine produces a firm, packed, drone up the hills and inclines as I leave the city behind.

A green mini-van is traveling in front of me as I contemplate what is real and what is illusion. My perception seems contradicted by what I know of science. The mini-van appears real, but in fact, it's made up mostly of empty space between atoms, molecules, and subatomic particles. At least that's what science tells us. It only appears solid; I should be able to ride right through it. The exit for Highway 550 is coming up and I take it, leaving the mini-van to continue toward Columbus OH.

The perceived stumble in the bike at the motel this morning remains a mystery that I don't have enough information to solve.

Science isn't accurate enough to predict some things, such as precisely what might cause a bike to stumble for no apparent reason, or how to quantum mechanically pass through solid substances such as mini-vans. If I rode fast enough, I might be able to pass through that mini-van by random chance, if all the particles lined up in just the right place at the right time. But although that might be possible, it's probably not likely to occur in the lifetime of THIS universe; which is why I didn't attempt it on this trip. Anything is possible, but some things are more probable than others.

Highway 550 makes a sharp turn to the right. It was clearly marked but I ride right past it, and have to turn around and back track. Interesting how we sometimes don't notice some things that are so large and obvious simply because we aren't looking. We catch a glimpse of it out of the corner of our eye, turn around, and then ask ourselves how we missed it.

Through all my years of formal education, I thought math and science revealed everything that we could know with certainty. If it wasn't governed by a law, an equation, or a principle, it was indeterminate and unknowable. Engineering, the discipline that I studied, would seem to suggest this. But all technical disciplines, I now realize, are only tools, human inventions, and sometimes poor ones at that, to help us predict and understand things within the limitations of our mind. The only things that we can know with certainty in this life, and without limitations, are the things that come from the spirit and the heart. Science can build a motorcycle, but only a human can care one way or the other. I think how much I care for this motorcycle, and I realize, the mini-van, my body, and the motorcycle itself, are mostly illusion. Only the caring part is completely real.

As I fly by, a flock of startled bluebirds along the roadside take refuge in the woods. You don't see many bluebirds where I'm from. I'm not sure why.

The little 250 cc thumper continues to run well and Highway 550 is a terrific highway. Nice windy hills and curves, green hills and woods. It reminds me of the scenery south of Lexington KY, but without the heat and humidity of yesterday. I'm headed toward the town of Marietta Ohio. From there I'll head north on Highway 7, a scenic route along the Ohio River.

I'm looking forward to traveling along the river. There seems to be something ageless and timeless about large rivers, relaxing and thought provoking.

A few oil wells can be seen along the road and in the distant fields. They blend in nicely with the trees and meadows and appear well kept, unlike the ones out West where the land is not so rich and fertile. In the distance is an oil tanker truck. He's moving at a fast pace considering the hills and curves along the road. I can see him when the view of the road ahead allows, but I never catch up with him even though I'm traveling at a rapid rate. He's obviously been down this road before.

We have much in common with tanker trucks, motorcycles, and especially blue birds and mother earth. We're all made of the same stuff. Our common ancestors were ancient stars that lived and died many billions of years ago, but left behind ashes consisting of all the elements we're made of. When combined in just the right way, they form a whole that is greater than the sum. Whether animate or inanimate, we are all, quite literally, star stuff. We are connected to the universe by patterns that we as humans cannot see with our senses. Instead, we are distracted by illusions, such as mini-vans.

Suddenly Highway 550 ends with a stop sign. Highway 7 and the city of Marietta OH lie ahead.

The road twists and turns through the city. I like this town. It has a clean resort-like quality, not what I expected from a river town. When I look at a map, I form a mental image of how a place should look when I arrive. It's an interesting exercise, but rarely ever does it turn out to be what I expect.

On the other side of town, heading north on Highway 7, I get my first glimpse of the Ohio River since yesterday when I hastily crossed it in Kentucky hoping to avoid the storm. At an access area, I pull in and walk over to the river.

The river bank here is like a beach with lots of sand. The ground above is flat, only a few feet higher than the river, and remains flat until it reaches tall bluffs in the distance on either side. I grasp a handful of sand and let it slip through my fingers looking at the texture. It looks like beach sand, clean and white, like the coast of Florida.

