The Great Escapade

"This place is brimming with significance. That’s the problem with this whole damn road. Metaphor, man. You’re out here walking all alone. Suddenly, in the middle of nowhere, you see a dog fight near a cheese farm. What does that dog fight mean? And despite its literalness, the idea of a pilgrim’s journey on this road, is a metaphor bonanza! Friends, the road itself is amongst our oldest tropes. The high road and the low. The long and winding, the lonesome, the royal, the open road and the private, the road to hell, the tobacco road, the crooked, the straight and the narrow. There’s the road stretching into infinity, bordered with lacy mists favored by sentimental poets. There’s the more dignified road of Mr. Frost. And for Yanks, every four years, there’s the road to the White House. Then you have the road which most concerns me today, the wrong road, which I fear I must surely have taken."

- Jack from Ireland, "The Way"

What could barely be heard through my dear speakers before the freak thunderstorm shorted them out for good was "The Impossible Dream" from The Man of La Mancha. It was a song I had identified with since my teens when I first saw the musical, vowing to die a happy man if I ever got to play the role of the delusional yet determined knight, Don Quixote. Well, here was my chance. I was on my way to New Orleans, rehearsing into the wind one last time before I'd stake out a corner, profess my quest in song with Chance blasting the instrumentals and earn us the miles to reach the unreachable.

I had resolved to singing my way up Mississippi River since I departed from the crossroads as a quirky twist in the story but more importantly as a challenge to further align myself with an old personality who wouldn't hesitate to make a fool of himself in public - with panache, of course. The song is among the very few I can rattle off in a moment's notice with lyrics fairly intact, as indicated by my last night with the Dead Sea Gulls. Serenading it next to my steed to a city that's been hoping for a better tomorrow couldn't be more perfect for the occasion. Bolstered by the handful of smiles along the way and the sun out on the 4th of July, I was pretty psyched for this amusing endeavor! That morning started off with such high hopes that it must have been doomed for disappointment.

Out of the blue, dark clouds revealed themselves on the not-so-distant horizon. I would have not paid them any mind were it not for the dancing claws of electricity reflecting off my visor. The sky below them looked dark enough to imply rain ahead but from all my experience in the deserts, mountains, and plains I leaned towards assuming just another tease of virga - precipitation that evaporates before reaching the earth. The high I was on must have blinded me to the humidity I had been suffering for the last couple of weeks, for today, it didn't occur to me that I wasn't in Kansas anymore.

Soon I was enveloped by the darkness and baring the needle-like droplets against my stinging skin. It came down seemingly all at once because there was no trickle to give warning and I was instantly desperate to get out of it. My last bouts with road shoulders conditioned me to stay clear no matter how safe it looked so I clenched my teeth until the next exit. We took refuge under the roof of a gas station that looked as if the water would cave it in.

Though already thoroughly soaked, I threw on my chaps and jacket, just to stand the ceaseless impact of the raindrops and still cling to the idea that I had to reach New Orleans today. Chance and I would press on, breaking one of my cardinal rules for the journey: to ride in only the most ideal conditions.

A milepost indicating 88 more to go would normally be received with elation as that wouldn't be more than an hour and a half, conservatively, but in this torrent, all I got was a sinking feeling. Before long, a combination of issues as a result of not being geared for this weather sent me off another exit.

Hoping to find cover and think my plans through, we stumbled into country roads and side streets that were flooded with rain water. My mantra of a song that had been playing on loop finally could be heard through the pelting rain and booming thunder once I slowed down to a crawling pace at a lost of what to do. The despair finally sunk in when we moored into a parking lot and the only company besides my motorcycle crackled and fizzled out into silence. The soundtrack to my road trip was now the disheartening howl of the wind.

I thought at this point that even if we did make it to New Orleans, my attempt at busking would be as good as a tree falling in the woods with no one around to hear it. I was heartbroken.

I aimlessly putted around in first and second gear for a while, half lost, half too dejected to care. Eventually the thunder managed to remind me that it wasn't safe to be out and I made my way to the nearest town: Morgan City.

The name sounded familiar but the feeling of deja vu wouldn't confirm itself until we rolled into the first motel we happened upon. I usually was good about tucking my shirt in, fixing my hair or doing whatever I could to make myself look somewhat presentable to strangers but there was no salvaging today's mess. I was soaked down to the bills in my wallet. The motel owner looked me up and down and made no effort to disguise that she didn't like what she was seeing. I bit my tongue with the tone in which she conducted the transaction. I was in no condition to let principle keep me from a warm, dry room so I forfeited that battle.

The other tenants walking about or sitting on their stoops kept their eyes on me as I walked Chance to the front door of my room. That's when it hit me: this was the small Louisiana town in which the turning point in Easy Rider was filmed. The movie had no script so much of its entirety was adlibbed with no exception to the following in which actual locals were used.

