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.