Last night, I was laying in bed, reading a book about motorcycles and motorcycle rides ‘n’ such. Suddenly, I recalled my post-Iraq road trip up to see the parental units. The trip is approximately 1300 miles from 29 Palms, CA to Anacortes, WA where I sit and wait for the ferry to take me home again.

    The ride is not, by any means, pleasant. The route I took anyway. For the sake of time I decided on the I-5 all the way up. There’s a stretch of road that starts around Bakersfield and goes until just south of Sacramento that has nothing but orchards, cows, dust, other desert thingies. No change of scenery. Ever.

     At some point, I had to pull off and gas up. I don’t remember where it was, but the over pass had an excellent view of the local cemetery. I stood there, for the whole 2 minutes it takes to fill up my 3 gallon tank, staring at this plot of land that has been there since God knows when. It was foggy and a bit difficult to see, which was odd enough given it was high noon and clear everywhere else.

    I paid my respects, locked my tank and went about my day.

    On the second day, I think, I had passed Sacramento and hadn’t hit Oregon, yet. No idea where I was. I came across a road sign claiming that there is a veteran cemetery in the town of “John Doe”, CA. I pulled off, feeling obligated to give my thanks and pop a salute to my brothers and sisters. I followed the road signs to where this place was supposed to be. I couldn’t find it. After an hour of searching, I gave my thanks to the ether, hoping it would reach them, and hit the road.

    Last night, for whatever reason, the memory flooded back, a peculiar thought accompanying it. I found a graveyard at random just going about my day and couldn’t find one when I went looking for it. Not to get morbid, but it raised questions about mortality and trying to see the end of the road instead of just riding it and enjoying what you’re seeing.