The famous archetypal story progression found in many narratives throughout history and cultures known as a monomyth, or the hero's journey, seems to have manifested itself in my own tale. From the call to adventure, crossing of the threshold, and even the road of trials, in the end I can only hope that this odyssey will conclude with the boon I seek and not in tragedy. One could surmise that having fallen twice now, I've fulfilled a prophetic aspect of the monomythical pattern in which the protagonist must undergo ordeals often occurring in threes and failing more than one before beginning a transformation. Third time, as they say, is a charm!
In the last chapter I mentioned I was due for a metamorphosis. The first was a shift towards reaching outside myself and sincerely bonding with my fellow man - to ditch the solitary attitude for a more social one, in other words. The next layer of change I had assumed to address my reckless nature. I wasn't too far off, however, the wisdom wrought out from deep within me by a very special group of people was not the answer anticipated. Instead, it was a revelation that would redefine me.
Chance having suffered that rough fall just outside the Grand Canyon prompted me to reconsider directions. The plan was originally to leave Utah and continue south and then east, circumventing the Rocky Mountain range. But with a broken shifting lever peg and who knows what else may have rattled the engine, I couldn't risk running my champion into the ground. Amidst deliberation, as if by chance, I received a message from one of the younger folks happened upon at that motorcycle swap meet in which I stopped in on a whim a week earlier. It was an invitation from David to join him and his motorcycle club for the camping trip that was first mentioned to me in person. At the time, if you recall, I politely declined, assuming I'd be well along my way but now the prospect of it gained serendipitous merit. David mentioned not only plans to hike to a beautiful waterfall but also see a famous denizen of Escalante, Utah colloquially known as the Desert Doctor. A quirky engineer with half a century of motorcycle knowledge, he sounded like the right man to head to. I was sold. Our compass readjusted 90 degrees and gunned for the heart of the Utah desert.
Those aren't bear paws; that's a biker's tan.
The road east happened to be one recommended to me by John and his wife - the couple I met at the coffee shop in Cedar City. I was happy to be honoring at least one of their passionate suggestions, even if by happenstance. The meager portion that I experienced of Highway 12 was more gorgeous and thrilling a ride than I had imagined!
We rolled through a small one horse town and it wasn't until I saw a sign promptly appearing with a "Thanks for visiting Escalante," did we hit the brakes. It was really a small hamlet in the middle of desert canyons that was easy to simply be a blur on the saddle. The motel I had called early to book a couple nights wasn't hard to find and on the porch a sweet lady called to me, "Are you Bonne?"
Why, yes, ma'am! I'd quickly find out Paige preferred her first name just fine. For my two night stay we would come to be earnest pals, sharing stories from one another's autobiographical libraries. She had lived in both Seattle and San Francisco but that was just the icing on the cake when it came to being on the same page about living life. She had moved here for the slower pace and to open this quaint motel that reminded me of Middlegate in the best of ways.
Honestly, when I saw the old fashion mouse trap in the closet I smirked, walked right back outside and requested to be extended a second night. My sense of charm must be so bizarre.
My ride and I ended a day of riding early by holing up here and just in time. A dust storm would blow through the canyon for a few days, rendering riding to a balancing act with a blind fold on. I would spend my time here writing about my previous misadventures while waiting for David and company to roll into town for a weekend of camping and motorcycle maintenance.
Much writing and reflection took place during those windy days indoors but there was still much to be said and thought through, especially concerning a moral to my recent brushes with a premature end. I figured I would spend the rest of the day at a cafe in town after parting ways with Paige.
Before seeing me off, my flattering inkeeper insisted that she would look for me in the movies or magazines, admitting to referring to me with the local townsfolk as the a tall drink of water who shamefully spent all his time in his room. Hah! I'll miss her.
At the cafe, I parused the area for a quiet place to sit, contemplate and await the horde of motorcycles coming down from Salt Lake City. Just then, my name was hurled into air in a tone that meant to test if it's owner was actually in the room. Has the motel owner chatted about me with everyone? Perhaps, but still, to my pleasant surprise, the man who beckoned me was none other than David's youngest brother, Mike! A Jesus-looking fellow who's personality reminded me of Peter Fonda from Easy Rider, he was quick to roping me into what would be the begining of a very memorable four days with life long friends.
Right then and there I was introduced to the rest of the scouting party consisting of his other brother Dan, a real friendly go-getter with a resilient attitude that made him seem immortal to life's lemons; their buddy Courtney, much like Dan in his ever-surprising humor but more so the daredevil, embracing the consequences of leading the charge into the unknown; and Lyuba, the youngest of them all - a well-read lady with a strong passion for words and the unquenchable discontent to venture to the places she has but read about.
"Want the rest of my pizza," Mike offered.
Either I hadn't interacted with people in the longest time or I honestly felt strong personalities in what initially appeared to be a ragtag group of everyday people. In retrospect, I don't think I was embelishing in the slightest. As I wolfed down the slices, I apologized in between bites if I spoke too much in due to my lonesome circumstances. We all shared a laugh over my comical desperation and established rapport with ease and a full stomach.
Mike, the owner of the only other Bonnie I've seen since the Pacific Ocean, was formally introduced to Chance. The crew was instantly fond of what was, for the longest time, a rather embarrassingly charming set up. I learned that day the term is "ghetto-rigged" and I was far from alone in the haphazard fashion that didn't exactly value pristine chrome or professionally manufactured accessories. Mike, himself, had gone down earlier and similarly lost his shifting lever arm but managed to ghetto-rig one on the fly with some house hold items. On that note, he suggested we just go swing by the Desert Doctor now just for fun. I thought about my journal for a moment then thought, why not?
