A Day in The Daily Life.

Day 1:

I woke up sometime around 5 a.m. I waited to check the time. I wondered what it time might be. I heard the King of Hearts come down the stairs. Him and the Queen of hearts keep a pack of wild dogs with them. Rescued, from the world outside of their hands. Good company. Good company. From inside my quarters, I hear the five of them walking back and forth, from room to room rustling about. Like the King he is, preparing the castle for the Queen. They do this dance. I can’t say what it really is, but all good deeds are reciprocated and all misunderstandings are soon over stood. A lovely place for a Knight to rest his head. A King and Queen, suited. A strong hand indeed.

Anyways, I’m layin’ in bed, pondering more about life. Tossin’ and turnin’. Gettin’ as much bed on me as possible. It’s gonna be a long day. Around 7 a.m. I’m thinking  of gettin’ outta bed. I got a plan here and I’m coming back to this bed before I leave today. I promise myself this, I promise the mattress this, I promise the pillows this, we’re all promised up and shit. Outta bed. Out there, playin’ with the dogs and shit. Sittin on the edge of my favorite chair. Shit, I almost forgot, opening my bedroom door in the morning is my fuckin’ favorite thing in the entire world. Never-mind the chair. Four dogs, just runnin’ right over, one step outta the doorway, and right into their beautiful fuckin’ faces. Living the dream. I been tellin’ y’all. Love. Pure love.

Ok, So the Queen comes downstairs and now it’s a party cuz it’s Monday and we all got a plan. She’s flying today and it’s best to just stay out the way. She’s focused and in the zone, just like her King and I’m fuckin’ loving it cuz I’m focused and in the zone too, I’m focused as fuck on that bed I just made all those promises too. The clocks tickin’ though and I’ve got to be on my way in about 3 hours. Big day today. Lot’s of things goin on, can’t tell you them all right away or at the right time. Keep up.

So we say goodbye and I hope it’s not the last time, cuz it’s nice to have people like this in my life, so I squeeze them a little tighter before I go. I try not to die from this life, but for certain people, I try a little bit harder. I’ve got about two hours to get my shit together and get out the door. Oh yes, before the Queen goes, I was questioning my route home. I was concerned with the weather. It was cold, cloudy, the roads were wet. Not idea motorcycle riding roads. The high road would be dry. But yea, before the Queen goes, she advises me not to take route 100. “Nothing to see there”. It was true and I agreed. The leaves have already fallen, the roads are cold, wet, and curvy. No reason to go down there. Cancel the 100. I’ll take the 89 to 91 to the 15, straight to home. Easy call.

So the Queen leaves and it’s me and the pups. I gotta take a shower. I gotta pack my bags. I don’t gotta get a coffee. I don’t gotta get breakfast. So I get my shower. I pack my bags. I’m thirsty, I’m hungry. It’s like 10 a.m. now and I’m like; “do I got the time? I don’t got the time” Also, I never got back in the bed. Broken promises. There’s a landfill outside of Hartford, Connecticut. On the right hand side, going along Interstate 91 North. It looks like a hill, covered in grass. Anyways, it’s full of promises I’ve made to myself and broken. Broken promises. Until next time bed, until next time.

So I walk over to the country store and it’s slightly a reconnaissance mission, cuz I wanna feel the air, see how cold it really is, and I wanna see the roads and see how wet they really are. I like to judge a journey of 300 miles on the first 100 feet of pavement I walk on. It’s kinda cold, kinda wet. Nothing a nice coffee and good breakfast sandwich can’t fix.

Fuckin’ bullshit ass breakfast sandwich. Fucked that up. Waste of $3.50. When you know better, you do better. Bullshit, I know better and still… woo-saw, woo-saw motherfuckers. Focused. Fuck that sandwhich. It’s damn near 11 a.m. Let’s get outta here.

First, I give peace and love to the pups. Murray, I talk to first. He’s the O.G. He comes from some other land. Far outside these gates. No family, no friends. Only memories. And nothing worth remembering at that.  He likes to spend his time alone, tucked away in the dark corners. He disappears in the light and his darkness shines in the shadows. He’s snappy, but if he likes you, he loves you and he’s as loyal as a dog.

I gently grab him by the head and pet him behind the ears. He stares into my eyes.

“Murray, be well old friend. I shall return. I’ll do my best to make it so. I shall return. You be well, be strong, and take care of all these other pups.”

I give him a pet, lean in, and kiss him on the head.

I get up and he looks up at me, holding my gaze. Before I turn away, I nod my head and he nods his.