Forty years later and I must say not much has changed in this unwelcoming place. Already suffering from spoiled plans and an unexpected rain ride, I wasn't in the mood for much else. Of course the door would only take five minutes to bust in.

Perhaps it was just my current temperament for as you may have come to notice I take amusement in lodgings with character but this one, for lack of better expression, creeped me the fuck out.

Something seemed off about the room. It gave off a vibe that appeared as if I was to star in my own small town horror or psychological thriller. The first thing I unpacked was my gun and I placed six rounds into the chamber where they would stay during the day for once. Then, the second I turned on the television to distract my thoughts, of all things to come on right then and there...

Oh no, it gets better. It's an episode in which Peter O'toole (the man to bring Don Quixote to life on the silver screen himself) is imprisoned in some hellish nightmare.

When I continued east from the crossroads I took the hint from the wind that from then on I was on a road that would push my luck. I thought the trials I would endure would be a flat tire or a full inn but in fact, the most draining hurdle would not be before me but behind me.

Thinking I would find more words of encouragement online to keep myself drowning from these miserable circumstances, I only received messages from my loved ones concerned about the manner in which I was surrendering myself to experiencing this trip to the fullest. For example, my girlfriend was beyond upset about indulging in tabacco smoking in the last chapter then judges my eating habits - out of love, certainly. In another message, my father criticizes my lack of affection in my relationship with her, offering essentially well-intended advice. After my day I just didn't have it in me to justify myself. I simply shut down my thoughts and went to bed early.

Before I retired, however, I humored watching one more episode of this Twilight Zone marathon. It was a story about a brother and sister who run away from home by diving into their pool which, when resurfaced from, took them to the banks of the Mississippi River to hang out with Huckleberry Finn.

It made me think back to a couple of the strangers I met in passing early on asking with jest in response to my story,

"Where are you heading? More importantly, what are you running from?"

I was always quick to dissuade any notions of escaping anything. Life was good back there. Grand, even! I'm off to figure myself out and what I want to do with my life, right? But now I wonder...

Nevertheless it would be my quietest Independence Day yet. Not a single firework was heard all night.

The following morning I phoned my host awaiting me in New Orleans - a performer who would have been a great support on the street. I wasn't going to need his place to stay. Next I replied to an invitation from my Cajun buddy who invited me to a family camp out that was to be on my way up the Mississippi that weekend. I wouldn't be joining him either.

The judgements I was getting from folks back home were as discouraging to me as the Knight of the Mirrors were to Don Quixote. In the play, Quixote's family, concerned for him, send a doctor to force him to see his madness. When he realizes how the world sees him, he resigns from his knight-errantry and returns home broken-spirited. My quest had lost its fervor and all I could think of doing was just going through the motions with the intended mileage.

One would think the lack of music now would leave me absolutely nothing to do but reflect but I was so withdrawn that I barely remember much of the day. It rained a little bit but I didn't mind.

I had hoped that simply being in the energetic streets of the French Quarter would reinvigorate my resolve but I just wasn't feeling it. The thought that I had reached a place so long-coveted only to arrive down in the dumps coincidentally like Captain America from Easy Rider only humored me briefly. There was no comfort in sharing that sentiment.

It definitely would have been an inspiring venue. All the street performers had a steady stream of generous bystanders.

But since I had no business here today with my lack of inspiration, all that was left was to set my sights north via the Great River Roads.

To my disappointment, which wasn't a far fall from where my emotions already were, that was the only time I'd see the river. This southern portion of the road network pretty much had high levees keeping the view blocked the entire time.

The plantations, all but closed, were at least something to stop and look at.

As much as I just wanted to carry on north another thunderstorm chased me about twenty miles back south to the nearest town not far from Baton Rouge.

There weren't many places to stay without selling my soul. I tried even the fancier places on the fat chance that there might be a last minute sale.

But alas, I ended up crawling back to one of the motels that I had originally declined. When I thought it couldn't get worse I get a call from my credit card that someone in Ohio was using it to buy groceries. I wasn't sure what was sadder; the fact that their attempts were declined or that it was because it's long been maxed out. Then, as if to kick me while I was down, the weather report forecasted thunderstorms and rain indefinitely for the next week.

Too uncomfortable sleep just yet as the air conditioning needed a couple hours to warm up, I decided to ruminate on the idea that this trip was inherently a glorified escape.

I've only ran away from home once and it was simply due to the natural teenage angst. It was the eve before the the World Trade Center fell and I spent the night sleeping in an empty, cold parking lot on a nearby air force base. I actually attended class the next morning and went home that evening so it's debatable if the affair could be seen as running away from home. There was a time when I fantasized about jail time, especially towards the end of my undergraduate career. I didn't want to take the responsibility to insist to all my professors, family and friends to get in line with their demands so it figured into my reasoning that a mundane crime would land me a cell and provide me all the time in the world to get everything done for everyone. Believe me, it made sense then. It never happened but it comes to mind every now and then. I've since indulged in many forms of escapism whenever I felt overwhelmed, from films to day trips to far off places like a favorite bench in a park in Japan.