As I ride along the river, I watch the patterns in the distance. It's difficult to see the direction, the flow is so slow and majestic. Old Man River, Father TIME. It's as though He's been here forever, moving slowly, immune to the fast moving busyness of the modern world.

Time - the fabric of our universe. We do everything possible to cheat it. We build computers that do a billion operations a second, and airplanes that move faster than sound. But the River just keeps flowing, slowly, in endless, changing patterns. How crude our technology. How limited our lives.

Our thoughts, our actions, send out ripples that cause events to happen and consequences to occur; complicated, changing patterns that we can't see, but that are far more real, and more important, than all that can be seen.

I pass by a large lock in the river. The water on the up-river side appears to be about three feet higher than the water on the down-river side. Smallest lock, in height, I've ever seen, but perhaps not uncommon.

A few units of space later, I pass a large tug boat pushing a massive array of barges up river. It's an impressive sight. The Captain must sense the patterns in the fabric really well to control such a massive structure.

At a bridge that crosses the river at New Martinsville WV a sign reads, "Construction ahead expect long delays - West Virginia Route 2 suggested." I follow the suggestion and cross over the river into West Virginia, then turn north again.

Highway 2 parallels the Ohio River, but on the West Virginia side. There's more traffic here, perhaps in part due to the construction, but also there's more large industry on this side.

On the left side of the highway next to the river is a chemical plant of some sort. The tanks and plumbing and process control logistics seem to stretch for miles. A lot of technology went into this operation. And like the motorcycle beneath me it appears to be running on its own without human intervention, although that's not really the case. There are a massive number of calculations occurring every second to keep the process at that chemical plant running. The same could be said of piloting the cycle along the curves in this winding river road. It would appear that science is in control of both that chemical plant and this motorcycle. But, if we depended on science to ride a motorcycle down a curvy highway, the calculations involved each and every second in keeping everything in balance would be overwhelming. Yet humans do it easily with nary a number nor an equation in our heads. To believe that science controls the cycle, is an illusion.

The road is rural and curvy except for the industry along the river bank. Several large power plants with massive concrete cooling towers can be seen for miles in the distance.

Perhaps that's one of the things that makes piloting a cycle so enjoyable - this compression of time and space that seems to occur. According to the science of calculus, many calculations involving the boundaries of time and space must happen in a very short period to control this machine that defies gravity. But, in fact, these calculations never happen. We control the cycle completely without them. To be in control of a cycle traveling gracefully is to escape illusion and know no boundaries.

At Moundsville I cross back over the Ohio River onto Highway 7 and find a place to refuel and have lunch. This deli sandwich tastes really good for an illusion, I think to myself as I contemplate what I do for a living most other days of the year. The cycle is sitting in the parking lot. The weather is beautiful and pleasant. I'm eating alone at a table outside.

My occupation seems remote and insignificant under these conditions. I'm a neuroimaging engineer at a research institution. Part of my job is to design systems that allow research scientists to determine what parts of the brain are active, and therefore responsible for certain thoughts and perceptions. To do this Nuclear Magnetic Resonance, better know as MRI or Magnetic Resonance Imaging, is used.

A breeze blows my jacket from the seat of the cycle and I pause from eating long enough to pick it up.

MRI uses two extremely abundant properties of the universe, magnetism and radio frequencies, to create detailed, three-dimensional images of the brain and other parts of the body. We can't sense magnetism or radio frequencies with our human senses, yet through technology we can use them to create a detailed visual image of hidden human structures. With the right processing, we can see areas of specific activity, or human thought itself, represented by patterns of colored light in the images. The entire process is quite complicated, involving millions of dollars in equipment and many millions of calculations in dimensions of time and space that we can only understand through the science of mathematics. As I stare at the motorcycle, resting quietly, I think how inefficient the whole process is. Perhaps if we had 7 senses, instead of the five that we have, we could sense these patterns directly without the aid of any scientific hocus-pocus. Perhaps if we had 9 senses, we could sense the ways in which these thought patterns affect the flow of time and space, the way a tug boat captain senses the flow of the river from the patterns in the water. Perhaps if we had 10 senses we would lose all perception of human illusion and become the patterns themselves, at one with the universe and with everyone who has ever lived. Then, vehicles such as motorcycles, tug boats, and MRI machines, as well as the tools of thought that allowed us to create them in the first place, would be unnecessary, as superfluous as mathematics to a motorcyclist navigating a curvy road; and like a motorcyclist navigating only through deliberate thought, we would no longer be limited by human illusion and would truly know no boundaries; the universe, and everything in it, would be an infinitely knowable, infinitely perfectible extension of ourselves.

