The Road Back

[SlewofDamascus]

I am half asleep and half awake as I lay sunken upon the spongy, sweat-soaked bed, the sheets long since cast aside; the porous, yellow-stained drapes of the Motel Six – a poor antidote to the Arizona sun - block little of the light and even less of the unmerciful heat; I bake until I am simply forced awake. Getting to my feet, I wipe the sweat from my head and begin the process of re-remembering, of answering all over again - Is she alive or was that a dream? Am I home? Death and departure will have that effect. I established my whereabouts soon enough and slip on my jeans. Opening the door and walking outside into the parking lot my feet begin to burn on the hot pavement and I can feel the searing heat on my bare chest.

My temporary abode sits contentedly in the middle of a flat strip that could be anywhere, USA; it has no distinguishing landmarks; in one disguise or another, Houses of Pancakes, Golden Arches, and Motel Sixes appear and then retreat; oppressive in its scale, I can’t tell where the strip starts and where it finishes; this place has no soul, no raison d'être, unless that reason is to break up the monotony of highway travel with a greater, more permanent repetitiveness. Looking Eastward, across the road, a digital sign flashes from atop a vacant and gutted Bank, 104f and 10:04, 104f and 10:05 and so on. I stand in the middle of this great strip, lifting one foot then the other - over and over - trying not to get burned. It is hot. It is morning. Beyond that, it feels the way nothingness should feel, I imagine.

Back in my room, I sidestep my motorcycle, a nearly perfect red, 2004 Ducati 749s, which I snuck in last night; walking directly into the small, dimly lit bathroom I step out of my jeans; whitish towels hang from rusted rings, small bathing soaps and plastic cups sit on the cigarette-burned countertop. I turn on the shower, and stepping carefully into the enclosure, shutting the opaque glass door behind me, I feel the harsh stream pelting my back numb; as the water covers my naked body the mind begins to let go, despair replaced by a rush of determination. I shall leave this hellish strip in the wake of my free-revving superbike, Bruce Springsteen in both ears - "one step up and two steps back" – down in a tuck, flying.

After putting on jeans and a t-shirt, I packed my motorcycle bags, which hang over both sides on the rear of my Ducati. I add a fresh towel, whatever little soaps and shampoo bottles that were left and zip up. Shoes on, I survey the room; hiding between the bed and the lone desk I see my bible – The Handicapper's Condition Book by Quinn. I stuff the book in my tank bag and drop the room key on top of the television. I then back the motorcycle outside and into the harsh sun, leaving the door open for the maid, who has her equipment two doors down.

The bike comes to life effortlessly, a low rumble then an Italian roar as I open up the throttle to warm her up. I type Santa Fe, New Mexico into my GPS and it begins to process the trip. Pulling my blue-toothed Arai helmet over my head I can hear a soothing female voice “ turn right on Route 67 200 meters ahead.” I hit the mute button and activate my Ipod, setting it to random play. I mount up, gloves on, and set off, my earlier resolve still pulsating, this time through the words of Tina turner, “I don’t want to fight anymore.”

On the way to the Arizona New Mexico border I had to outrun incensed natives, who didn’t care for the manner and style of my high speed passes, my red Ducati splitting cars at 110 to the encouragement of Bob Seger. Arizona is full of dispossessed natives, not always this aggressive – but generally pissed off “Native Americans”. Seeing the reservations while on many Ducati trips – sometimes spending days touring the reservations and often finding overnight refuge with welcoming tribal communities – their contemptuous rage is easily understandable , even justified. Red clay huts, uneven and endless dirt roads, dried up wells, all give only modest indications of what hardships lie within. After losing my native followers, and their outclassed machinery, I freely spin toward the New Mexico border focused solely on the next immediate turn, eyes scouting the terrain, briefly released from my burdens.

My road trip began two months ago, after Mary died, amid an overwhelming sense of aloneness, amid the relentlessness of marching time - 42 years of it. And through it all, I hung onto the bars purposefully - mile after mile (ignoring the brief impulses to cross the center divide). With me, I carried an old friend once embraced, but now –irrefutably – a dangerously poor companion; the existentialist truth of being was my silent passenger – and its steely glare was long ago fixated upon me. No amount of faith, no God, has empowered me to withstand its imposing presence. With nothing to take hold of, no faith to take refuge within, not even a withering branch to break the inevitable fall, I have only nothingness for solace. I am told – repeatedly - that this should make me feel better, should make me feel free.

I wore existentialism like a nicotine patch, only sentimentalism was my addiction, a malady that embraces order, cohesion, and the human longing for completion, imbuing the affected with a false sense of entitlement, or worse, superiority. Existentialism, instead, steps in and throws all that sentimentality under the bus. Most converts come to existentialism from a world order, and structures, from authority, from something they ultimately despised. Order and stability rely upon the successful adaptation of meaning and purpose, and that – for me - is the intellectual roadblock.

This is a dying man’s statement. For 30 odd years I have lived a life of complete disorderliness, of transience, of real existentialism – and found myself facing a hopelessly overwhelming abyss; outside looking in, it is not bitterness I feel, but envy; I see a world order with affection and affinity. I cannot even say that I am at a crossroads (which implies something romantic); instead I find only a dead-end. The abyss. I do not find comfort or freedom – as others have found – in the existentialist reality. I am only doggedly tired.