Now was this, whatever it is, just another episode of flight under the guise of soul searching? The weariness of a depressing day finally did me in before a cogent answer could be surmised.

The cigarette-burned holes in the old curtain failed to keep the light out, drawing me much too early from my slumber. My groans turned to gasps when I peaked outside to find what appeared to be a break in the clouds! I saddle up all my gear, thanking my defeated self the other night for not unpacking anything besides the toothbrush.

I didn't want us to miss this window of opportunity to get the hell out of Dodge! The rest of the twisty River Road networks would have to wait for better days. The throttle opened up onto the freeways of the Louisiana capitol then onto a decently high speed highway straight north.

The thrill of the chase managed to put a smirk on my face! When the dark towers of thundering cumulonimbi began rearing their ugly heads in my direction later that morning, I pulled into a school's parking lot that hadn't seen use in ages. I didn't come here to think.

I didn't come here for cover.

I didn't come here to find another route.

I was going to going skirt under this lightning and rain to make it to greener pastures. As hot and moist as the air already was, I dawned a layer that would at least mitigate the rain's sting. There was no telling what a bolt of electricity would do but I wasn't sticking around to find out!

 

We moved headstrong under the storm's shadow. Had we left later, we would have suffered the full payload of the foul weather and had we not left at all, likely trapped in it indefinitely. The rain fell softly, the lightning struck far from us and soon we were on the other side, transported to a bright, new place.

A fancy rest stop lured me to pull over to get out of my hot gear and toast a cold glass of water to escaping the storm. It ended up being a visitor center for tourism. The two ladies behind the counter couldn't help but ask where I was from as I chugged the ice cold refreshments they so kindly offered. They didn't know what to think of a man quitting his job to ride endlessly into the American landscape but respect was given nevertheless. It was the first nod of courtesy I had received in days so I returned the favor by lending an ear to their sight seeing advice. One actually piqued my curiosity to which they eagerly provided me a map for: the Natchez Trace Parkway.

It was a national scenic byway maintained by the National Park Service that runs alongside and commemorates a historic footpath used by bison, Native Americans, European explorers, traders and emigrants for hundreds of years. It would be a slight departure from the proximity of the Mississipi River but I was up for a change of scenery, or rather lack thereof.

As soon as I reached the city of Natchez and veered off the busy highway and onto the beginning of the 444 mile road that terminates in Nashville, Tennessee, I felt that I had taken the right way, if there is such a thing. I was the only one to exit and to my delight, I was the only one on the parkway.

Even the road, itself was beautiful. Hanging signs indicated noteworthy stops of which I happily heeded even if it meant sweating buckets to be out of the breeze.

 

Standing atop a one of the largest ceremonial mounds in North America which predates historical Native Americans, the silence I enjoyed was interrupted by a rumbling on the horizon. It didn't seem too happy that I got by most of it earlier and sought a second round. I wasn't going to give it that satisfaction.

About twenty miles down the road, my little engine and I caught our breath. It reminded me of the high one feels in eluding someone in a game of tag or hide and seek. Between that and this beautiful road, which may be among my favorite stretches of pavement so far, I was really having fun again!

So I got to thinking. Behind me was a series of unfortunate events. Nothing more. Sometimes it just rains, sometimes plans are ruined, sometimes people are jerks, sometimes loved ones smother, and sometimes none of it has to mean a thing. The quote at the introduction had but one reply to the vexed writer:

"Well, Jack, maybe a dog fight next to a cheese farm is just a dog fight next to a cheese farm."

As an amateur writer trying to find his place in all the chaos, I admit to being prone to reading into things too much. That can be the folly of an open mind. At the end of the day the only thing I'm running from lately are thunderstorms! And until they reveal themselves to be a metaphor for something, if ever, that's all this these past couple of days will ever be! However, when it comes to the nature of this adventure as a whole, as far as I am concerned, I have mustered whatever courage I have to sally forth and chase after aspects of my life that had been eluding me! Not the other way around.

Sure, I've left responsibilities and relationships at home on the shelf but they will have their time - one at a time. In a sense, I can't fight wars in far off places while I contend with my own conscious dissonance as well as the literal and imminent dangers of the road before me. So my friends, if I seem distant, drained, or apathetic to your concerns I'd ask that you give me the benefit of the doubt that I am on a quest whose manner of being still escapes articulation. Just trust that the road is sacred and its stories will answer for itself in the end.

And for the record, if anything, I miss home, think of it often and at times, even see it.

The bolts of lightning continued to race their way down from the firmament but did little to deter me from my moment of catharsis. Giddy with excitement, I mounted Chance and carried on with the chase, this time with renewed spirit!

 

Dare I say that at more than one point in my reclaimed jovial state did I find myself singing at the top of my lungs once again? You can guess the tune.