The Impossible Dream (Part III)

Then yesterday came... and it hasn't quite ended yet.  Our story does not conclude until I write it and as much as it pains me to, I cannot delay the ending if I am to begin salvaging what's left of my sanity.  As poetic as I aim to weave my narratives, the truth of the matter is that there is no rhyme or reason to when misfortune occurs.  It only seems fateful at the height of hubris because a fall from the sun is very far and and the subsequent crash makes for very large waves.

When Chance fell for the third time I made it out to be a fall from grace, as if I couldn't have been happier before the rug was pulled out from under us.  I confess the sentiments surrounding the circumstances that ended our last journey were a concerted fabrication between my horse and I to obscure the truth of gnawing despair.  It was not my intention to lie to you, dear reader, but Chance took the fall to spare you the bleak reality and me, a terrible decision.  

        "I had a dream that I was riding fast and hard," I dared to tell my childhood friend, Michael, on his porch seven years ago while overlooking our bikes, "I took M.D. into my hand... Pointed it at Chance's tank... and pulled the trigger." 

It was so long ago now that I do not know what we were speaking of for me to broach that dreadful implication.  What I do remember was that it was not a dream experienced over night.  Rather, it was a daydream.  

I was not ready to return home but my guilt of a sick father, worried mother, neglected lover and more soured each day and mile further from them.  The more I postponed the inevitable the more "give me liberty or give me death" resonated but it would be the accident that would strip that zealous impulse from me, save my face and send me home with just a shameful limp.  

        Chance to took the fall as if to say "Bonne, your secret is safe with me. Now, live."  

It's why I owe that bike more than anyone ever knew.  The shame of it broke my spirit for a time and the rest is history until I was presented with a new hope.  One of resurrection, redemption and reclamation... But even that was no match for this indifferent world.  Cruel?  No, worse: apathetic.  Monsters are cruel beg to be justly slayed but men are indifferent and that is a war I do not know how to wage.

Yesterday was the last performance of the play for the weekend and I intended to not only attend my first cast party to bond with my new kin but also visit my father to tell him all about this new theatrical endeavor and then surprise my better half, Silke, with a late night ride to commemorate our anniversary.  All Hap and I managed so far were short trips in town to the theater so it would serve as a lovely mid-range test in preparation for longer treks. 

I equipped him with two large, rusty panniers that I acquired for a pittance from a quirky old Bulleteer (as we are called) in Arizona who once rode them to South America and back.  In them went all my spare tools and parts, rain gear, tent, survival equipment and various items to thwart any chance of being stranded on the side of the road for too long, even if only for a test ride across the county.  This was where I should have knocked on wood but Hap's all metal.  

We set off with the usual satisfying gusto but upon approach to the theater, lost all power just shy of two blocks.  I wasn't worried one bit for the bike - just my curtain time.  I could change a tire, replace a clutch cable, rejet the carburator, even perform a modest valve job with my eyes closed on the side of the road (yes, a hyperbole but not a terrible stretch) because at this point I had enough skills, tools, and know-hows to confidently cast off from the make-shift garage knowing I can always return with Hap just as we left: whole and happy.

So after a couple failed kicks starts in the corner gas station just to make sure, I wasted not another breath fretting.  Across the sleepy little street was a high school friend's family clinic's empty and safe parking lot where I pushed Haphazard and set up with the entire arsenal of security measures just for more peace of mind.  Fork/steering lock-engaged, motion-sensitive padlock alarm, heavy canvas cover attached to the frame and the activation of my most expensive part that arrived just in time, a state-of-the-art tracking device synchronized to an ironically-cheap, old (but Rocketeer-inspired) smartwatch to inform me of any movement whatsoever.  Like hell I'm losing you!

A fantastic performance was had without a worry in the world.  It was easy to portray this particular role because I was essentially playing myself.  I humbly admit it to be a far cry from Cervantes to his Quixote but for a rookie, I lacked all the typical anxiety nor stage fright expected of an amateur among seasoned performers since I had very little need to impersonate or act, as it is called.  

I returned to Hap with a troubleshooting checklist already set up in my mind.  Within minutes I discovered the culprit was an alternator wire to the battery that had been disconnected while installing the luggage system.  My handheld multimeter showed 11.5 volts on the battery, indicating nearly a full discharge.  Easy fix!  I was within a mile of two automotive stores that would be happy to give it a quick recharge while I restocked my carburetor and brake cleaner supplies.  So I pulled the little black box, tossed it into my basket of a helmet and sauntered away with a skip in my step.