The contrarians who do indeed extol the virtues (the freedoms) of existentialism – time and again come from the world of order, of structure, of concrete authority. They find it stifling, I imagine. I find myself imagining that, after a time, they will long for some kind of faith outside of the reality of being and nothingness, perhaps a belief system that does not detract, dismiss, or otherwise injure competing worldviews, in any case, a belief system that embraces order and meaning. Existentialism – if my experience holds valid – leads to an inherent abyss, and that abyss then becomes the real crossroads. And there is no guarantee – as countless suicides will starkly attest – that the road back is navigable.

For the moment, anyway, nearing the New Mexico border on my Ducati, I see the road in front of me and I sense the painted sky above me, and that will be enough – for now - to get me through safely to my next place on the way back, assuming there is a way back from here.



“Faith is the bird that sings to the dawn while it is still dark” – Kahlil Gibran

[Chuckracer]

Holy Crap...you just described me.

"This is a dying man’s statement. For 30 odd years I have lived a life of complete disorderliness, of transience, of real existentialism – and found myself facing a hopelessly overwhelming abyss; outside looking in, it is not bitterness I feel, but envy; I see a world order with affection and affinity. I cannot even say that I am at a crossroads (which implies something romantic); instead I find only a dead-end. The abyss. I do not find comfort or freedom – as others have found – in the existentialist reality. I am only doggedly tired."

How do I buy your book? I'm not joking.

[SlewofDamascus]

I don't have a book, CR, sorry, but this is the incomplete first draft of a short story I am working on. I thought because it involved a roadtrip and a ducati I might publish here for some feedback. Yours was helpful. TY. I think that is a decent paragraph, maybe the only decent one, but in writing terms, one decent paragraph makes a successful first draft. Onward and upward.

David
'04-749s
'98-ST2

[Chuckracer]

Well, there's lots of "decent" paragraphs there...I really like it. I'm very impressed.

[mcskeeto]

I think that the only true writing is one that involves true experiential knowledge. I shudder to think of the process of gaining that knowledge in this case. Obviously fiction involves extending this experience to an imagined reality. Look at Hemingway. He wrote of fishing and hunting trips, bullfighting, men and women, suicide, despair, going home, redemption. All themes in his life in some manner. I think that this story is one that has so much potential.
The descriptive exactitude you have is one that reminds me of Hemingway quite a bit. I love this manner of writing. I'll be first in line to buy this short story.

[SlewofDamascus]

You know, it's funny, there was a time as a young man when I thought suffering - my suffering to be exact - would help make me a great writer (delusions of grandeur), but that notion was a symptom; why would anyone want to suffer? I can think of very few things that are worth the price of true suffering, and I can say - beyond a shadow of a doubt - that I am not a better person for it, just as my father was not a better person for experiencing the worst of the depression (and were he alive he would agree with this contention whole-heartedly - in fact, he would often bristle at the romantic notion "whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger").

My father knew - from experience - what hardship could do to a man. My father was a man who despised the weak, despised their low thresholds separating right from wrong. My father was a hard man to impress. He was a hard man, period. I, of course, went out of my way to disappoint him. The point is, I think his experiences of the depression, and later WWII in North Africa (where he saw impossible human depravity), made him this way. I can't judge him for that. I saw him treat certain people with contempt simply because they were weak, and I can remember feeling that it wasn't a very nice way to treat people, and I disliked him for it. I also idolized him, but that's another story.

I'm trying to address the idea of experiential knowledge and its relationship to writing. Should we "write what we know"? I believe it was Fitzgerald who said, no, we should write about what we don't know. He was in the minority, however. I do tend to write what I know. More importantly, I think, I try to write in the manner that is consistent with who I am (style). It's a work in progress (smile).

Positive feedback feels good. I thank you both.

David
'04-749s
'98-ST2

[Bill_Anderson]

Originally Posted by SlewofDamascus

I'm trying to address the idea of experiential knowledge and its relationship to writing. Should we "write what we know"? I believe it was Fitzgerald who said, no, we should write about what we don't know. He was in the minority, however. I do tend to write what I know. More importantly, I think, I try to write in the manner that is consistent with who I am (style). It's a work in progress (smile).

You may enjoy this book written by a fellow Ducatisti:
http://www2.wwnorton.com/catalog/fall06/006261.htm
(Personal brag: I have an autographed copy.)

[SlewofDamascus]

Bill, I decided to purchase the book - looks like a fascinating adventure. thanks.

D

[Bill_Anderson]

Originally Posted by SlewofDamascus

Bill, I decided to purchase the book - looks like a fascinating adventure. thanks.

D

It is not your typical motorcycle adventure book, which is why I think you will like it. I exchanged e-mails with the author to arrange for him to autograph my copy. Ted is a hoot and I hope to meet him in person one of these days.

[MrDude_1]

uhh, i was actually doing a search for side bags for a 749... but... this needs to goto the top so more people read it.