It never fails, after I've been off the cycle for a few minutes, no matter how far I've traveled, I'm always anxious to get back again. I'm getting closer to my destination. Lunch is finished and I'm on my way, speeding up the modern day trail by the old, slow river.

The road construction avoided by crossing the river is far behind me and I'm making good time on this clear pleasant day with nothing but brilliant, almost fall-like, blue sky in front of me. Somewhere in the distance, in that blue sky, is my destination. Being on a cycle I feel a part of everything around me, no longer separated from the scenery as in a car. I am a part of it. Geneva Pennsylvania. It appears to be about 170 miles away on the map, but I can feel it in the distance.

This old river road has turned into a modern four lane highway in the here and now, but some of the houses and towns along the river appear to have been around for a very long time. Row houses, I will call them, though I'm not sure if that's the correct term; they are tall multi-floor houses, built within a few feet of each other, standing in rows along the road. Someone later explained that these houses were built many years ago when many small steel mill towns existed along the river and land and space were at a premium. The steel mills are gone now but the houses and towns still exist. Some houses are, perhaps, close to a hundred years old.

The ones that have been well cared for are pristine and beautiful, others have totally collapsed into lumpy, rotting heaps. Such a contrast, and often side-by-side; it's so huge and obvious a difference, yet the cause is so easy to overlook. But it's there, hidden in the rubble. Caring is the thing that makes the difference. It's a very strong and positive force in the fabric. And like many strong forces unseen, its potential to hold things together is often taken for granted. But the absence of it is easily observed in the decay of things that don't receive it. No different than if a strong explosive device had released its energy upon it. And no less powerful. It's why I do my own motorcycle maintenance.

Do I take the interstate highway to get through Youngstown OH quickly, or follow Highway 7 all the way into town and go a slower, more congested route. The junction is coming up where it would be appropriate for me to decide. I choose the quick route.

Caring for a motorcycle might be seen as selfish by some. After all, aren't humans the only things that matter, the only thing truly worth caring about? With proper sense and balance, caring orders all things into a harmonious equilibrium. The result is a joyous ride where humans are never left out of the equation. To care only for humans, whether friends or family, is to leave out an extremely important part of the journey, to miss the big picture, to overlook the majority of the universe upon which we depend and are a part of. Caring is a very positive force. But use it improperly, or mix it with a dose of ego, or don't bother at all, and chaos and destruction will follow. Things start falling, spinning themselves apart. This is so fundamentally true that even science has a law for it: the Second Law of Thermodynamics which states, "that the degree of disorder of a system will increase over time if left alone." In other words, the motorcycle will spin itself apart without proper maintenance. And proper maintenance comes only through caring.

Of course, the Second Law of Thermodynamics is only a scientific illusion. But the caring part - that's real.

There's a Harley rider keeping pace behind me on the interstate toward Youngstown. I'm riding at a steady 68 MPH, the highway is nice and smooth without much traffic. Lots of woods and small hills along this stretch, very beautiful yet ordinary scenery enhanced by the dark foliage of summer contrasting with the brilliant blue sky, and air that feels almost like fall.

I try not to be disrespectful of what others care about. Be it religion, science, or folly, it's not my place to judge. When I find myself upset, I usually realize it's because caring has been misplaced, perhaps on something trivial.

The bearded, bandana wearing, Harley rider that's been following in the distance passes me with a thumbs-up. We may be different, but all live in the same universe. And some things are so completely unknowable, given our human limitations, they're not worth fretting over. Much better to concentrate on things that matter, things that can make a positive difference, things, however small, that we can be proud of. There's Comfort and Quality in this approach.

The interstates around Youngstown are relatively busy and it takes lots of concentration to remain visible and stay out of everyone's way. Eventually, I make it to the exit that picks up Highway 7 again, north of town.

