Mental Motoring
My motorcycle journey began today
before sunrise, in thick fog,
with one last pause at the Pacific Ocean
beneath a watchful moon,
brilliant and full.
Then I turned inland,
away from the sea,
toward the desert.
L.A. traffic gathered around me,
taillights streaming north,
the restless movement of people
hurrying toward something, somewhere.
Then the road began to climb,
twisting upward through the mountain pass,
curve after curve,
higher into the morning air.
No longer riding,
but flying.
Then down again,
into the oppressive heat
of the Mojave Desert.
One hundred ten degrees.
The wind became a furnace.
The pavement shimmered.
My throat grew parched
I lost my voice.
Mile after mile
of rock, sand, heat,
and empty distance,
plunging deeper into the kiln.
But somewhere beyond the desert,
the world begins to change.
The heat loosens its grip.
Brown gives way to green.
Mountains gather around the road.
Clouds begin to fill the sky.
And as I ride my motorcycle through Utah,
the world’s noise fades behind.
The engine hums a hymn calmly,
a note beneath every passing mile,
while the sky gathers its grey thoughts
over mountains washed in green.
The fields stretch toward distant fences.
Farmhouses rest without hurry,
cottonwoods standing watch
where streams have lingered
for generations before I arrived.
The storm ahead has not yet spoken.
It gathers beyond the ridgeline,
its dark curtains drawn,
a towering squall,
its rain still hidden,
its thunder a promissory note.
The wind changes.
It carries the scent of wet earth
before the first drop has fallen.
I ride on,
not racing the storm,
not fleeing it,
simply taking in the scenery.
A gift of today.
The mountains don’t strain to be majestic.
The grass doesn’t compete with the wildflowers.
The clouds don’t apologize
for covering the sun.
Everything simply is.
The road asks very little of me:
keep your eyes open,
lean into the curves,
respect the wind,
watch the sky,
trust the next mile.
Perhaps that’s how nature teaches.
Not always through voices
that shake the earth,
but through thousands
of ordinary moments
that slowly reshape
a willing heart.
A hawk circles above an open field.
A farmer continues his work
Cattle graze pensively
sniffing the dampness ahead.
So today, I receive the wind,
the clouds,
the green valleys,
the smell of rain,
the distant blue of mountains,
the faithful rhythm of an engine
carrying me one mile farther.
Outwardly,
it’s a man on a motorcycle
crossing the West
beneath a gathering storm.
Inwardly,
it’s a soul learning again
that the shortest road to peace
isn’t found by chasing the next thing,
but by paying attention
to what is already before you.
before sunrise, in thick fog,
with one last pause at the Pacific Ocean
beneath a watchful moon,
brilliant and full.
Then I turned inland,
away from the sea,
toward the desert.
L.A. traffic gathered around me,
taillights streaming north,
the restless movement of people
hurrying toward something, somewhere.
Then the road began to climb,
twisting upward through the mountain pass,
curve after curve,
higher into the morning air.
No longer riding,
but flying.
Then down again,
into the oppressive heat
of the Mojave Desert.
One hundred ten degrees.
The wind became a furnace.
The pavement shimmered.
My throat grew parched
I lost my voice.
Mile after mile
of rock, sand, heat,
and empty distance,
plunging deeper into the kiln.
But somewhere beyond the desert,
the world begins to change.
The heat loosens its grip.
Brown gives way to green.
Mountains gather around the road.
Clouds begin to fill the sky.
And as I ride my motorcycle through Utah,
the world’s noise fades behind.
The engine hums a hymn calmly,
a note beneath every passing mile,
while the sky gathers its grey thoughts
over mountains washed in green.
The fields stretch toward distant fences.
Farmhouses rest without hurry,
cottonwoods standing watch
where streams have lingered
for generations before I arrived.
The storm ahead has not yet spoken.
It gathers beyond the ridgeline,
its dark curtains drawn,
a towering squall,
its rain still hidden,
its thunder a promissory note.
The wind changes.
It carries the scent of wet earth
before the first drop has fallen.
I ride on,
not racing the storm,
not fleeing it,
simply taking in the scenery.
A gift of today.
The mountains don’t strain to be majestic.
The grass doesn’t compete with the wildflowers.
The clouds don’t apologize
for covering the sun.
Everything simply is.
The road asks very little of me:
keep your eyes open,
lean into the curves,
respect the wind,
watch the sky,
trust the next mile.
Perhaps that’s how nature teaches.
Not always through voices
that shake the earth,
but through thousands
of ordinary moments
that slowly reshape
a willing heart.
A hawk circles above an open field.
A farmer continues his work
Cattle graze pensively
sniffing the dampness ahead.
So today, I receive the wind,
the clouds,
the green valleys,
the smell of rain,
the distant blue of mountains,
the faithful rhythm of an engine
carrying me one mile farther.
Outwardly,
it’s a man on a motorcycle
crossing the West
beneath a gathering storm.
Inwardly,
it’s a soul learning again
that the shortest road to peace
isn’t found by chasing the next thing,
but by paying attention
to what is already before you.