The first was closing just as I arrived.  They were kind enough to apologize that they couldn't wait on the battery after hours and I didn't expect them to.  Afterall, it was the season finale of a hit cable television series about knights, ladies, and dragons in just an hour, and I, unsurprisingly, also a fan, wouldn't dare delay them.  I continued down the road to the other store, knowing it had similar hours but knew the employees to be old timers with nothing better to do than talk shop.  A couple of them over the years have expressed eagerness to meet Haphazard and I was certain if they couldn't charge the battery they'd loan me one.  Before I reached them, however, my wrist shook.

I assumed it was my Silke checking in on me but the contact notification read a heart-sinking "HAPHAZARD."  I initially thought it would be amusing to get a call from my anthropomorphized vehicle but instead I was filled with dread.  Without missing a beat, I opened the small Bible cover that hid my phone to see the tracker's alarm was set off!  As I hurried back, the digital map revealed it was already on the move, faster than I could keep up.  There wasn't even time to entertain hyperventilating in the impending panic attack.  Instead, I turned about-face and began heading to the nearest police station.

All the walking I had done around town over the past year did me a solid between managing all the weight of the gear I was carrying and navigating alleyway shortcuts.  No one was stealing my goddamn Hap today.

Just as I reached the block with the police department, my wrist buzzed again to inform me the bike had stopped moving.  The map now indicated a storage facility five miles away.  I snarled to myself acknowledging my night was about to get very eventful.  But then I zoomed in closer and noted the storage facility was adjacent to a towing company.  

Damnit.

        "Liberty Towing - how can I help ya?"
        "Good evening," I greeted the man on other line with a stifled calmness, "I believe a motorcycle just came down the ramp."
        "Uh, yeah..."
        "Vintage.  Royal Enfield.  I stepped away with the battery to get it charged and would like to know how to go about reuniting them."
        "Ahaha," he scoffed (I'll never forget that laugh), "We open at 8 am."
        "8 am."
        "...Yes, sir."
        "Thank you very much.  Have a good night."

The walk home was quiet.  Perhaps everyone was inside watching the show.  Perhaps I was brooding so deeply that I didn't notice a single soul around me.  I barely slept.  I feared the worst.  6 am finally came and I set out again, gear on, helmet in hand but a reluctantly ready farewell in my heart as no scenario rehearsed in my mind justified returning either whole or happy.

The woman at the front desk was still getting settled in while I politely waited at the window.  When she was ready, I croaked a salutation which gave away my restless night and defeated resolve.  Her chipper disposition was welcomed, however.  I did not want to be provoked in person by the man from last night.  She shuffled papers while chit chatting about my looks and the beauty of the motorcycle in question.  I engaged her as much as I could past my weary constitution and gave her a thoughtful tutorial on how to locate my registration hidden within the bike.  She'd run into the back a couple times, doing her best to follow my instructions, all while the high pitched motion-sensitive alarm ravaged her poor ears.

Once she verified that I was its owner, she was back to shuffling papers, making copies, initialing here and there - business as usual, but at least with a surprising smile for a Monday morning.  Then, while stating procedures that sounded like they were recited dozens of times before her lunch break on any given day, she circled a large number next to a dollar sign.

I politely bowed my head and stopped her there.  The sadness in my averted eyes seemed to finally derail her typical speech and attempted to try and understand my situation.  It was not that I could not pay.  I mean, I couldn't then.  But surely I'd find a way.  I had some things to sell, family, friends, and even newly acquainted members of the theater who would be more than happy to save the day.  I even had the means to steal it back if I really wanted to.  Yet the stark reality that I was immediately coming to grips with was that this was how the world worked and I couldn't expect to keep up with it.  Even though I earnestly believed I was covering all the bases to respectfully coexist, the social order required more conformity than I could give.

Seven years of bad luck not yet ended?  No, this was the last of many instances an incarnation of the Knight of Mirrors forced me to take a good, hard look at myself and face the facts.  My pure and simple dream cannot be in this society.  Not if I had to honor Chance with my precious life over Haphazard and our idealistic cause.

The lady manning the desk before me seemed taken aback that I'd let go of such a motorcycle and faltered between sympathizing and reciting her scripted replies.  Thinking I just needed more time, she tried consoling me with the policy that it would be kept there untouched for 22 days before it goes to auction.  I humored looking at my calendar for the next paycheck but quickly closed it when she outlined the daily fee that would compound on top of the already extortionist impound price.  