Highway 7 has changed from being a scenic waterfront highway to suburban sprawl. I stop at a Dairy Queen and have some ice-cream, which is eaten while sitting on the curb next to the motorcycle. Though I'm sitting directly in the bright afternoon sunlight, the temperature feels pleasantly cool. Amazing, the difference twenty-four hours and a few hundred miles can make.

After traveling north on Highway 7 a while, I turn east using the back roads as a roundabout route to my destination. Mostly, I wanted to get a feel for the area by going this rural route, but instead wind up spending much time looking at the map and trying to figure out my location. At one point I see a historical marker saying something about the Erie Canal. All I see is swamp! I would have liked to stop and read it, but I doubt the truck that's following closely behind can stop as quickly as I, so don't risk it. Eventually, I make it to the little town of Conneicut, PA which appears to be only about 15 miles north of my destination. At an intersection, there's a sign that says, "Geneva," pointing to the right. That's it! I take the road.

It seems I've gone more than fifteen miles. Did I make a wrong turn? That's part of the problem I've been having today - these roads aren't well marked because they're used mostly by local people who are familiar with the area, unlike me. I'm considering turning around, heading back into town to try a second time, when I notice the driveway just passed had a little black Honda Rebel 250 beside it. That's got to be the place!

The gravel driveway, lined with pine trees, goes up a small slope, and when I reach the top, about a dozen motorcycles come into view. I have arrived, and feel a fleeting moment of sadness. Strange. This always seems to happen when I reach a temporary destination on the cycle, then have to reset my thoughts toward something else. Sometimes it's more meaningful to travel than to arrive. But then, several people come out to greet me and I lose the empty feeling, becoming caught up in the present.

Some of the people I know from other events, and others I've never met before. They're all friends.

If I were a good writer, or even a writer, I'd try to describe each of them in terms of who they are. But I don't feel up to that because I doubt that I could do any of them justice.

They are an interesting group though. Many riders consider 250s "beginner bikes" - something to learn on until one obtains the skills and money needed to move up to something bigger and better. 250s are a good place to start, no doubt. But some people have been riding for a very long time and don't see them that way. I guess I'm one of those people. Satisfied, at least for now, with a cycle that's sufficient but not excessive, people with this in common are hard to find.

The Mt. Nebo hunting lodge where we're staying is a converted old house on many acres of wooded property. I think how beautiful it must be here in the fall. A few people have pitched tents in the big clearing that extends back into the woods behind the house farther than I can see. Most have opted to spend the night in the lodge, as do I for the first night.

Dinner, provided by one of the members of the group over the next few days, is excellent, as is the conversation. That night, and the next night, everyone gathers around a big campfire and talks. I mostly listen, but feel compelled occasionally to make comment so it doesn't appear that I'm being left out of the conversation. I learn much from listening. Someone mentions rain suits called "frogg toggs" that are lightweight and breathable, yet waterproof. That would have been excellent in yesterday's heat and rain. Others tell motorcycle stories and tall tales that may or may not be true, but are always interesting. It is becoming very cold as the evening wears on, probably in the low 50s, unusually cool, even for this far north in July. Everyone, reluctantly, retires away from the warm campfire for the evening.

My sleeping bag is on the top bunk of a bunk bed in a room filled with other cots and bunk beds. I have trouble sleeping - I feel trapped in the corner between the bunk and the ceiling. I decide, tomorrow evening, I'll pitch a tent and sleep outdoors - that would be much better.
 

Day 3

I'm up early the next morning, and am careful not to wake those still sleeping. Outside, in the still chilly but invigorating morning air, the cycles all stand in rows waiting for the day. Impressive. All kinds of them, mostly 250s, but a few bigger ones, and, some, or at least one, even smaller. Behind the garage at the end of the driveway, all by itself, is a little 50cc dirt bike that belongs to one of the kids. It's an ugly little thing, at least to most people. It has dirt and oil and mud caked all over it. But it has a certain beauty that's different from the other bikes standing in rows, all clean, with their glistening chrome in the morning sun. This little bike has given some child, maybe many, more fun and lessons on life than all the other bikes combined; it has taught much of coordination, balance, cause and effect, confidence, reality, limitations, perseverance, and illusion -- all the things necessary for life. I can sense from looking at it, it's one of the most valuable bikes here; it has a quality that transcends looks. Perhaps some of the other bikes have it too; but, with them, it's harder to see because of glittery paint and chrome.