Murray.

I say my goodbyes to the rest of the pups and head out the door.

(That’s not how everything really happened, but this was 12 hours ago and it’s been a long 12 hours.)

So now it’s around 11. Both ways. I was meant to head out sometime around now so I’m right on schedule. It’s about a 4 hour trip home. I add an hour for breaks at the state borders. 5 hours. Should be home around 4.

Alright, my machine. Takin’ this trip on  the R1. For y’all that don’t know, the R1 is a motorcyle. A very fast motorcycle. A very light motorcyle. It weighs about 380 pounds. It’s pushing 1000ccs and making 178 horsepower. It’s got a 4 gallon fuel tank that I put high test gasoline into. Right now, I weigh about 150 pounds. My gear doesn’t weigh more than 30 pounds. I changed the gearing. Lost a little top end. Gained some acceleration. I don’t need to ride 180 miles and hour down the highway anymore. I need to ride 100 miles and hour through the mountains. Anyways, my machine. She’s perfectly broken in. 16,000 miles. I bought her with 3000. Bone stock and just warmed up for me. I’ll never forget that day. I remember the first time I hopped on the parkway with her. I could not believe that I get to live in a world where a person like me can just walk in and buy a bike like this. It’s a two-wheeled rocket ship…

But yea, I’m up in the Green Mountains and heading down to coast. My home. A little Sub-urban town, that isn’t a town at all. It started as a town. A suburb of the City of Bridgeport. Now-a-days the populations grown so much, it can be considered a city. One day, I’ll tell you about my city, but today’s not that day.

Back to the bike. Yea, it’s a rocket shit, but it’s also a death trap and cop magnet. If she don’t do exactly what I tell her to do, exactly when I tell her to do it, we both gonna die. And at the same time, if I don’t do, exactly what she tells me I need to do, when I need to to do it, we both gonna die. Not to mention, if I push this bike too hard and them boys stop me, in this day and age, they very may well kill me… and auction off the bike. There’s three angles to this mission. Navigate the triangle of death. If you can survive the ride to each junction, you’ll find waiting there a man with a gun and a car who might kill you if he catches you. It’s exciting. Hurry up and take your time. Constantly watching. Constantly planning. Scattered, but pointed. Scanning the roads. Checking my speed.

I’m not even there yet. We’re still in the driveway. It’s 11 a.m. Bikes warming up and I’m geared up and ready to go. It’s still chilly. I got my helmet on. my leather jacket. a long sleeve sweatshirt, and a t-shirt shirt underneath. T-shirts tucked into a pair of blue jeans and under the jeans I’m wearing a pair of basketball shorts, a pair of long legged spandex, a pair of compression shorts, two pairs of socks, one wool, and finally, my cowboy boots.

I love riding in my cowboy boots. I got them a few years back, while learning to ride horses out in Montana. Great time. Perfect for riding a motorcycle. The brown leather goes well with the patina paint job on my bike.

I got my blue jeans in England this past spring and they were never meant to be riding jeans, but I got them kinda dirty during a hike a few weeks back and the stains wouldn’t come out so they got a promotion.

My black, leather riding jacket was a give from a long time ago. It’s seen many a storm and it’s never failed me yet. I wear black gloves, a grey kerchief around my neck, and a black and white helmet with a tinted black face shield.

The only part of me that pokes out is my dreadlocks and their amber tinted edges.

I love riding. It’s just me. By myself. Riding on top of my two wheels. Out in the open. Feeling the elements. The heat, the cold, the rain, the wind, the noise, the sun, the clouds, I love it all.

Like I said, it’s chilly this morning and I haven’t even started riding. I tell myself, “It won’t last long. As soon as we bust that left out of the driveway, we’ll fuel up across the street, and in less than 5 minutes we’ll be on the highway headed home. Out of the mountains and towards the warmer coast.”

I hop on my warmed up bike, put the kick stand up, pull the clutch in, and shift it into first. Slowly releasing the clutch and creeping forward towards the end of the driveway.

Once I get to the end, I look down at the road and then up towards the sky. To the left it looks like the road is dry, the clouds in the sky seem to be breaking up, and in some places, the sun is shining through. To the right, the road is wet, the clouds in the sky are dark and gloomy and a haze is covering the bare trees on the mountain tops.

I pause.

We both agreed.

Do not go that way.

There is nothing to see there.

The season has changed.

I slowly exhale, increase the throttle and release the clutch again.

I pull out of the driveway and take a right.