Coming to terms with my lack of a bluff, she wondered if I might give them a key to the steering lock in the meantime so they might easily shuffle it around.  Half resigned to deja vu, half hoping the good gesture might see me as an exception to at least be fair, I slowly spun the key out of the ring, treacherously past the metal "road warrior" ornament once-gifted from the Desert Doctor and handed it over.  The kind woman doing her job felt obviously miserable and kept trying to think of ways to help me within the scope of business protocols.  I declined her proposals as I tried bowing out to make things easier for us both.  Then finally believing me, she asked if there were any personal items I needed off the bike.  I mentioned Zissou's collars, the saddle, tool bag, a gifted journal, my copy of Don Quixote... and her pendulum swung back hard to policies and regulations, to which I sincerely thanked her and picked up my helmet.

        The unsettled employee stumbled back towards her humanity in sincerely asking, "is there anything I can do?"
        I gave her some peace in replying, "Could you break a five for the bus?"
        "Absolutely," she was quick to honor the request, as if saving herself from her conscience then continued, "Please keep in touch with what you'd like to do--"
        "No, I'm afraid this is goodbye," I uttered quietly, as if only to myself and finally turned for the door to finally say aloud, thwarting any lingering denial, "This is... just the way it is."

I sat for a moment at the bus stop and began to tear up.  I oddly remembered this exact spot where I was in a bad bicycle accident in my distant childhood.  I had to get away from there and simply began staggering my way home.  I thought to stop by the last place I ever laid eyes on him to leave a memento but continued walking when it occurred to me that I might be punished for littering.

That's when my dream died for me.  I had to let you go and all notions of a life on the road.  I couldn't be driven mad fighting society at every turn just to exist in the manner in which I wish to.  I wish I had Cervantes' conviction and were brave enough to be a martyr before the establishment but I cannot be an ungrateful citizen, son, brother, or lover.  I cannot bite the hand that feeds me while I'm still here, domesticated and such a long ways off from escape.  Who am I to cast a gauntlet down to the windmills that ultimately make the world go round?  It's not my intention to be dramatic yet the truth of it is I don't want to die on my feet so I must let the dream die to carry on - even if on my knees.

End of an era... This void will pain me to no end, I fear.  The blinders I wore to focus on realizing this dream, now unbridled, still don't make it easy to recall a life without such hopeful a prospect.  The rhythm of my days, the constant gazes towards the horizon, the justification of every effort, the context of every thought... all of it is unraveling to leave me bare and undefined as if waking from a coma and coming to my senses, however uninspired.  I must learn to live with it, nevertheless.

Last I looked in the rear-view mirror I was making my way as an actor.  Now to what end, I do not know but I suppose the show must go on, as they say in the business.  Perhaps as it should be said in life as well, for the real world must be full of men and women who bested their delusions to live another day.  Surely, my dear reader, you've been playing such a part.  You certainly have my sympathies, especially now that I can no longer offer any consolation in your living of the so-called dream vicariously through these quixotic texts.

I will always know your heart as I hope you knew mine.  Farewell, Hap.

The End.

But rest assured: not for me.

The Impossible Dream (Part II)

It was this time in the spring three years ago when I first met him on the other side of the Cascade mountain range - the very same day I was offered a promotion and handed my two week notice in exchange.  It would be the last time I worked for the airlines after having crawled back over half a dozen times to quench my escapist thirst.  When I was asked to become a spokesperson for a cut-throat business after only a year of brilliant service, I feigned interest in taking my break sooner than usual to think it over when in actuality I lackadaisically browsed the classifieds, looking for a bicycle to tide me over another period of unemployment.  Somehow, a miscategorized ad for a beautiful cycle of the motored variety, for sale at half its worth just a couple hundred miles away graced my shattered phone's screen and before I knew it, I was arranging a test ride as soon as I was off the clock.  I hadn't boarded a plane or even left the borders of my state since the road days but there I was, back in the sky, if only for 20 minutes to a new, but oh, so familiar destiny.

Will was the the Royal Enfield Bullet's owner.  Though not too advanced in years, the man's riding days were behind him and he had been polishing the vintage motorcycle in his garage for the better part of a decade as he had married shortly after acquiring it.  He would put it up for sale every season only for a day or two and quickly rescind the ad.  Understandably so.  Only this time, as fate would have it, I caught him in his annual flirt with farewells.  

Will was kind enough to meet me with the ride in the lot of the tiny little airport in Yakima, WA and surprisingly trusting right out the gate with letting me take it out for a spin.  It was admittedly awkward at first, not only because I hadn't ridden in years but also because he had been in the middle of converting the time machine into a cafe racer, reminiscent of his prime riding days.  Further, little did I know that there weren't much in terms of side streets in the tiny farm town and before I knew it I found myself hastily climbing the gears to match the flow of the freeway.

