Bittersweetly enjoying my spontaneously divined direction, I found myself somewhat lost in an unlit lot; the story of my life. The Schubert originally roaring on over the radio dimmed into a pianissimo movement that became traded for autumn's work resonating cacophonously underneath the massive, rolling tires beneath. This crackling cued me to the lack of groundskeeping done in this part of town. Coming into view, blackened windows of the run-down building associated with the leaf-buried parking stalls looked familiar. The gears of the vehicle I was slowly still acclimating to turned and so did the rickety cogs in my own memory.
Joyful apparitions of a younger self on two wheels danced outside my windshield and I cracked a smile at the unexpected reminiscence. Quite literally, the long-neglected sensation slit my bottom lip, drawing blood whose flavor initially salted the nostalgia.
Many years ago, the last time I occupied this very place, my heart was being won over by a bicycle that would inherit the name of Napoleon. Though he now laid in pieces in my garage, the memory of that bright day when I concluded that test drive and told the shopkeeper I'd take my new friend home overpowered the bitterness of the countless accidents, a failed engineering attempt, inexcusable abandonment, and even the taste at present on the tip of my tongue. Naturally, my thoughts then turned to Chance.
Instead of continuing home, I looked for the nearest coffee shop, determined to finally write an ending to a story yet finished. It was time, no, overdue. Such establishments never courted my patronage until my time on the road but despite having never sat down in a cafe in my own hometown, the comforting familiarity of the setting inspired a journaling practice that I presumed too rusted to resurrect.
Out of habit, I draped my coat on the chair before this leather-bound case, however it is not the same dust-ridden, storm-soaked, insect-covered armor that had weathered thousands of miles of American wilderness. No, it just occurred to me that today was the first time I dawned a mantle that I had parted with and sent home after stepping off a train what seemed like a lifetime ago. Though refreshingly gratifying in a fashionable sense, there is no ignoring the lack of affinity with my image this evening. It feels like a costume - a camouflage assumed by someone playing the part of a domesticated gentleman. Of course, I now recognize the inherent crime in adorning my old frock so soon without properly hanging up my riding jacket, so to speak.
Furthermore, let it be known that my readership deserves this closure as much as I do for we've shared the saddle thus far and I have had every intention of returning the encouragement and company with a good story. I'd beg the forgiveness that I've yet to grant myself for my unwarranted absence but I'm certain the amends you and I seek are in this tale's conclusion. I do wonder, however, if there is a finite end to "By Chance" that would satiate a unanimous hunger for poetic justice...
Come what may, it is my sincerest hope that the pages soon to come can illuminate the fog surrounding the last stretch of pavement from my adventure, Tennyson's Ulyssian-like hermitage for months since returned and the pending ruminations of both life at home and on the road.
Yours truly,
