On September 16, 2015, i was wrestling an unfamiliar Harley Street Glide on a cold dark evening, winding my way up Rt. 120, anxiously climbing to the distant dream of a warm cabin in Yosemite. I was on the first day of a 2,000 mile, two week solo journey, skimming northern California, slicing across the bottom of Oregon, finally, clinging to the Pacific coastline on my return to San Francisco. I planned this trip to death, leaving little to chance, curtailing my propensity for getting hopelessly and effortlessly lost.
I chronicled the ride on my blog and for the first time, nearly two years later. I read all my posts because I wanted to feel the experience again. I am neither comfortable lingering in the mirror or reading my published writing, both making me feel uncomfortably self-conscious.
The ride put me so far out of my comfort zone, you’d have to be me to appreciate my becoming an emotional rubber band, stretching and shrinking at a dizzying pace. I am not the most graceful rider, with no history of doing anything even close to this kind of endurance contest. You spend seven straight hours straddling a behemoth Harley, with only your silent self for company, taking you to places you’ve never been before, only to be gone by morning.
From the moment I pulled up for the final dismount of my two-wheeled, emotional rocket ship until just now, I have wondered about its impact because that is how big it was. During the months before I left for the adventure, I was busy with endless details, trying to avoid how scared I was to be doing something so insane. At the same time, I knew I needed to do it, an experience I wanted to take with me for the rest of my private forever.
Months before the first anniversary of the ride approached, I started thinking hard about what I should do to carry forward on a promise I silently made to myself many times while I straddled that tugboat. Even riding through a series of hairpin turns with logging trucks trying to swallow me for lunch, I appreciated the incredible value of the entire experience. While I was positive I would never do it again, I was quietly proud of myself for having pulled it off, in spite of dropping the Harley a grand total of five times, lucky in each shocking instance.
I definitely didn’t want the motorcycle to be the central theme for any subsequent forays into the land of “I don’t know.” I began planning a second adventure. I put a deposit down on a van located in Vegas, for a ride into the Utah wilderness.Slowly, fear swallowed me and after laboring over it all, I cancelled. It would have been necessary for me to be a borderline survivalist and last time I checked, I am not the guy to rub two sticks together to make a fire in the middle of nowhere. While I initially felt relief, because it was a dumb idea, I also realized I had lost an entire year. I promised I would not do that again. While I still can’t muster the vocabulary to describe that mammoth motorcycle journey, it tattooed my soul into needing adventures that stretched me, forcing me to be completely awake, fully engaged.
Not too long after the botched plan to be one with nature, I began thinking about how I wanted to approach this travel thing going forward. The idea of going anywhere and seeing everything is way too much pressure, not to mention completely ridiculous. It is a race I can’t win, so enjoyment of where I happen to be will become my trophy.
Predictably, my Sunday motorcycle rides with the Sons of Kauai, especially on those perfectly magical days, was the time to let my mind gently fly, imagining all sorts of watercolor, timeless landscapes, with me, spellbound in the foreground.
During this last year, since the van debacle, I have been thinking of Europe as the first stop in my new and improved way to embrace the world each September. I Googled country after country and then back again. I wanted to visit a place where I could sense a less complicated time, when harmony between man and nature was the only way.
The winner for this year is Larry’s Somewhere Under The Rainbow Tuscany Adventure. I know for a fact that at least three or maybe four people, have been patiently waiting for my next travel adventure. Well, your prayers have been answered and mine are just beginning.
When I finished rereading my story of the motorcycle journey, I remembered how important it was to write to the invisible passenger, sitting comfortably behind me for the entire adventure, as I shared the day’s experiences. I hope some of you can find the time to go with me to Tuscany.