I remember the wind was hot and even more so with my old riding jacket on thinking it was going to be as drizzly as it was just on the other side of the range.  Nevertheless, there wasn't a lack of precipitation though.  I still don't know if I was overcome with joy or if my face had since-gone soft to the wind but there were tears streaming along with my jubilant screaming!  The moment I had a chance to exit onto farm's dirt road that wound up a hill overlooking the desert valley below, I stopped and tried to compose myself.  I vividly remember it was like being reminded how to breathe again after keeping my head down for so long!  All I could think was how I hadn't been that happy in a long time and that everything made sense again straddling an engine rigged up to a pair of wheels!  I messaged Will to inform him I hadn't ran off with the Bullet but that the two of us certainly found happiness on that stretch of road.  That's what it was: happiness!

When we returned to the dusty little airport I couldn't help but release the floodgates of my life's story on the poor guy.  He probably had every intention to just pack it up and return the old chap to the garage for another year of never letting go but he actually sat there with me, asking to delve deeper into not just my history on the road but philosophies on life as well.  It slowly became apparent that he had found someone worthy of his forlorn horse of iron.  

The kindred spirit sitting on the curb next to me concluded our heartfelt conversation with insisting that if I wanted to free his companion of its gilded cage, he would allow it.  That, should I want it, I was to take it confidently into both hands as if pulling Excalibur, itself, from slumber to usher in a new chapter chronicling the rise of a weary knight from the abyss.  I was too moved to eagerly jump on the honor, especially with my reflexive impulse to deny myself anything remotely self-serving during this self-imposed period of repentance.  Then, upon gazing towards the modest mechanical beast and remembering the happiness it dared me to take for myself, I respectfully agreed.  I vowed to return in a week to ride it across the mountains home.

It was only 200 miles but that day launching our way out of the scorching desert, into the chilly passes rekindled the spirit of adventure that once-defined me.  God, it felt so right!  We stopped as often as we could to take in the suddenly more-vibrant world around!  Some wonders like the huge frozen lake and sky-piercing volcano were so constantly in view that we needn't stop.  Not that we were going very fast to begin with, having a top speed of around 60 miles per hour. 

Though the quintessentially British single-cylinder "thumper" left the factory in 2008, it was actually the very last of the longest and oldest running, unaltered motorcycle designs in history, dating back to 1955.  Even then, the technology patented and perpetuated from that year on were still very much rudimentary, turn-of-the-century principles.  It was coincidentally engineered by the same small arms company that made Manifest Destiny, my Enfield revolver.  The regal coat of arms painted on the toolbox features a canon and the company motto, "made like a gun" - hence the model name, Bullet.  I'd have almost a hundred years of compatible parts to cannibalize virtually anywhere the colonial empire once flew the Union Jack.  That prospect made the notion of a second sally taken worldwide and never-ending very, very promising.  But not without the essential component of a skillful and crafty mechanic that can work on a vintage machine wherever it may be.

The conditions of this companionship were going to be drastically different than the one I had with Chance.  My first motorcycle carried me further than he should have and I did little and knew even less in returning the aid.  This time, we would share the load.

        "I will know your heart and you will know mine," I promised my reflection in its chrome.

In our time together, we traversed a mere thousand miles while I've spent at least twice that in hours studying it, taking it completely apart over and over again to understand how a how a component worked, fix it if it didn't, omit it if it was ultimately frivolous, modify or replace it if it could be improved upon - albeit within my sphere of limited means which often involved antique stores, junk yards and old barns.  

Being poor but rich in happiness together was how he earned his unusual moniker.

Like all of my wheels since my first bicycle, it, too, was bestowed a name: Haphazard.  From the Medieval English word, hap, meaning luck or chance; hazard being Arabic for an ancient game of dice.  Hap, as I nicknamed him, shares the same root in all things happy, hapful, happen, happenstance, mayhaps, perhaps, mishaps and so on.  Then of course, hazard which is exclusively used to convey risk, danger and peril... Beyond the etymology, it's a nod to it's slipshod aesthetic and mechanical austerity that might upset both traditional and modern sensibilities but at it's core is robust, earnest, winsome and ultimately no threat to anyone but the status quo.  Romantic in every way.  That and adventitiously it was the name of a famous 18th century English thoroughbred stallion.

My stallion.  We didn't get very far, did we?  There were a couple small jaunts.  Once, racing across the Sound, to the furthest north I had ever been with my lady to a motorcycle rally where we turned so many heads, sporting matching cruisers.  Up to Paradise on Rainier, where I had planned to gather all my family, friends, and fans of this journal to meet Chance and I in a triumphant homecoming, where you handled the elevation without a hiccup.
  

