Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Riding is solitary, no camp songs or talk. You can pull alongside and yell, but meaningful
dialogue is with the self. A rider on back, often a wife, may complain about the cold and the
leaning, but the seasoned rider will not have a passenger on a long haul. You remember things
while riding, things to share at the next safety stop, like the time so-and-so got shit-faced and
saw this woman at the bar. Turns out she's a nun, one of those civilian clothes nuns, and he
asks if she wants to . . .
So many miles, stories, meals and joints make for kinship. Common experience is a bond
on beauty and bad weather, on close calls, long hauls, buffalo in the road, a bear on a bluff, elk
on a hill. Big trucks blow retreads at high speed with lethal shrapnel. The boys know this but
still pass, each taking a turn with faith in the road gods, downshifting, goosing to the power
arc and shooting the gap in gratitude for money well spent on bigger cams and jugs. The other
boys see. They feel and know.
I didn't press Gino on details. Sudden impact can erase short-term memory. Or maybe he
still sorted his odds on survival. He may have known why he crashed, but riders keep rider
error to themselves, in another solitary place.
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