Sometimes, sometimes I’ve just got to exercise my rights.

So I pull out and I immediately regret this decision.

I was hoping the morning traffic would have made the roads dry by now, but I suppose in such a small town, there’s not much morning traffic.

And it’s cold. Damn cold.

And my helmet. It’s tight. My hair has gotten much longer than it was when I bought the helmet. The sides push against my jaw and the top presses deep into my forehead. I’m not claustrophobic, but it’s tight in here.

I press on, but for the first 10 miles I consider turning back. I tell myself all the reasons why admitting this is a mistake is a good thing and that it’s ok to turn around and start again.

I stop for fuel in Waitsfield and there my decision is made.

None of those reasons are good enough for me. What’s done is done and there will be no turning back. I came to ride in the mountains and ride in the mountains we will do. If it’s dangerous, it’l make me better.

So we continue on. Don’t crash, don’t get caught, and get home safe, preferably before the sun sets.

In the beginning, it’s just nasty. The air is cold, the road is wet, and my head is pounding. As each mile passes, I regret my decision more and more. I’m far enough north where the leaves have already fallen off of the trees and there’s no one around so it’s like riding through this post-apocalyptic world. One man, one motorcycle, one path.

I finally start to get into a groove and that’s when I spot my first cop. He was walking to his car after getting his morning coffee and donut. The sound of my exhaust tips him off and I watch him turn and look as I speed by. He’s too slow.

As luck would have it, right around the same time, the road starts to dry up.

I increase my speed and the carving begins. October is the time for carving pumpkins… and roads. The suggested speed limit is 50 in the straights and 35 in bends. On the r1 it’s 100 in the straights and 60 in the bends. It could be even faster, but even when I push it, I don’t really push it. It’s a marathon, not a sprint.

It’s one of the only things I can feel in my soul. Picking a line, heading into a curve, up on the balls of my feet, ass hovering above the seat. Working the gears, downshifting, engine braking, trail braking, heavy with the lean, smooth with the acceleration, and back into the straight.

The whole time, not worried about anything except what’s under my control.

“Am I in the right gear? Feet in the right place? Back straight? Hands and wrists relaxed? Face relaxed?”

“Breath. Breath. Breath. ”

We’re fuckin’ riding now.

If only for a moment.

After about an hour of riding on Route 100, the pounding in my head becomes unbearable and it’s time to take a break. I pull over at the junction of 107 and 100. Decision time. I can take 107 to 89 and be back on the highway in about 20 minutes. The only catch is although 107 travels east to 89 it also travels north and I don’t like back tracking. I’m headed south. No matter what, I’m goin down.

I check my maps and see that if I stay on 100 for a few miles I can catch route 4 east around Killington. I also remember that there is a small little deli right at the intersection and I know I take get a nice hearty lunch break there before I hit the highway. So that’s the plan…

So I pull off and continue south on 100 towards Killington. The road seems wetter, the clouds seem darker, and before I can put two and two together…

Rain. Rain kills the vibe.

It starts with a drizzle. This is my worst enemy. So much for breakfast. I can do rain. In the summer time. Without a backpack. Without my laptop. Without my ipad. Without my camera. I’m prepared for a drizzle. All these things will stay dry in a drizzle, but I’m back in civilization now and I see windshield wipers going and its really raining now. It’s time to get out of the mountains.

I pull up to the junction, I see the deli just across the way, but I say goodbye and pull off of the ol’ 100 and start out on 4 east. Right off the rip I see my second cop of the day. I’m not so lucky as the first one. This guys already had his morning donut and he’s already in his car. Just so happens he’s pulling out onto 4 east as well. Right behind me. As I pass him I pass the posted speed limit sign. It reads “50 mph”. I check my speedometer and it reads “60 mph”.

I think to myself, “Too close to call. Let’s get outta here.”

I slowly increase my speed while checking my mirrors. The idea is always the same. Bend the rules and respectfully avoid the cops. Don’t die.

It’s single lane highway, but the dotted line is my friend and although it’s steadily raining now, I pass a couple cars and put as much distance between myself and the law as I possibly can until it’s no longer a thought. All the while, the dark clouds are becoming lighter and lighter and the rain turns back into a drizzle until it completely stops.

Route 4 is a nice ride, but somewhat of a mistake. Many small towns with a 25 mile an hour speed limit and lots of mid-day traffic. About ten cars ahead of me, a tractor trailer sets the pace and it’s too slow for me. I can’t stop thinking about how hard my head is pounding and how cold it is. I’m getting a shiver in my chest. My neck is cold. My nose is running. My hands aren’t circulating as much blood as they were when I started. I need a lunch break.

