40 lbs. of air in the tires. Nuts and bolts are tight. My laundry is done and my bags are dry, ready to be loaded. Time, once again, to turn my head to the road.
Time to roll.
It's been a good time here. And though I've not had enough time with the whole gang, especially with my little sister, I'm ready. Ready for the highway and the wind, ready for the sights and sounds, ready to be free, rollin' on the 'scoot.
Hurricanes are comin'. Oh, they're a long way out yet, but; it's late August and they've been peeling themselves off Africa for a bit already. No idea where they'll land and I've been through so many in my life that it's no big deal -- but I'm glad I'm heading out before the leading edges hit.
Motorcycles and hurricanes are not the best mix.
I'm sitting under bright blue skies in the hot Florida sun, lazing about, calm and quiet. But, out in her empty reaches, the Queen is hard at work, cookin'. Giving up her heat and water, her essence, to build the big walls of water and wind that will scour this land. Sometimes it's just a little reminder, a love tap, of who she really is. Once in a while she will roar and bellow and rage and slam herself into this place, proclaiming her dominion, her thunderous voice screeching: "I am the Queen and I rule.".
By tomorrow evening I'll be on the Gulf. A day or two later, I'll be a State or two away. So, not this season, y'old witch. Not this season.
There is a place in the Gulf where one of the Universities has built a shack on a barrier island. Each year they choose a writer who gets to go out there and work for the summer. I've been coming to this Starbucks for almost a week now. People are starting to talk to me. They're very nice and interesting but writing interspersed with pick up conversations is not a productive pursuit.
I find myself longing for that shack.
Tomorrow, I'll be a couple of hundred miles from here, alone in a room. Able to hold a thought.
Talk to you then.
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