The group ride through the Pennsylvania countryside that day is beautiful. About a dozen bikes of all shapes and sizes making their way through the small towns and twisty country roads. I don't particularly like riding in groups - too much to pay attention to with so many other riders - but this ride is just grand. The speed limit is forty-five most places and we move at a casual pace, some of the slowest extended riding I've done in seven hundred miles, but that Ok, I'm in no hurry. We stop at a restaurant for lunch where our tables overlook a huge wooded valley where five rivers meet; the scenery is breathtaking. Later that day, we stop at Drakes Oil Well, a historic site, where oil was first discovered in Pennsylvania. It's great just following, being a part of the group, and not having to pay attention to directions - I stay lost most the day not even knowing north from south, quite a contrast from my ride up. As we approach camp, and I accelerate lightly through the last turn before turning into the driveway, the bike stumbles. Just like yesterday morning, only more pronounced. It had done so well for the past few hundred miles I had passed yesterday's event off as either just my imagination, bad gas, moisture from the rain, or just the engine being cold. But I can't blame any of those things now - I've been riding all day, the engine is plenty warm and I've used the same gas as everyone else. A mystery. And like yesterday, it can't be duplicated. Every attempt to make it happen, fails. I thought that I had noticed some low speed surging during the ride, but it was so slight, I couldn't be certain. There's a sense that something may be going wrong, but I don't know what, and don't mention it because no evidence can be produced - it's just a feeling. Not very scientific.

As the sun goes down, I gather my camping equipment and pitch a tent underneath a giant oak tree at the edge of the woods. The ground is soft and grassy; the door of the tent faces the clearing and the woods on the other side in the distance.

Another great dinner this night consisting of grilled chicken and fresh corn-on-the-cob with an assortment of pastas and salads and side dishes. I find myself wishing I knew what they were all called. Growing up on a farm in the rural South didn't give a great deal of exposure to a variety of foods, a deficiency that's stayed with me to the current day. But, certainly, this hasn't affected my ability to appreciate. As in all situations where I'm fortunate to partake of that which I don't fully understand; my compliments to the one who made it possible (thanks Lisa)!

After a second night of good conversation around a warm campfire, I retire to the solitude of my own tent. The still glowing embers of the campfire can be seen in the distance and the starlit field and woods beyond, on this moonless, chilly night. All feels calm and right with the world. At peace. I don't know when things got so complicated that even simple things go unseen. Some things are so big that we can't see them, and some so small. We live our whole lives and hardly notice what's important. How nice it would be if everything I owned were contained in this little tent, and on that small bike in the driveway. How much simpler it would be to see what's important. I could live many lifetimes lying here looking out upon this earth of which I am a part, and never be bored by the mystery of it all. Sleeping just inches from the dirt of which I am a part and shall one day return to, is humbling and motivational. What am I to accomplish in life? What am I to possess when it's all over? Only now, and under these simple conditions, are the answers to questions such as these so clear: One day soon everything accumulated in life will be of no more value than the dirt on which I sleep and of which I am a part. The illusion of life will be over, and only the things that were real and permanent will matter. The good earth takes care of all illusions, over time.

It's chilly now, probably in the upper 40's. Although I'm enjoying this feeling of serenity and insight, I reluctantly zip up the tent and crawl into the warm sleeping bag. It's so cold that I zip the bag above my head and make a small hole to breath through. Once this is done, I'm comfortably warm and fall asleep easily, something that rarely happens.
 

Day 4

The next day I'm packed and ready to leave around 10 AM. All that remains is to say goodbye to everyone. A few have left already, but most are still in the process of packing and leaving on this Sunday morning - another beautiful day. I say the perfunctory good byes to everyone and ride to the end of the driveway then stop and look back. A feeling of sadness comes over me at having to leave this place. It will be a long time before I return - at least a year, and much will change; it's the only thing we can be sure of; change. Somehow at this moment, that seems depressing. But I'm sure I'll get over it, and at the moment I have a decision to make; do I turn right or left? I turn right and head for Interstate 79, anxious to get away quickly, at least for now.

