Interstates sure get you where you want to go quickly. They do. But, to me, there is always something missing when one rolls down Eisenhower's dream. I've always been, by personality as much as it was a function of the type of motorcycle I've always ridden, a creature of the small roads. A denizen of the sleepy byway and two lane that tend to lead one to the people and places that make America as unique as anywhere on Earth. The roads that lead to the heart and soul.
Perhaps the above words were prophetic. Rollin' down those big roads at 85 and 90, smashin' bugs, runnin' hard, we got to where we were going so quickly that this got kinda left in the dust. That first paragraph I wrote Saturday night. It's Thursday morning right now.
And I really don't have time to write too much. Got a 'scoot to pack, people to meet and miles to run.
Y'see, I don't want to give short shrift to what's been a hellova run. Want to take some time to tell about comin' down the hill with Pablo, Pizan and Char. Want to tell you the saga of Tombstone (no internet connection for three days, by the way) and Kingman and Oatman. Of Bear and Cheryl and Bohdi and Rooster and Big Don and Shortbus. Of finding out that a steering headbolt was loose in a curve on a two lane desert highway at somewhere north of 100 MPH and taking a motorcycle apart in a gravel parking lot. Of Tattoo parlors (no, not me) and dives.
Of hard, hard country and the wind.
But, I know I'll have a good internet connection tonight and like I said -- I've a scoot to pack and people to meet and (with a nod to Frost)
I've got miles to run.
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