Courtney had driven his car but for the sake of convenience and commaraderie he saddled up with Dan on his unique Harley Davidson with tiny new handlebars that suited his eccentric personality. My heart palpitated ever so slightly when I rode together with them for it had been the first time I had ever shared the road with more than one cycle!
The blissful ride was short, for it was a little town after all. The man's lawn announced that we had arrived. I should've known a notorious character who calls himself the Desert Doctor wouldn't have a sterile-looking workshop but rather a Disneyland to all motorcyclists alike.
Anyone who wasn't either a biker or an artist would've called his acreage a junk yard but there truly was a cheeky union of engineering and aesthetic purpose to every nut and bolt on his property. A hoarse voice welcomed us in.
I won't even dare to tarnish this man's reputation by trying to confine it to words alone. For all we knew, he was God come down as man to absolve us of our motorcycling sins and get us back on the straight - sometimes twisty - and narrow. As if ordaining us for making the pilgrimage, he gave all the bike owners in our group a homemade symbol to carry on our keychains called a "road warrior."
Once we came off our star-struck gratefulness, he asked if anyone needed some tinkering done. I mentioned my story and he instantly had a fix, saying he'd take a look at it after he had finished helping out his current stranded traveler.
The Doc nor I were in a rush as we were both sticking around all weekend so the party took our time admiring his place. All of these are the flat and blown out tires he's collected over the years of towing stranded bikers within a 200 mile radius. As you can tell, many riders have stories to tell about their chance encounter with the Desert Doctor from all around the world.
We could have spent the whole day there but the scouting crew had to find a camp site and I, an epiphany. When I mentioned I ought to head back to the cafe and make use of the time I had to myself before the rest of the gang arrived, Dan devilishly asked if I was on some kind of schedule. Firing Chance up I declared we go find ourselves a damn fine camping spot.
A considerable amount of off-roading needed to be done as soon as we left the main road out of town. The two bikes in front seemed confident enough as they struck me as misfits who probably take their non-dirt bikes off the pavement more often than not. Playing my well-worn bravado card, I kept pace like a shark in the water.
During the search, however, I would learn they weren't immortal in all elements after all as Dan and Courtney bit the dust. Honestly, the nonchalant manner in which they dusted themselves and the bike off made me feel both closer to them and more unafraid of dropping.
Eventually we found a decent spot not far from the main road into town. Mike and Lyuba opted to stay and prep the site while the other two head back into town to retrieve Courtney's four-wheeler. It seemed suitable that I now split off and take advantage of the free time to find the pending closure to my last journal entry.
Back at the cafe, I had what seemed to be my first case of writer's block. The flashing cursor on a blank white screen was all I saw for hours. In my mind, I imagined what lesson I needed to learn was how to make more responsible choices in regards to my well-being and out of respect for my worrying loved ones. Simple enough, one would think but for some reason it just wasn't resonating. Before I could beat it into the ground, the roar of what seemed like an army of motorcycles could be heard in the distance. Without even looking, I closed my journal to write another day, hopped off the balcony and surrendered to living in the moment for the a good long while.
Enter the Dead Sea Gulls motorcycle club! Hearty welcomes were received all around! Names, handshakes and salutes were flying at me in all directions! There was barely enough time for introductions for the sun was setting and we had go, go, go!
My first group ride was definitely one to remember! The camp site had been moved considerably much further away, albeit more suitable to sheltering us from wind and housing over a dozen bikes and twice as many people. As long and hazardous as the road to it got, especially with the kicked up dust in the setting sun, I secretly enjoyed the thrill of it all. Tera, in the Eskimo hood, David's sweet girlfriend who rocks one hell of a pixie haircut and always kept me well-fed as well as well-dared, boisterously made me feel at home by commending my off-roading skills - which I humbly assured her was purely bravado.
There were so many faces to become familiar with but for those with bikes, the personalities their rides represented already got me on my way to knowing them.
While some took to preparing dinner, typical of me to stay out of the kitchen, I meandered over to a group behind the main camp partaking in some recreational drug use on a lofty beam above a dried up creek (apparently it helps to be high when you're high).
Learning the ways of the tribe, I joined them in my first spliff, I believe it was called - an amalgamation of tabacco and cannabis. There, I sat next to a dashing gentleman by the name of Jared with a disposition that everyone insists is an 80s action star's look. The eldest of the group in his early thirties, he was a master story teller. I knew he had a personality just by the western clothing he wore.
Actually, there were at least three other pairs of cowboy boots at camp! Two belonged to another fellow with a big personality and an angelic voice - Jordan, and his wife Rachel who may have been the biggest sweetheart there. The two of them together always seemed to be sporting smiles that easily caught on just by proximity and found my circumstances to ever be a subject of curiosity and admiration. The last pair of shit-kickers were always found on a fellow by the name of Nickolas, even if he wasn't wearing anything else...
Believe it or not but of all the characters around that bonfire of intoxication, he would come to inspire me the most that weekend. A wizard with words, no stranger to danger, the apparent soul of the Dead Sea Gulls, and owner of a most charming motorcycle and manliest of beards on a face that demands the masses to say Ryan Gosling looks like him and not the other way around, Nickolas was definitely wise beyond his years. The answer I had been looking for in the past couple of days would reverberate through all these unique individuals, be reinforced by another joining the next day but initially erupt from this man's beautiful mind.
But not before a weekend of mischief, debauchery, recklessness and nothing short of misadventure! Let the wild rumpus begin!!
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