The speed limit on Pennsylvania interstates is 65, which is a nice speed for a 250. I'm heading south on I-79 towards Pittsburgh. The plan is to bypass the northern part of the Ohio river, which I've already seen, and catch the southern part which I didn't see on the way up. To do this I'll travel south on I-79 then pick up I-70 southwest of Pittsburgh, go through a sliver of West Virginia, then catch Highway 7 again around the town of Wheeling.

Traffic outside of Pittsburgh is heaver than I would have expected on a Sunday. The interstates are in poor condition with a number of potholes and rough places. The SUVs on the road and to a lesser extent, mini-vans, make travel more difficult on a motorcycle. When one of these vehicles cuts in front, I can't scan the road ahead for potholes and rough spots, or much of anything else for that matter. Surprisingly, even riding with a semi truck in front, I can see far enough under the rear axles to avoid the bad spots, the same with cars and some mini-vans by looking ahead through their window glass. But most SUVs are just too high, and wide, and low to see very far ahead. I try to avoid riding behind them as much as possible, especially under conditions as these. Very dangerous. I wish people would rely on skill and wisdom and common sense to keep themselves out of harms way instead of mass and brute force.

Interstate 70 toward West Virginia improves a bit and I have time to relax a little, now headed west toward the Ohio River. Crossing over the Pennsylvania state line into a tiny part of West Virginia, the speed limit increases to 70 MPH, but most people are doing 80 or more. I pick up the pace to about 75, which is faster than I would like. The little engine, although it is capable of bit more, makes a strained sound at this speed. Approaching the Ohio River, the interstate turns uphill in a long incline that lasts for miles. For the first time during the trip, now a thousand miles long, I twist the throttle all the way open; the little 250 thumper is making all the power that it is capable of and I ascend the long incline wide open at about 65 MPH. Still, even though I'm traveling slower than some traffic, there's a slow lane on the far right, and much of the traffic in that lane is traveling slower than I. Although the little thumper is at its limit, it's not nearly as stressful as Pittsburgh where the bike was nowhere near its limit.

Once at the top of the incline the interstate winds back down toward the river. The road condition is good and the weather is pleasant. It's a nice ride and I'm happy to see the Big River again.

Over the river at Wheeling, I stop on the Ohio side to refuel and rest, for both me and the bike. The bike is filled at a place that is both a gas station and fast food restaurant. I push it from the pump to a parking space and go inside to pay. While eating lunch at window table, with a view of the bike outside, I make an entry in the log book and notice that I've traveled exactly one thousand and ten miles so far. The mileage works out to 74 MPG for this last leg since filling up yesterday. I'm averaging about 77 MPG for the trip and, so far, have spent a grand total of under $20 for gas. Not bad for a thousand miles.

On good old Highway 7 again, this time headed south toward Kentucky. Gentle mid-afternoon sun on my right, deep blue Old Man River ambling slowly on my left, and a smooth gently curving road ahead. Sunday afternoon, almost all to myself. It's a great day to be alive, flying through time and space, alone with my thoughts, on a small motorcycle.

I make a mental note that for the rest of this beautiful day, I'll not 'think' but 'feel.' Just enjoy the present for what it is, and attempt not to let the limiting influences of time and space, impose. They are, after all, irrelevant, illusion, folly. And freedom from their imprisonment brings true reality closer to grasp.

I seem to be totally alone traveling this empty highway in the dying afternoon sun, but this too is an illusion. Thoughts of my spouse and my feelings for her fill my consciousness even here traveling through remote space and time at 60 MPH. The feelings are unchanging, independent of speed and distance, unaltered by time and space; that's how I know they are REAL. In a world of science built on a foundation of illusion, what is real is sometimes hard to see. Having found it in another may, in fact, be the only Real accomplishment in life thus far. And for that I'm both lucky and grateful.

Being alone on this particular journey is a good thing, though. Sometimes the best cure for loneliness is not the company of others but rather to be totally alone, with only one's self and the universe for company. Then the things that are important are more easily seen - including the fact that no one is ever truly alone.

