ALONG FOR THE RIDEby shaun roundy Wind whistles violently through the open visor of my helmet, and I imagine the same whistling surrounding the form of my black motorcycle as we hurtle along the mountain highway. The dotted yellow line in the center of the road becomes nearly solid below me as the speedometer reaches past the 110 mph mark. Fiery red, yellow, and orange trees fly by on either side; and the sweet scent of their falling leaves is strong in my nostrils, Al my senses combine to fill me with the gratifying sensation of being truly alive. Choosing to travel by motorcycle seemed natural after once listening to the advice offered by a friend: That the journeys in life are more important than the destinations. Since that time, long range goals have become "possible outcomes" as I concentrate on the present and the directions it seems to be leading me. There's no guarantee, after all, that, upon arrival, my destination will be all I once hoped it would be. I admit that life was far simpler when I believed in destiny, but having made the break from that concept, I will never go back, nor would it be possible if I tried. The point of no return occurred, for me, when I left for a three week vacation to China. I had been teaching English in Taiwan for five months, and planned to polish off my Asian experience with a trip to the mainland before returning to school, responsibilities, and my girlfriend. Travelling alone, I naturally linked up with other travellers, who happened to be students in Beijing. The giant oaks of their campus, the dry, cool weather, and the beautiful fall leaves captivated me; and the three week vacation stretched on for four months, months filled with experience, with adventure, with pain and joy, and and with something that I am still unable to understand or define. I returned home a different person to a changed world. Since many friends had graduated or married, I found myself alone in a culture that had grown somewhat foreign to me. Old goals seemed meaningless or impossible to attain, and to go on believing in destiny was to believe I had thrown mine away, having deserted it. Thus I had delivered myself into the indifferent hands of chance. Rather than accept this, I threw out the fairy tales and took my fate into my own care. I made new friends, changed my major, and purchased a fast motorcycle. The canyon narrows and becomes curvy. The joy of power and speed is exchanged for thrill of precise control as I steer around each curve, shifting smoothly, keeping the speed just right to allow me to get my knee as low to the pavement as I dare. Soon a winnebago appears before me, slowing me down and spoiling my fun, and so I resolve to pass it in a short passing zone placed awkwardly between the sharp curves. I shift down to second gear and open the throttle all the way, pouring gas fumes down the carburetors thirsty throat. Bytie I reach the nose of the camper, the bike is throwing me along the road at 70 miles per hour, still picking up speed rapidly. Then I am suddenly aware of the next curve rushing toward me now with frightening speed. A quick stomp on the brakes drops ten or twenty mph from the speedometer, but I no longer dare touch them for fear of losing my grip on the road as we go dipping into the turn, placing the entire weight of the bike, combined with the added G's of the turn, along the two narrow strips of rubber that still touch the asphalt. The fear that such a tight turn will make the bike slide out from under me is strong in my mind, but still stronger is the fear of tumbling over the guard rail and into the river. Tighter and lower and crazier I go until I can go no farther--the foot peg drags along the road beside me, and I wonder if sparks are flying up behind, but don't bother to check. "Don't slip, Don't fall! If I make it through this one alive, I promise to be more careful!" Inside, I know that this is not the first time I have uttered such a silent prayer. In the back of my mind lives the memory of a not-too-distant day when I found myself in a dissimilar but equally serious situation. The pines and fall leaves were traded there for the lush tropical vegetation of the island where I lived. I had come to the waterfall to relieve the discomfiture of the cabin fever which had beset me after being cooped up inside for days, while two typhoons ravaged the island, tearing down trees, derailing trains, and filling the streets with water. The waterfall was swollen, dumping twice the normal amount of water twenty five feet to the pool below, filled now with frothing, rumbling incantation. My heart raced with adrenalin as I gazed down into the boiling lagoon, and I jumped. Airborne! Flying, falling, and one deep breath before the waters surrounded me and the scream of falling water became an ominous roar filling my head--a cold storm thicker than a hurricane against my skin. Bare feet touched the gravel bottom and pushed me upward through the thick darkness like a torpedo, or so I thought, toward the foaming surface. I began to notice that the water level was considerably deeper than usual when I didn't break surface, then in an instant it all became clear as I felt the weight of the waterfall hammering down again on my shoulders and head. I was amazed at the clarity of my thoughts as my feet touched the bottom for the second time. "Push off, swim hard; if I get sucked down again I can panic." And so I gathered up my legs and shoved off, kicking and stroking with all my strength, fighting the current and the possible fate I had thrown myself into, feeling already the vacuum forming in my lungs, Then the familiar prayer,"If I make it out of this one..." The recollection of that delicious first breath is sharp and sweet as I again draw air into my starving lungs, realizing that I had held my breath throughout the entire turn. The bike is upright again and the needle on the speedometer now matches the number on the speed limit sign. Driving now at reduced speed, I discover the enchantment of watching the trees as the canyon wind sways their branches and tears dying leaves from their birthplaces, strewing them along the riverbanks, lifting them high in the air, and tumbling them along the highway where they dodge my rolling wheels. "POP!" I'm startled from my reverie by what sounds like a pheasant colliding with my radiator, but the wobbling of the bike quickly tells me I've had a blow out. At low speed, it's a simple task to maneuver off to the side of the road. As I slow to a stop on the shoulder, I am happy. Happy to be alive. Happy for a million other things. But I don't need a million things to be happy--that's what Dallen taught me one December night, years ago, not far from here. Something in the silence of a winter night is very different from summer or fall in the Rocky Mountains. Leaves no longer hang on the maples and aspen to rustle in the light breeze that often pours from the canyon mouth. At 3:00 am, Dallen and I, the final stragglers from a friend's Christmas party, stepped outside into the light snow that had been drifting down through the still air since the grandfather clock inside had struck twelve. The snow covered ground now sent sparkling reflections of the moonlight in every direction. Finding my car's battery drained and dead, the two of us began pushing it down the street for a push start. The new snow on the ground made the task difficult; feet easily slid and slipped along, as did the tires when I popped the clutch to try to turn over the cold engine. The air on my face had, at first, felt refreshing, invigorating. Now it bit hard at my mouth and nose, burning deeply into our lungs as we pushed the car on through the snow. "Aahh! I hate this!" I said, resting momentarily against the car, and then came the lesson: Dallen looked up from his edge of the car, smiling through his own pained gasps. "No way! This is fun!" His words brought a smile to my frozen lips. I was almost ashamed for not having said them myself. The sky was suddenly filled with stars as is only visible in the cold night air of winter; The familiar smell of coal and pine burning floated from the chiminees; and we laughed as we pushed the car another three blocks before finding a dry patch where the road crews had salted. Soon the car was running and we went home. Having set my bike up onto it's kickstand, I pull off my helmet and find myself surrounded by new sounds. As I watch the leaves fall, the cars drive by, and the river tumble along, I think,"I just may not make it home in time for dinner tonight," and smile. |