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.
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.
The End.
But rest assured: not for me.
