She scrunched her eyebrows and made a serious face, as her lips curled outward, baring her teeth. Then, bending her knees slightly, almost as if to mimic being seated on a motorcycle, she held out her right arm in a fist, cocking it upwards.
"Rrrrrraaahhhh!" she screeched out, showing me her racing impression, then laughing afterwards.
The twenty-something year old girl I met in a bar in downtown San Diego the other night, who seemed so much in love with the motorcycling lifestyle, to the point of being sexually aroused, wanted to tell me about her passion for riding.
"I guess you're going to have to get it fixed", I replied, not knowing what else to say.
"Yeah, if I only had the money."
And I can't really see what lies on the other end of the curve. I can only let my mind speculate on what the road will reveal. I don't want to set any expectations for fear that I'll be disappointed where I'll end up. I don't want to tell myself that I've been down this road a hundred times because I don't want the act of running away to become boring. I want the motorcycle to make me feel alive.
It's often said that "it's not about the destination but the journey."
But even today in my 40s it feels like I'm still looking for something more. The more I keep running away, the more I want to find a place to belong. The more I settle into a place, the more I want to leave it behind. Yet as long as I'm on the motorcycle, I feel better about things.
I guess it's the anticipation of finding something new over the crest that keeps me hoping and dreaming. It's not knowing what lies on the other side that makes me want to venture down the road. Maybe it's just finding something new about myself that inspires me to ride on.
Even if I've already been there a hundred times, there's still that small chance something new will happen, that some additional variable will get thrown into the mix, setting off a chain of events carrying me away to some place I had never expected. That's what keeps me going, the hope of discovery.
I don't necessarily know if I'm heading in the right direction, or if I've gone completely off-track, but it doesn't matter. I just want to bypass the muck and clutter, get past the objects in my way, and move out into that wide, open road where I can see for miles and miles. As long as I know the possibilities are endless, it feels as if my life will last forever.
What causes a guy like me to think this way? Why don't I want to put down roots like other men? Will I ever just stay put and build a lasting legacy? Somehow, motorcycles seem intended for souls like mine who just want to drift along the highways in search of something they'll never find.
Sometimes, it's not even about the journey, but the quest itself.
At the end of the day I'm still back at a building I call "home". And I'm not even sure why I bother to have a television, or a couch, or even my own set of bath towels. It's just more shit I can't tie down with bungee cords. Yet somehow, I do this to myself, remaining grounded to a street address, and then looking out the window dreaming about that other road I passed by.
Belonging seems just a crutch we use to feel safe from the external. Whatever it is that we seek to hold on to, is just a way to comfort our insides. The more belongings we bring in, the more comfort we get.
But that's what Sash does for me. She adds the excitement. She steps in and breathes life into an otherwise lifeless world. I don't know yet if that's enough to keep me from exploring, searching, and dreaming. Why she bothers to hang around someone who can't seem to feel comfortable is beyond me. But if she wants to ride with me, she's more than welcome.