In the town of Gallipolis OH outside a small, rundown tattoo parlor I spy a large liter-class sport bike parked at the curb. As I ride by I do a double take. To its backside, where the passenger would normally sit, are strapped two large silver canisters of nitrous oxide. Nitrous oxide is an oxygen rich gas used to enhance the power of internal-combustion engines. What's unusual about this setup is that this class of motorcycle is already among the fastest standard production vehicles on the planet. Straight from the factory it is capable of accelerating to speeds of over 100 MPH in approximately 5 seconds. That's about the best current science and technology can produce "off the shelf" in an effort to escape the limitations of time and space for an average individual. And, still, it's not fast enough for some. I can't help but think that perhaps the owner of this bike is taking the wrong approach. That the solution to cheating time and space falls outside the realm of technology and more within the realm of the mind and soul. But I could be wrong; after leaving Gallipolis I find myself wishing I had at least taken a picture of the nitrous oxide bike, just in case.

In Huntington West Virginia I cross back over the Ohio River just east of the Kentucky boarder. The sun is low in the sky after having ridden the last southward bound leg of Highway 7 from Gallipolis. I decide to stop and have dinner at a seafood restaurant. The food inside is really good for a fast food variety. Maybe I'm just hungry.

Outside and ready to depart, I turn on the key and hit the start button. The cycle kicks over once then coughs and dies. Hummmm... it's never done that before! I try again, but still, it will not start; it just keeps cranking. I assume it's flooded and turn the key off. The engine is still plenty hot from the ride and I'm hoping after a minute or two the fuel, if it is flooded, will evaporate allowing it to start. I pretend to read the road map on the tank bag while I sit and wait. After a minute or two, I hit the starter again and it starts right up. I ride off into the setting sun, a bit of concern about what just happened.

Outside Huntington the sun is so low in the sky ahead it's difficult to see. I've crossed into Kentucky and had planned to head to Morehead for the night but because of the sun I, instead, turn southward on Highway 23. According to the map, there's a campground about twenty miles south of here on Yatesville Lake outside the town of Louisa KY. Camping on a lake sounds nice and relaxing, but I'm still a bit uneasy about the cycle.

Headed south on Highway 23, it's running perfectly. Perhaps just a bit of partial throttle surging that shouldn't be there, but it's ever so slight. The sun has slipped below the horizon and there's a chill in the air. This four lane highway, which a sign on the roadside proclaims "The Country Music Highway," is almost completely deserted.

Plenty of time to think about the cycle along this lonesome stretch of early evening highway. I'm thinking the problem almost has to be the spark plug. It was replaced this winter with one of a cooler heat range because the standard plug was white in color. Maybe riding in the rain on the way up and the slow day of group riding in PA has caused it to foul. Since it's only a single cylinder engine, the condition of the plug is very important. I have a spare but would rather not attempt to replace it when the engine is hot, so make plans to check it in the morning while the engine is cool - provided the campsite exists and I actually find it tonight! This area is more remote than I imagined from the map - not even any houses, just woods and trees and a small river that parallels the road on the east.

Suddenly, one of the largest McDonald's I've ever seen, along with a large gas station, appear out of nowhere in the distance ahead. It's the turnoff for Highway 32 that will take me west to Yatesville Lake and the state park campsite. I'm relieved. Maybe this campsite exists after all. I was beginning to have my doubts.

The ride along Highway 32 seems to take forever but eventually a sign announces the turnoff for the campground. The campground road is newer, wider, and better marked than Highway 32 itself. A few miles down the curvy campground road, I reach my destination.

After a campsite is found, everything is unpacked from the bike, and the tent is set up quickly in the fading light. The campsites aren't actually on the lake but that's OK, this place seems pristine and beautiful, and new.

With everything unloaded, set up, and stowed away for the evening, I take a walk to the shower building. It's one of the cleanest facilities I've seen, large, new and hardly used. I have it all to myself.

It's completely dark outside on the walk back to the campsite, so dark I'm having trouble knowing if I'm walking in the road, the gravel, or the ditch. For a fleeting moment I'm afraid that after riding over a thousand miles I'll become lost in the dark and never find the vehicle that got me here. Eventually, I do find the campsite though. And of course I did have a flashlight in the tent, where it was useless for the clumsy walk back. I put the light to good use and find a small bag of peanuts and bottle of water in the tank bag which is now stored in the tent with the other stuff, and relax for a while.

