Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
crashing. It was a subconscious fear of trading motorcycles with a crazy Canuck for a stretch
and then crashing.
Marisol. Rayanne. Rianne. Betty Boop.
Of the whole bunch Betty's the only one I'd be able to find. She's way past sixty. I could call
her. That would be fun—tell her I was still on two wheels in the wilderness, and I took a dump
this morning to make an elderly motorcyclist proud. Wait—not proud. I didn't feel pride in
my big dumps. It was purer than that. Pride is a vanity after all. It was more like happiness,
because empty bowels meant another day of riding unencumbered. Hallelujah, I thought.
Let's see, I had the vitamins and mineral drops, the anti-inflammatories, the ginseng and
the well-being tonic. It wasn't like rolling a wake-up before turning in, but ready to rock 'n roll
is relative to output and need. And I was ready. Except that I had to call Rachel to let her know
I didn't die yesterday. I should have called last night. I forgot.