It is not as though I haven’t been this route before. The best word, which isn’t so eloquent to describe my feelings… had been, green, greener and greenest!
But after seducing my biker butt back into a more comfortable enviroment; certainly, green does not do it justice.
When you ride there is a feeling of isolation. As if, you and your steed, were the only beings in the world.
As a tear begins to puddle in your sunglasses. A tear that is aroused by wind, dust and bugs…As that little production of waterfall surfaces to a distraction, you begin to think about…what else can make me cry so quickly? When was the last time I cried? Than, of course, the mind wanders. As is often the case, alone but not lonely at about 45 mph, down an outcast piece of pavement.
Distorted thoughts, faded images, freedom and the feeling of being in a mobile confession booth…hits the rider.
I like my confession booth. It and the fresh air remind me, this is it. This is what you’ve done wrong with your life. And, more prolifically, this is where all the love you’ve given out…has brought you.
These images that fade always leave me curious. Like the old barns that are dim but still cathartic…placed poetically up on a hill.
I wonder to myself; Did it shift? Have I lost track of time? Are the vines that engross it, possibly, more beautiful than before?
I know down deep in my heart of souls and soul with heart…this Norman Rockwell picture will never be the same as, yesterday or tomorrow.
Sad you cannot bottle this feeling. Take it out and taste it…in the dead of a New Hampshire winter.
Route 132, however, will always be a part of the ride.
Lesson learned today?
You can never out run the storm. You can elude it for a short while. You can curse it with bad thoughts. Your only true friend? A bridge’s under pass. A shelter that seems so trite and routine. Yet, something that can bring solace from the menacing rains.