Daedalus and Icarus

Early August, 2012--

Things were really looking up now!

A package that I had reluctantly approved of having sent was warmly welcomed. I confess, the box didn't spend a moment on the doorstep let alone touched the ground for it was eagerly snatched from the mailman's hot hands.

It can't be said what I was more anxious for: my coonskin cap or a plateful of homemade cookies! My family sent both, along with a raggedy, old, favorite shirt, an emergency gas card and news that my lady would wait past her allotted stay in the country just to see my return. The care package would be my first physical contact with home in over three months so I harbored no shame in deeply inhaling the contents, hoping a nostalgic aroma would add to my mounting excitement for the final leg home.

As intoxicating as it was, I had to remind myself to stay in the moment. What stood between me and home was a conservative estimate of 5,000 miles and inevitably a handful of misadventures along the way. Anyone with a basic understanding of United States geography would raise a hand here to point out that its just over 3,000 coast to coast. However, seeing as how I've clocked that much within the Southwest alone, I knew better than to assume I would travel as the crow flies. In fact, the route to the Pacific Ocean I've settled with once took over a year to complete!

Behold, the trail pioneered by Meriwether Lewis and William Clark with their ragtag team. One does not simply "head west" without some pomp and circumstance! Other routes considered were among the many branches of Oregon Trail, though they tend to have a more southern loop and there was no way I'd be missing out on Montana country, the infamous Sturgis motorcycle rally, and a couple promising ranching opportunities via the WWOOF network!

As for Michael's decision to throw in for the trek, he still wasn't sure because he was in lieu for a promotion at work. Whether he joins me or not won't deter Chance and I from hitting the road in another week or so but it'd be fitting to have a partner for a route forged by a legendary duo. Besides, I'd say there's no better way to break in his new Bonnie than with a considerable amount of off-roading and river fording! No pressure, though, mate. At the very least, he assured me, he'd fly out and meet me at the lodge on the other side of the Great Divide.

He was referring to my newly established end point of my journey: Paradise Inn, Mt. Tahoma (a.k.a. Rainier), elevation 5,400 feet. It's, in my opinion, the crowning piece of Pacific Northwest history - next to my hometown of Tacoma, of course. The lodge has been on the volcano since the turn of the century, nestled a few thousand feet below base camp for those who've endeavored the climb to the peak. Most of the year it's buried in snow and it's traditionally dug out with the mountain's mid-summer thawing. The interior walls are dotted with large, intriguing photographs of the very place you stand in. Truly, nothing has changed in almost 100 years aside from the style of clothing depicted by the adventurers and their admirers. It's become my place of retreat, refuge, and reconciliation thanks to its remoteness from civilization and closeness to the sky.

Every year for five years I've gone up with a core circle of friends, enjoyed a misadventure, recouped and recounted the day's tales before one of the grand fireplaces. We always aim high for base camp and are always turned around due to being poorly equipped with what might as well be wings made of wax. It's always at the height of the hike, in attitude as well as altitude, where something goes catastrophically wrong and we flee down the mountain... Nevertheless it's become an amusing tradition. It hasn't been visited this year so I believe it would serve as an apt "end of the road" where I can find rest and celebration with good company.

So it is my earnest hope that all friends, family, and especially readers that are able, come welcome Chance and I home at Paradise! It's only about an hour from the cities and about a half hour drive up the mountain though I would highly recommend making a vacation of it. Spend a night or two in one of the rustic rooms for I imagine much of your time will be spent exploring the Eden-worthy area and simply drinking the pure, fresh air. If you're there before we are as schedules aren't exactly something we've been accustomed to for some time now, I'd encourage you to get to know one another especially in the role you've played for this writer and his ride. It goes without saying that I'll be playing host to an endless number of story requests from the quintessential, asymmetrical position next to the roaring fire - smoking pipe in hand still up for debate. And who knows? Maybe I'll even entertain another attempt at base camp with anyone fool-hardy and/or daring enough. How symbolic would it be to finally reach the infamous Camp Muir as a last hurrah only to imply that this... and everything that has lead up to it is only the beginning?

But again, my head is in the clouds when it should be on the road! I will make a formal invitation with definitive dates, details and directions once I reach the eastern foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Just keep early September in mind, folks!