But it would be a short, slow ride through 5-Mile Drive in the forested road of Point Defiance at the beginning of our second season where my misguided efforts to tame your roar for the neighborhood's sake overheated the engine and stabled you for the rest of our time together.

Nursing you under the stairs in an dingy unfinished, basement with a re-purposed barbecue grill for a workbench for the better part of the last couple years had its frustrating moments but it was far from sad.  No, there was always promise of getting back on the road someday with each new dollar earned, every second-hand tool added to our arsenal, piece of a part slowly making it's way from across the pond, each experiment, new theory... So many mornings spent nose deep in engineering manuals, anecdotes from decades-old articles and forum discussions.  Numerous afternoons rolled out onto the alley listening to Edith Piaf, Ennio Morricone, Joe Hisaishi and the like while wrenching the sunlight away without a care in the world.  Countless late nights quietly humoring new touches to your unique signature like an endless canvas.  
I remember the months I slept down there with you in a tent that might one day serve as our mobile home.  It did not matter that we were going nowhere.  I was simply happy to have you, learn from you, and take comfort that we'd be on our way inevitably and that I'd be able to take care of you, come what may.  Happiness was a state of mind - not a place, after all.

Although there was that peculiar time when it was less costly to reinstate my passport than it was to renew my license.  We were waiting on a couple full sets of gaskets to meander their way from India in order to overhaul the engine and future-proof us for the next.  This left me with an entire month sitting on my hands.  My mother, who had been traveling the world extensively, a la my brother's flight benefits, since resigning to ever owning a home again, proposed I come along for her next adventure to Central America as a sort of bodyguard.  While filial piety demanded said duty, it was the least I could do for having her nurse my leg back from a limp to summiting my first mountains and everything in-between.  

I agreed to a week.  Less would be better, as I had a poorly-attended relationship and plenty of cello to practice.  It ended up being an extended two weeks in Belize once I discovered from whom my long-suppressed wanderlust and serendipitous nature was hereditarily bestowed.  What a wholesome experience that was!  Further, despite thoroughly enjoying one another's almost-sibling or best friend-like camaraderie, she insisted I take time for myself after walking by an eclectic shack renting out motorcycles.

At this point it had nearly been a year since tasting the wind atop a pair of wheels yet it was extraordinarily different than before because for a day I had no destination... and I was happy.  I had not shifted into that particular gear in my mind since aimlessly making my way around the West so long ago.  That was bliss to jump-start and the tease I needed to double my efforts back home in order to set out again sooner than later.

A long year with our nose to the grindstone later and our fervent efforts finally bared fruit!  I had been concurrently gaining traction on the arts front when the producer of the last short film I acted in asked me to symbolically portray my life's quest thus far for his next soulful project.  It was validating to have been surprisingly called out, despite my humility and professionalism - practically keeping my past and future a secret only to myself.  It was filmed on location on the sunniest birthday I had ever had.

Even though the commemorative and heroic ride into the sunset was short-lived with your engine running into issues the morning after, the setback was merely a speed bump.  At this point I knew you inside-out, crossed off the last of the troubleshooting, had you dismantled and offered up the aging culprit part to the Gods of Speed.  Having managed to befriend a hard-working little shop in New Delhi not too long ago, they expedited a brand new cylinder head with complete valve trains at a fair price.  A very opportune and immensely-appreciated repayment of a loan to replace the wheels on my lady's car immediately went to upgrade the rockers, redesign the exhaust system, replace the English saddle with a relatively-newer one and order a custom-designed air filter from a famous Bullet engineer that put you on your first steps towards outperforming today's v-twins with just one big heart of a piston.

This time, within weeks, it all came together and you roared back to life just in time to usher me to my debut on the theater stage as an unexpectedly-celebrated actor.  The audiences, my fellow cast and crew all found you to be endearingly fitting to the likes me.  Or did I suit you?  Whatever the case, the dream had never been more alive!  For three nights you spirited me away from the boisterous crowds who's accolades warmed my heart but held no candle to the enthusiastic pulse of your raucous combustion.  The acting, dancing, singing and such are all just a Bohemian means to an end - that is, to keep this dream of riding and writing of a second sally aloft.  Now to just figure out how to mount a carrier for the cello and we needn't be tethered to any fixed stage.  But that's down the road and it was time to wholeheartedly enjoy making a name for myself right here in the meantime with a Rocinante now at my side for all marvel.