The Crosswinds

"Ride wherever the wind blows and settle whenever the sun sets," was my catchphrase reply to the ever-asked questioned of where I was going. Well, for once, I was fighting part of that philosophy. The winds were mighty persistent in sending me northwest, which was home, and if I know my hero cycle, this is the point in the story where a big mistake to defy destiny might have occurred. Although my handlebars pointed towards the Gulf of Mexico like a dowsing rod divining water, I chose to ride further from home knowing I'd have one hell of a story to tell when I got back. 

 

My mount and I would endure harsh gusts for hours on end the moment we departed from the comforting arms of the Rocky Mountain range. They didn't call this expanse Tornado Alley for nothing and I'll admit, I ran that scenario in my head constantly without a satisfying contingency plan that did not involve abandoning my ride. It's something to see a motorcyclist in a constant 20-30 degree bank on anything besides a curve and it doesn't take much to imagine what the terrain looked like in the Midwest.

And yes, there were biblical scores of insects decorating my front side like craters on the moon! That wasn't the only thing to unintentionally crash due to the high winds. Some construction turned part of the highway into a one lane road so I was stuck tailing a white minivan for a few dozen miles. I watched as a black bird fought the current then get suddenly overpowered by a gust, sending it violently into the side of the van. It literally exploded. Black feathers everywhere. The ancient Greeks would take it as a very bad omen, I'd imagine. Oh yes, and let's not forget the brief yet stinging dust storm...

 

But despite all the Oddyseus-esque trials, I acknowledged that the wind is not something to fight but work with, especially if not heading in the same direction. Drawing from my skills as a sport pilot, I laid my chest against my fuselage of the tank, used my head as a rudder and, amusingly enough, my elbows as ailerons to help manage the airflow and keep from bowling over into a wheat field. It was much more effective than sitting upright like a ballooning sail.

 

The motorcycle's wheels wearily braked into a town known as Goodland. We had made it into Kansas. Stepping off the pegs and onto stationary earth was a unique feeling. We're all familiar with the sensation felt after being at sea for long periods of time then coming ashore to find one's legs confused at the lack of rocking. Well, with all the wind smacking against me like a machine gun, my entire body still seemed to be vibrating! When I rolled down my sleeves, little clumps of white cotton fell from me. My guess is the friction of flapping about pooled the tiny torn fibers into the folds. Not quite a tornado but a harrowing day of riding, nevertheless.

The land was good, indeed, but the town name seemed more suited to its people. All were very kind and treated me like a neighbor. My innkeeper of the family-owned Motel 7 (oh, I get it now) was a sweet old woman in a wheelchair who wasn't much for chitchat but rather long, personal conversations which was refreshing to entertain. She had a wholesome sense of humor that always put a smile on my face. I shamefully cannot recall her name now but she came to my door and even asked me to help her move an air conditioner, insisting she would have done it herself if she wasn't housing "such a strapping young man".

My first impressions of the Midwest were different than I had expected. Besides corn silos reaching into the clouds like skyscrapers, I saw this Van Gogh from a couple miles outside the little hamlet. The biggest of his paintings in the entire world and it happens to be in nowhere, Kansas. I wonder what the fascination was because I noticed a Starry Night in a deli and another Sunflowers in my own motel room.

Two nights were dedicated to writing, then back on the road I was. The clouds were about, though it was no less hot or windy. At one point, I pulled into a rest area and took a knife to one of the camera mounts on my helmet.

The drag it was getting in the wind was strong enough to put a strain on my neck so no more helmet angles for the time being.

We'd reach virtually the geographic center of the contiguous United States. I didn't dwell on that too much. The only thing worth writing about was my shower didn't work and I entertained my first sponge bath in ages. I left mighty early the next day without any intention of saying goodbye to the motel owners for once.

I stuck to the freeway, initially, down through Wichita but when I saw signs for tolls - a concept I was not familiar with - I veered off and found myself on a lovely country road. There, I saw a sign that put a smirk on my face.

Well, what are the odds? I'm sure much of my audience is thinking "so close - just missing an O," but I assure you, that green and white sign bears the entirety of my legal name. Of course, I found that out all but seven years ago when joining up with my brother and friend for the airline gig. Now I never really got the full story as to where Dorrello came about from dad but from my understanding, he wasn't too fond of his past with the CIA and he's a damn proud Cubano. The original surname is Norman, however, as a little tidbit I like to mention as an amateur etymologist, d'Areil, the original name meaning "of Areil" is a town in La Manche, Normandy. It's a stretch but I like to consider it "of La Mancha," where the quixotic star chaser hails from. Bonne de la Mancha has a nice ring to it, does it not? Ah, I'll keep Dorrello - it rolls off the tongue ever so slightly better. But I digress.

I wanted the sign so badly. What better symbol was there for me being on the road? I hadn't taken any souvenirs up to this point so perhaps I deserved this. Certainly would make a hell of a gift for my father what with the paternal holiday around the corner. But where would I put it? No chance I'd sit on it for my butt's raw enough on a seat not meant for crisscrossing the country. Displaying it proudly across Chance's side would only be a taunt to law enforcement. The pictures sufficed and I drove on... Only to talk myself into turning around not once but three times, staking out the sign and trying to jostle it out of its post whenever no one was looking.

Eventually I caved. That was one hell of a story that would never come to be.

The last time I rode south was from the Great Salt Lake. This time the wind was squarely facing me and though it affected our mileage to a great degree, it was simply nice not leaning left or right constantly. The skies seemed to open up just as we crossed a new border:

Where this road ended another began. The two-lane highway, essentially only used by truckers, farmers and the occasional biker through Oklahoma City was a pleasant one. Though it was quite literally nothing but corn fields for miles, the atmosphere seemed brighter. Perhaps it was just the sun.

At one point, when I stopped to admire the scenery, a fellow biker sped past, braked, and turned right around to check on me. Although he only flipped up the top portion of his full-face helmet, from his mustache up he looked like Dennis Hopper as Billy in that 60s road film I so often reference.

"Doing all right, buddy," he asked with a smile that was given away by the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

I was quick to reassure him that all was well and positively reinforced his appreciated efforts with a hearty, "good looking out!" We wished one another safe travels and he rode off into the sea of waving grains like a specter to some baseball movie. I sat there a moment thinking I hadn't encountered such kindness on the road before. It would set the tone for the next several days of riding around the American South, famously known for its hospitality.

The increasingly worn ear plugs went back in as the heat spurred me to motion again. With the prevalent winds before me and threat of a possible hurricane to meet me on the Gulf, I was at least comforted by the prospect of being taken in, fed and rested as the pilgrimage presses on.