In a few days I'll be introduced to Mark and his cycle store which would come to be my temporary workshop to outfit us renewed wings that'll spirit us away. The rear wheel donated from my first busking gig was just waiting for a pickup which we decided would be put off until either Michael or Chris was available with their cages - I mean cars.

By the way, I reluctantly rose to the occasion to drive Chris to the airport early one morning as a token of gratitude for supporting me at First Thirsday. I hadn't driven since I left home and it was a manual! How bizarre it felt to travel down the freeway and not have the wind in my face! To my surprise, at least, Chris was impressed and I managed to drive home on my own without a hitch - even backed into his tiny appartment parking space! You bet I was blowing on my fingernails walking back to Mike's! I later learned the lights were left on.

Anyhow, in the meantime all I could do was serenade the streets and make that dough! Today I staked out a famous corner in Uptown right outside the hippie grocery known as The Wedge. All of Michael's friends, especially Emily, absolutely endorsed performing there as it's served as the beginnings for a handful of Minneapolis' rags to riches musicians - relatively speaking. In my time here I had already seen many unique characters plying their trade from kazoo wizards to comedic magicians. A scruffy young man singing the classics next to his dilapidated bike should fit in and stand out at the same time just fine. Like I mentioned before, with an audience of hipsters, you want to be as weird as can be.

The corner had my stamp of approval and tomorrow will serve as day one out there. As for tonight, I chose to simply relax. I found a campy motorcycling documentary/comedy to watch from the 70s called Cycle South which chronicles the ridiculous undertaking of three young men who leave Denver and head down to Panama. If anyone plans to make a parody of "By Chance" please do so in the fashion of that bittersweet movie.

My host of nearly two weeks and best pal Michael got off the clock earlier than usual tonight and on account of having driven to work only to find not a drop of rain was seen all day, he proposed,

"Wanna go for a ride around the lakes tonight?"

"Lead on, my friend."

He quickly rescinded his invitation out of habit, believing I was still the man who was too busy to be bothered. I threw on my jacket and slipped on my gloves while dissuading his reflex with a grin.

The half a dozen lakes sprinkled around his neighborhood were all outlined by quaint roads, each unique in its contours as the bodies of water they bordered. They were like racetracks though the width of the roadway and the angles of some of the turns didn't invite speeds over the usual in-town traffic. Still, late at night, when you have them all to yourself under the bright blue glow of the moonlight, it is as if you're on your own closed course. With the air slightly cooler after midnight and the breeze tied to your throttle like settings on a fan, you could find just the right pace to feel what I can only describe as bliss.

But that's just comfort. There is something sweeter at play as you make that infinite loop. There's a certain point in riding, especially at night, where you forget you're straddled over an engine and believe you're flying. I felt it the very first time I brought Chance home from the dealer and I was lost in farm country near Mt. Tahoma long after sunset. It's a rather dreamy sensation.

The first time we went on a late night ride around the more twisty Lake the Isles, I confided a wish to my friend that the night before I leave Minnesota, I'd ride around the lake endlessly until the sun rose - watch it like I did so dutifully in my youth... then be gone.

Tonight, however, would just be another night to cool off and let our steeds stretch their legs out a bit. Michael took point since he wanted to show me a lake I hadn't been to before, though he wasn't familiar with the way due to construction detours. Even from behind him I could hear his usual tirade of swears normally aimed at poor drivers now at the Minnesotan roadways.

Amused and in no rush to arrive, I chuckled and hung back a bit to communicate my lack of pressure. Eventually he recognized an entrance to the lake and maneuvered into the turning lane to briefly wait for the light to turn green while I caught up. By the time I reached the lane it was perfectly clear of the turning traffic, inviting Chance to maintain second gear and accelerate onto our private course. Naturally eyeing my point of exit, I noticed Michael on the other side curiously stiff in posture and under speed while fighting an urge to take his eyes off the road, hand off the brakes and motion to me. That's when it happened...

The road literally disappeared.

I was flying.

For sliver of time neither wheels were in contact with the ground and for that brief moment of misplaced bliss the world began to tilt to one side. All seemed muted as I braced for impact and in the void of the impending chaos I thought clearly to myself,

"Only at our highest do we fall the hardest."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Slam.

Chance falls for the third time.