Posts filed under 'travel'
June 24th, 2010
I treated myself this morning. I whipped through the local coffee chain’s drive-through for an icy beverage known as…a frappe. (Every time I order, I’m tempted to say, “A regular frappy please.” Frappy rhyming with ‘chappy’ of course.) And as I was driving to work, I picked up my cup with one hand and then started twirling the straw around with my other, because I couldn’t figure out why the consistency of the drink was more liquid than the slushiness it should have been.
I glanced back up at the road and had one of those “Holy Santa of the Equator moments, what am I DOING!?” moments. White Flash was driving itself. I had both hands occupied with my coffee cup, and White Flash was taking itself down the road at 60 miles an hour. While it felt like entire minutes had elapsed during my attempt to figure out the slushy level of my coffee, it was likely a mere second or two. But at 60 miles an hours, that can be quite a substantial period of time.
I jammed the coffee cup back in the console and grabbed the wheel, of course, although White Flash was rolling just pert near center of my lane anyway. And then, because I’m me, I started thinking about the little series of events that had just taken place. It’s not the first time White Flash has driven itself. It’s really quite decent at staying where it’s supposed to. Probably because it’s a big fatty-mcfatterson. And because I like to keep equal pressure in all fire tours – excuse me, four tires.* Ahem, but after thinking about it, I’ve drawn one conclusion and one startling realization.
Conclusion: I can only educationally guess that the reason I took my hands off the wheel in such a casual manner is because I drive this particular road quite often. Like, EVERY DAY. I could drive this road while I was asleep. Heck, I bet I could drive it while asleep AND while wearing those beer goggle things!
Startling realization: It’s not the fact that I took my hands off the wheel that bothered me. It was the fact that I didn’t realize I’d done it. It was a “Look Ma, no hands!” type of situation minus one key ingredient: in order to tell your Ma to look, you’ve got to be aware that you’re going hands-free. Oh…oh my…oh dear…am I at that point in my life where I’m going to have to write a sign in bright orange Sharpie on my dash telling me to keep my hands on the wheel while the vehicle is in motion?
* I’m slightly dyslexic. Self-diagnosed, of course, because – let’s face it – I’m an American, and it’s what we do.
June 15th, 2010
I had my first bicycle wreck yesterday morning. Deep down inside, I knew I was going to have one sooner or later. My first four successful rides hadn’t lulled me into a false sense of security, but…no matter how much you try to mentally prepare for such a happening, it doesn’t really do you much good in the actual moment.
I’ve trained the kid to stay on my left side. I don’t know if he’s happier there, but I’m happier with him there. Which is why it became an instant problem when he decided he’d rather be on my right side. I believe in another life he was a bird dog; he loves birds – his best exercise comes at the flapping wings of birds. This is not much of an issue if I’m running or walking him. It becomes a very big issue when I’m biking with him. Perhaps if he was a slow, sluggish monster or used some sort of system known as TURN SIGNALS, we would not have had the problems we did.
But alas, he’s one of those bloody athletic types who is running one direction, you blink, and then he’s running the other direction. Yesterday morning, he was running smoothly along my left side. I swear I didn’t even blink and he’d made a move to the right explosive enough to make an NFL player jealous. Said move effectively altered my forward rolling momentum into a forward skidding, staggering, and surprisingly silent momentum.
The kid’s leash caught my front wheel and whipped it around 180 degrees. Because I had some sort of mechanical trigger firing somewhere deep in my brain, I did manage to let go of the leash so I kept moving forward without my bike. Which is a good thing, because my bike was skidding along the asphalt for a good six to eight feet before it shuddered to a stop, chains unhooked and handlebars twisted. I had managed to clear the bike in my first herculean leap away from the wreck and emerged from the incident fairly unscathed. The kid stood in the middle of the road looking at me as though I was a simpleton for not being able to do something so elementary as maintain an upright bicycle.
Unfortunately, I don’t feel any more at ease about the absence of future bike wrecks. There will be more; I’m certain of it.
Also unfortunately, third gear no longer works. That gives me approximately 16 more tries to avoid wrecking before I own an unrideable bicycle.
June 7th, 2010
As I was driving to work this morning, there was one of those county roadside tractor mowers chugging along the shoulder. It had a huge sign on the back that, at one point, I’m sure read “Pass With Care”.
Somewhere along the many miles of roadside mowing, the “P” had gotten worn off, effectively making a sign that said “ass With Care”.
I feel ya buddy. I care about mine too.
June 1st, 2010
Yesterday, as the scrubby desert of south central Washington eased into rolling hills of green, I knew the finish line of a long 10-day trip would soon be reflected in White Flash’s headlights. It had been a long 10 days. And at the same time, an incredibly short 10 days. We drove a long ways, Cousin and I did – 3,700 miles. And we saw some of the most incredible natural wonders, and visited with good friends and family.
Part of the fun in going on trips is coming home. And as I drove up the river road yesterday, drinking in the rocky canyons and the up-and-down wheat fields, my heart started to beat steadily faster. Home, home, home my brain chugged along in rhythm. But niggling into that rhythm came another beat, a beat I couldn’t find the source to. It was a beat that exuded anxiety, nervousness and tension.
I’d stepped out of my life for 10 days. Stepped away from work, my dog, normal routines. Stepped out of the rhythm of my life and also the lives of those around me. As each turn of the tires brought me closer to home, so was I brought closer to the life I’d momentarily stepped out of. Runs with Doc, comfortable bed, familiar roads – all those erupted into excitement. Work, decisions and more – all those erupted into a chaos of strained emotions. For 10 days, I was departed from all the things I love…and for 10 days, I was free of all the things I do not.
