Drinkin gasoline

Forewarning (!): This is very rough. Forewarn’d

I went for a good, long ride on the other day, my first in quite some time. I had forgotten the exhilaration and peace that comes with riding. The oneness between the rider and the road, the respect that must be given to the asphalt passing mere inches beneath your feet at  seventy miles per hour, sights and smells of the road that are missed in any other vehicle, the rider salute. There’s a certain level of serenity that can only be achieved on a bike.

I had discovered the route I used completely on accident. I noticed that there was a road that went back behind the Wal-Mart I frequent. I had no idea where it went, if it went anywhere at all. Exploration was the intent, so I explored. I ended up on a road that may be the best road one could ask for out in the desert, save for Joshua Tree National Park, which is another story. This road had the perfect combination of straight-aways, curves, hills, and distance. I could have gone on for much longer than I had, if I so chose.

                I rode through a short neighborhood which emptied out onto a road that led either into the mountain or back to the highways. I went into the mountain.

                I had no idea where I was going, except that I hadn’t been there before. I saw various roadsigns telling me about the next point of interest, all of which I used as potential turn around points. The first was Flamingo Springs. It sounded like a nice enough place, odd location for flamingos, but something to see. The “Springs” is a desert ranch, a gas station, and what I think is a bed and breakfast. It wasn’t much to look at and only two miles out from the beginning of my ride. I moved on.

                I had come to the decision to just ride for a set distance. Setting a destination seemed counter intuitive to my original intent. I figured that twenty miles was a goodly distance to turn around. I approached that marker, it passed without a thought. Keep going, see where I end up. Twenty-three, twenty-five, twenty-eight miles passed. I was starting to get anxious. I had to turn sometime soon and get back home. This was the point, of course, that any convenient pull-offs had ceased. I had no choice but to keep riding, woe is me. Eventually, at around thirty-three miles, the shoulder opened up and allowed for me to get off the highway.

                I sat there for a few minutes, taking in everything, starting at the road I had just taken to get to where I was. I felt the old swelling of bliss in my chest. My eyes hurt, my hands were sore, and my wrist brought back memories of cutting my cast off and riding up to Washington with broken bones. I didn’t look forward to the end of my trip, but I couldn’t wait to travel there. After a quick leg and back stretch, I started back up and made my way.

                I had almost reached the main highway again when I was again reminded of some of the hazards of the road. Vehicles always drag air behind them, bigger vehicles drag more air. The lesson I relearned is that semi trucks are huge. I had crested a hill at just the same moment as a freight truck. Moments later, I was slammed by the drag. I don’t remember how fast I had been going, but it was fast enough to scare me half to death. Lesson learned. Minutes later, it happened again, but I was prepared this time. I was not, however, prepared for the sand it had picked up. Another reminder, I’m in the desert, there’s sand everywhere. Check. I’m not sure what a sand blaster feels like against a person, but I imagine it’s akin to that.

                I was approaching the road that I had used to turn onto this exploratory road when I realized that I had no idea what road I had taken to get to it. I also didn’t care. Again, I was forced to keep riding until I found my way to something familiar. Getting lost can be a wondrous thing.

                The road I needed revealed itself in it’s own time and my course was known. Time to go home.

                I had intended to write about the experience as soon as I set foot in the door. I don’t know if I had wanted to let the memories sit or if it was just laziness that prevented me from doing it in a timely manner. Either way, the romantic memories are far better now than they would have been at the time.