Friday, September 13, 2002

This was written several years ago, as part of a chronicle of motorcycle journeys with my alter-ego Joey-The-Kid. He is quite a character. Brave Helios, wake up your steeds, Bring the warmth the countryside needs. -Moody Blues Short trips just don't cut it. The rhythm and flow which inevitably develops during a long journey eludes me on these short jaunts. My month has been an assortment of ridiculous journeys; a quick dash or two to Madrid, or Taos, or a day spent learning Motocross with Motocross Dave. (If an aging street rider wants to learn about a heck-of-a-workout, try motorcross sometime, it[base ']s great for adding to your collection of assorted aches, pains, and stiff muscles). Partly it is the weather; April in New Mexico boasts a collection of seasons as schizophrenic you'll find anywhere. It gives new meaning to the word fickle, snowing one minute, balmy as a spring day the next, and all the while the wind is ready to tear your head off given half a chance. Last Saturday Lightning Girl and I mounted RavenStar and headed South, away from the insane pressures of life in Santa Fe. We had a day to flee the grind. We rolled through Ribera, the river valley not yet green, and then Villanueva where we stopped and guzzled mineral water and peanuts. Sitting on the bench in the sun outside the general store, we gazed at the little white Spanish church, quiet and clean in the stillness. We strolled the dusty lanes of old adobe, and pretended we were in Old Mexico. Later we rode through Encino, then paralleled the railroad tracks of the Santa Fe, heading west. Out here there is not much of anything, just miles of empy road and limitless sky. No people, no cars, a little town or two - Estancia, Tajiique, Chilili, Escobosa, Las Tiejeras, names far fairer than the reality. RavenStar just seemed to run smoother and smoother, we were all happy to be out, the day a heady wine, tiring but perfectly fulfilling, 275 miles of longed-for solitude. Due to irrevocable, incontrovertible, and irreconcilable considerations, I can't be irresponsible and take the week or so off that I desperately need to re-enter my motorcycle mythology in a proper fashion. Hopefully when Mercury and Mars go out of retrograde (May 7) things will open up and start flowing again. I am reminded of my long-ago college days, when my drug of choice was Mescaline. It had the unique property, once the effects began to be felt, of turning the world into a magical, crystal domain, a Brigadoon on the horizon, advancing closer and closer until it was right in front of you, and then you were fully immersed in the wonder of things-as-they-really-are. Your ego gently dissolved as you played in the timeless, eternal joy of the Tao. And of course, as the effects wore off many hours later, you could only helplessly watch as these geometrical, enchanted realms of wonder slowly receded away from you into the horizon, leaving you stranded once again in the illusions of mundane reality. In such a fashion my motorcycle mythology is approaching on the horizon once again, in cycle with the seasons. I can see it, almost feel it, but it is yet just out of my grasp. Joey-the-Kid is waiting for me just a little further down the road, on the other side of the valley, in the gulches of old town Bisbee and in the back streets of the mining town of Silverton, high up in the Colorado Rockies. He is waiting in a blaze of sunset over the western hills of Socorro and Magdalena, and he is riding the trails besides the Rio Grande. He is one with his life, and he is standing in grace and beauty. If you see him, tell him to wait for me. I'll be along. 1:36:35 PM