I should have put my bandana on, I think to myself, as I cruise down
long curving back roads in western Illinois. Or at least worn my hat. My
hair is going to be nothing but tangles and there will be no getting my
comb through it without dumping conditioner on it first. And I had no plans
to be in situations conducive to that any time soon. Oh well.
It is hot, well over 90 degrees, and my Honda Goldwing is running just
slightly warm, nothing to be alarmed about though. Still it's something
to be aware of. This old bike's twenty one years old and has over 36,000
miles on it, mostly miles like this, long straight empty backroads. I hate
riding in traffic, dodging crazy drivers and so tense my knuckles are white
from gripping my handlebars in nervous awareness of danger.
I'm running 65 miles per hour and just hints of wind buffet me, nothing
like my other bike which has no faring or windshield. I can even smoke
cigarettes comfortably at this speed. I dislike wearing glasses of any
kind and, though bright blue skies are overhead and full sunshine pours
on my skin, I don't have to worry about glasses on this bike. My eyes seem
to take power from sunshine in some indescribable fashion. It's very subtle
and easy to overlook unless one spends great amounts of time outdoors.
Something that most of us simply don't do enough of, I guess.
I am traveling alone. I tried to talk my 16 year old son into coming
with but he would rather spend this time indoors with his computer. I limit
his internet access to 4 hours daily since he is home schooled, and since
I will be away those limits will no longer be in force. This internet is
very addictive and he would spend every waking minute on it unless I do
limit him. But I guess it's better than him being out selling drugs or
gunning down his schoolmates. At least I know where he is.
I've taken these long trips with other bikers before but it always seems
when I am with others I always end up compromising what I really want to
do and where I really want to go. So lately I've just been packing up every
so often and taking off for parts unknown, all by my lonesome. I bring
my bedroll, my tent, poncho, change of clothes and some other miscellaneous
items easily stowed away in my Goldwing's ample saddlebags. I print out
maps of back roads running all through Illinois and into all border states
from my cd-rom disc Street Atlas. Very handy.
I shy away from any big cities and major highways even if it means traveling
many miles out
of my way. I am in no hurry anyway, going nowhere in particular, which
one can do when one is alone. When you're with someone else there always
seems some push to get someplace. Some goal in mind. Arising implicitly
in conversation. We'll go another 50 miles and stop, whadda ya say? And
maybe I really feel like stopping now, or maybe I will feel like continuing
on after another 50 miles, but for sake of unambiguous agreement with others
I say, yeah, sure. Let's do it. And that's that.
Things are different riding alone. Right now I am heading towards Iowa,
due west. Soon I will have to turn south, then west again where I will
meet with the mighty Mississippi river. I plan to run south, keeping to
Illinois and its no-helmet laws, along some extremely scenic and yet sparsely
traveled roads. Many people were washed out when muddy Mississippi flood
waters inundated whole towns and simply wiped them off maps back in '96.
Many towns were never rebuilt; instead they were relocated on high ground.
There is quiet and serenity along this great river, roads traveling
sometimes along high bluffs and other times down in great valleys. Looking
at these great valleys I cannot help but wonder how this river looked when
our last ice age ended... I can clearly see old shorelines where water
must
once have reached. Trees are just starting to change colors with approaching
fall and hazy mists hang over my horizon forming ghostly mirages. Clouds
are so close overhead that I can almost reach out and touch them white
and puffy on top, lightly gray underneath.
I stop just outside Cordova; having started rather late. Darkness will
be coming soon. There're primitive campsites here that I've stayed at before,
not well known and seldom occupied. Plus they're free. No bathrooms, but
I'll stop at nearby filling stations and wash up as need be. I know of
many primitive campsites scattered through this state and many others,
and you just can't beat them for seclusion and beauty.
I gather dead branches and start my fire, then break out my folding
chair, which stows away nicely behind my seat with my bedroll, and dig
through my saddlebags for some grub. I bring along lots of jerky and fruit.
And driving through these back roads I often happen upon orchards and farms
selling their wares in little road-side stands. Little out-of-the-way places
just dripping with Quality. These people care. That's what my feelings
say when I stop and browse.
I don't bother putting up my tent. No clouds are in sight and as day
slowly fades to night I munch on jerky and eat fresh apples and watch my
fire dance and spin. I've had my mind on Quality for some time now. And
after eating, here in gathering twilight, I sit and do my zazen in order
that my thoughts subside and some subtle awareness of Quality might arise.
Often times insights arise during my sitting. Every great while I am
even able to capture these insights in language and share them with others
through some narrative fashion. I practice zazen at least three times daily,
every day. Just after I wake, at twilight, and just before sleep overtakes
me. Though I've been practicing now for many years, I have yet to master
my practice and often times wonder whether it is even worth my while. Yet
I do it anyway with no particular reason in mind.
I have come to sense, through my practice I suspect, that very same
wondering arising as to all facets of my every day life and what real meaning
any of it holds. Hence one reason I am even here along muddy Mississippi,
alone in dense forests surrounded by ghosts. Ghosts that only arise when
I am really alone. I listen to quiet around me interrupted by a cascade
of sounds. Insects speak
inscrutable languages to each other and huge bull frogs croak in nearby
glades. My mind drifts.
Before leaving on this trip I happened to read that us Americans work
more than most any other civilized nation. Nearly 2000 hours yearly, on
average. That's 40 hour weeks, 50 weeks yearly. Wow. And worse, even with
working all those hours, many families still cannot get ahead, try as they
might. I guess in certain ways we all have needs and wants which force
us into compromising our values for other values not our own. Why?
I bring myself back to center, deeper into my zazen. I feel part of
all now yet even that feeling takes me away from center and so I let it
go too. Slowly breathing, almost imperceptibly I feel rather than know
I can slide into any mode of thought now with perfect clarity but still
I keep my attention centered on my breath. In and out. In and out. My legs
ache then become dull. My back is against concave rock, still inevitably
it begins aching too. I use my pain, delving into it, focusing it into
non attention. But finally it overcomes me and I must rise and limp slowly
around my campsite, my legs numb then tingling. Finally my body becomes
loose once again. It is darkening now.
There is no moon tonight but looking up, I see so many bright stars
that it almost looks like moonlight. From one horizon to another run great
clusters of millions upon billions of stars. Here, far from city lights,
they blaze in all their glory and always take my breath away. Easterly
rises a bright blue star too bright to be a star, and I decide it to be
Saturn. I can almost see its rings here in the Mississippi river darkness.
I break out some of my good dope and load my pipe. It's always risky
to bring it with on these trips but I've never been busted and keep it
in hard to find places. I take several long tokes, holding each, and soon
feel deep stoney waves washing over me. You just can't buy dope like this,
you just can't. A friend of mine has grown it since high school, over twenty
five years ago, and produces truly world-class crops every year. I help
him trim and am rewarded with an ample stash.
My mind wanders back to ancient Greece. I just re read part IV of Zen
and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance before leaving and have my copy with
me. Well worn. Full of marginal notes and underlines. I first read this
book twenty years ago or more, then loaned it out and never got it back.
I bought another copy recently and used it as a home schooling project
for my son. I had forgotten what power this book contains, or perhaps I
simply didn't grasp full meaning then. I am older now but no wiser I fear.
Only experience has grown.
According to Robert M. Pirsig, emergence of intellect seems to have
taken place in early Greece, and our Western culture is based on this emergence,
though intellect didn't come to domina