I pass through town after town and no place looks like its worth stopping in. I get lost in my thoughts and think about the people who have made lives here. Wondering what they do. Never getting deeper than a wonder. I appreciate this place. Vermont. This lifestyle. Little pockets of people surrounded by an abundance of no people. No people. I like people. But… No people, no people is ok with me too.

So we’re riding and I’m headed towards White-River Junction. Or at least I think I am. I see signs for 89 and 91 south. I know 89 leads to 91 south, but there’s a sign for 91 south via 12. 12 wasn’t part of the plan, but I like a mystery.

While making the decision, I pass the turnoff and pull into a lumberyard. It’s my first turn around of the day, but well worth it.

I bust a left off of route 4, head south on route 12 and I’m immediately satisfied. It’s freshly paved, curvy road and it’s just me and my bike. No stoplights, no stop signs. It’s all go. One more session before we hit the highroad.

I can’t tell you exactly where my mind goes when I find roads like that. That’s the whole point. It doesn’t go anywhere. I don’t even use it. I just observe and the only thing to observe is that there’s action. Real life action.

At the end of 12, it’s just a short ride to the interstate 89, but I find myself tired and quite hungry. By now its 1 p.m and I’ve been on a solid two hour run. It hasn’t gotten warm yet,  so I know it’s time to get a nice hearty meal and a tea in me.

Diners are what I search for in places like this. Small little towns, almost village like, not in the middle of nowhere, but right on the edge of goin somewhere and lost. Real people who cook real food.

So I park the bike and pop into a tiny little diner in the heart of town. It’s a classic diner style and I love it right off the rip. There’s all types of old movie posters hung in frames along the walls. Classic style booths with turquoise vinyl wrapped benches that matches the design on the table top. Same as the the counter top and the stools seated there. On the corner of the counter is a stack of newspapers. In the far corner is a full size, cardboard cutout of Bernie. I’m still in Vermont and this is Bernie country for sure. On the far side, opposite Bernie is a chalkboard wall where the specials of the day are posted.

I don’t know why I’m going on and on about this diner. I had the chili with a side of cornbread and a tea. She sold me a slice of blueberry peach pie as well. I didn’t need the pie, but she said it would “change my life” and I’m always looking to pick up some change. It certainly changed my life. The day only got better after that pie. My last Vermont meal of the year. Damn good Vermont, Damn good.

After I finish my pie, I take out my phone and map my route home. Fuck. It’s damn near 2.p.m and I still haven’t even made it out of Vermont yet. Talk about not wanting to leave. Lingerer. By now, my original plan is fucked. I’ll never make it through Hartford without hitting traffic. I gotta go around.

The only catch to mapping a new route is that I have to write the directions down on paper, stick them in my tank bag and read them as I go along. There’s a pocket on the bag for my phone, but I just can’t seem to work it out with the phones gps. Somehow it gets me even more lost than found. So I take careful time to write the new route down and I tell myself; “Take your time and write this right so that future you is thankful”. Boy am I glad I did this. I start to pack my things put my gear back on.

Before I leave, the hostess asks if that’s my bike outside.

“Yes”

“Cold out there today, you have heaters in your jacket?”

“Yea it’s pretty chilly out there. Nah, I just layer up underneath. I’m headed south where it’s a bit warmer.”

“Where you from?”

“I come from Connecticut. Came up a few days ago to stay with some friends farther North. Riding seasons over up here, but we still have another few weeks to go down there.”

Something, something, something, I thank her for the hearty meal and continue on my way.

Before I hit the highway, I hit the petrol station and give the bike a few more gallons of high test. I got about 200 miles of highway driving and it’s 2 p.m already.  I do some simple math and figure because of my extremely tight helmet, I’m stopping every 50 miles or so. that’s three more stops at least. 10 to 20 minutes each. In addition to that, I’m going to have stop for fuel. If I time it right I can kill two birds with that stone, but the stops alone are going to add another hour to my time. The detour around Hartford is going to add another hour of riding, but that’s better than sitting in traffic for an extra hour. Best case scenario I’m home by 6 p.m. Fucking lingering. The cold and the rain really takes the edge off. To think all of this could have been avoided if I just would have taken that left out of the driveway this morning. 3 hours later I’m still in the state, trying to get out. That’s riding though. Not to get all stoner 70’s on you, but you know… it’s not about the journey, it’s about the destination maaaaan.

To be Continued…