A million stars fill the moonless sky above the quiet, distant trees as I sit in the small tent looking out. Not many campers here considering it's the middle of summer. All is quiet. It's a bit surreal, this place happened upon in the middle of nowhere. The cycle stands before me in silhouette against the night sky like a mysterious monolith with a backdrop of stars. I try to imagine how things might have looked a thousand years ago had I been sitting on this very spot. The stars, the sky and trees would have looked approximately the same. But this mysterious, oddly-shaped thing called a motorcycle would have been completely incomprehensible. No different than if a personal, warp-drive Star Cruiser were hovering quiescently before my present-day eyes.

Our universe and all its possibilities are too complex for us to comprehend given our limited powers of human perception. When we perceive something that is beyond perception, if we perceive anything at all, what we wind up seeing is illusion. But the illusion appears to be very real. Which is why for so many years we thought our world was flat. And that time and space were constant and unchanging; that they were real.

I hope to make it to the stars someday, and beyond. But within the limitations of this "a priori" illusion of time and space that we call the present, this little cycle may be as close as I come for now. And it will more than do, for now.
 

Day 5

The next morning I'm up early, anxious to discover what's causing the problem with the motorcycle. I'm calm and relaxed which is the best state to be in when working on a cycle. It's a clear morning, perhaps a bit warm and humid for so early, but we are further south now. The tool pouch is unfolded carefully on the ground next to the cycle for easy reach. I've done this sort of maintenance many times before and take comfort in going slowly and doing the job well.

First order of business is removing the reflective chrome cover on the side of the cylinder head to gain access to the spark plug. I dislike this shiny cover. It's for show only and, worse, is an obstacle that gets in the way of maintenance. In order to do anything meaningful, it must be gotten past.

On this particular machine the spark plug is in a deep well. It is a bit difficult to get at, but with patience is extracted. I'm surprised at the color of the spark plug's ceramic tip. It's very dark. This could have easily caused the less than optimal performance noted over the past several days.

Earlier in the year, the original plug on this machine was replaced with a "cooler" heat range plug. During a long trip like this, I would have expected even a "cool" plug to run hot. But it didn't. Probably the rain and humidity, and slow riding in PA aged it prematurely. So much for logic and conventional wisdom. Seems the physical world will always throw you a curve when you assume too much.

The plug is replaced with a spare of proper heat range and type from a box in the tank bag and I lay the old plug aside. It would have continued to work, but the cycle wouldn't have been running at its best. Good maintenance. Caring. It's a good feeling. Knowing this good little machine with its intricate air-cooled cylinder and shiny new spark plug is running well, makes replacing the reflective chrome cover more difficult. Once the chrome goes on, the essence of the machine is hidden underneath, nothing of significance shows, all that is seen is illusion, just a reflection of the person looking.

Feeling good about the cycle now, a while later, when all the luggage is packed, I step back to get a picture of it standing in the humid, early morning sun all loaded and ready to go. A woman walking down the path sees this and asks if I'd like a picture of the bike with me next to it. I tell her, "no, that's ok" and in an effort to be polite, ask if this campground is new. I learn not only is the campground new, but the lake is new, the McDonald's that I passed on the way in is new, that her car broke down day before yesterday, that she's here with her brother and his family, that there are several good lakes and campsites to the north around Morehead, and that she's a school teacher on summer vacation. I guess a motorcycle isn't the way to travel if you don't want to be noticed or talked to.

I'm almost ready to hit the starter as I look around the campsite one last time to be sure nothing's left behind. That's when I see it, the discarded spark plug on a rock beside the sand-filled campfire ring next to the spot where the tent was pitched. The old spark plug all by itself, I had forgotten about it. I lean the cycle on its stand and walk over. A campfire has never been built here. The sand is clean and white just like by the river bank I stopped beside a long, long time ago. I pick up a handful of sand and let it run through my fingers. I can see it, and touch it, and it appears to be real. We live our lives, picking up a handful of sand from the River of Time and we call it real, our universe, because it's all we can see and touch. It slips from our grasp and then disappears like so many people before us. How naive and simple we are. Believing that it's gone, when it's hardly begun.

I toss away the old spark plug, and ride away.

So many miles to go before I make it home. I'll meet lots of interesting people along the way and see many sights. I'll sweat through the whole state of Kentucky. Where my journey eventually takes me I cannot begin to comprehend. But one thing's for sure. I'll not slip from the grasp of this illusion called life never having bothered to live.
 

-Patrick Henry
Copyright 2003

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