It is difficult to explain how I felt yesterday; it’s difficult for me to put any of my feelings into words. I don’t expect you to understand; I don’t understand either. But I am home, and despite all the funky feelings, I am glad. I wouldn’t trade my trip for much of anything, but I am glad to be home.
May 30th, 2010
I crashed my own family reunion last night. Because I needed a place to stay, I called up some of my relatives that live in southwestern Oregon. They were all – “Sure! Absolutely! By the way, we’re having a mini-family-gathering. So glad you’ll be there.” (Why was I not invited in the first place?) But I was all, “Thank you so much, because I don’t want to pay for a hotel.”
And it was fun. I knew it would be. I remember these relatives from family reunions from long ago. Funny folks. Great senses of humor. And some of the most fabulous story tellers I’ve ever met. I’ve never met storytellers quite like these two. I’d try to retell some of them here, but…the gift of gab skipped my generation. It skipped me anyway, but I make a really good listener. I like listening. Love listening, and I loved the stories about Chief Chief, locked bathrooms in South America, travels around the world and seeing the astounding collections of jerseys and baseball cards and trucks. It is amazing, the people that are in my family, the things they’ve done and the places they’ve gone.
This will be a two-for-one deal today as we drove up the west coast yesterday, saw the ocean and drove through the Redwoods in northern California. Now that right thar is sum big wood. Trees. Big trees. (I’m really tired tonight.) But they are really giant and big around. I have a picture of me hugging a redwood tree, but it’s not really so much a hug as a…really giant tree with a little me standing next to it. Neat though, very neat.
And after hanging with my relatives last night, we drove up through central Oregon, stopped and saw Crater Lake *beautiful…so beautiful* and made it to our next and final free destination of the trip.
Oh, and a guy flipped me off on the highway. For no reason. Honest truth, I did nothing besides drive White Flash like a normal human being. Somebody just took a giant jerk pill, I guess.
See? I told you I wasn’t blessed with the gift of story telling. Why do I have a blog again?
May 28th, 2010
I’m in a bad mood tonight. I know why. I know exactly why, but I won’t talk about it, because this is not the place…I do feel better having said I was in a bad mood though – thanks.
I’ve been in the Bay area before, but Cousin hasn’t so we toured the city – ferry boat ride, walking the Golden Gate bridge, riding a cable car. The top three things to do while visiting San Francisco. And we rode BART – the little metro guy. I wore my cowboy boots, because while San Francisco is one of the most eclectic cities I’ve ever been in, there aren’t a lot of cowboy boots. Not real working ones. And you know what? People stared. I find purple hair and so-mini-they’re-barely-there-skirts to be rather shocking, but I guess cowboy boots are on the same level.
We walked a lot today. Partly because touring San Francisco requires a lot of walking. But also because I couldn’t quite decipher the bus system. I finally asked the driver if she was stopping at Fort Mason. She said it would be her last stop. Last stop? Last of her shift? Last of the day? What exactly does “last stop” mean? I was on the right bus. It said I was going to be carried to where I needed to go. It said it. I know it did. But it didn’t. And so after an hour and a half of riding the stupid thing with a hundred of my closest friends, I got off the bus, grabbed my map and started walking. Buses do not exist in my world, but walking? Now walking I can do, and walking I did.
And now tonight, I am tired. I’m a very active person. I’m probably in the best shape I’ve been in for a very long time, but something about walking along billboarded, crowded sidewalks with heat radiating from the cement while trying to figure out where I needed to go and if walking eight miles to get there was really going to be worth it. And honestly? It wouldn’t have really been worth it for me. I’m getting claustrophobic, being here. This city is so crowded and all the people…there are no spaces between houses! They’ve built on every possible square inch of land in San Francisco, and I’m not even joking.
I’m sorry this wasn’t more exciting for you. Sometimes when I get tired, my fingers get a mind of their own and it’s usually not a very interesting one.
Oh, a homeless man hit me up for money. He came up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder and said something I couldn’t understand. I probably couldn’t understand, because he startled me so badly I nearly jacked him in the face. Not because he was homeless; because he was all stealthy, secret agent about it…tomorrow will be better. I half-promise.
May 27th, 2010
I didn’t have television growing up – nothing except PBS, so all I got to watch through those formative years was Lawrence Welk. Every once in a while, I got to spend the night at a friend’s place and we’d always watch Full House. I loved that show. I thought it was amazing. And funny. And doors banging and fast-paced and all cool and stuff. It was set in San Francisco, of course. All Golden Gate bridge and crowded streets and bay windowed houses.
The thing is, San Francisco really is like that. Sort of. It’s got crowded streets and the Golden Gate bridge. Bay windows and doors slamming. California can be a funky place and not just because of the purple hair. Things move at a different pace here than where I grew up and, while I can exist in this different-rhythm world, it’s far removed from the laid-back swing-style way I live my current life. And that’s okay. It’s not wrong or bad or weird. It’s just different…just different.
But it makes me miss my home. It makes me miss having a road wide enough I don’t have to check all three mirrors eight times every second while driving. It makes me miss being able to step out my back door in my skivvies without having an entire street document the fact I haven’t shaved my legs in four days. It makes me miss the smell of clean air and freshly-turned dirt. It makes me miss being able to wrap my arms around my pillow, watch the stars through my window and listen to the crickets sing.
It can be hit and miss, this longing for home. I’m not sad I’m here. I’m not sad I took this trip or that I’ve spent the last several days living out of a suitcase, staying at sketchy hotels and driving thousands of miles. Knowing everything I know now, I’d still take this trip without a second thought.
But tonight, in this very minute, missing home is more on the hit and less on the miss. Or would that be more on the miss and less on the hit?
Previous Posts
