Iíd like to say I couldnít stop living the trip, but thatís only an explanation of my actions, not the root of the cause. Certainty, predictability and familiarity were almost intolerable. So much so that I never established a permanent residence and even absconded to hotels when I needed to escape, write, focus, defocus or just ĎRoom 19í it. The trip continued on by momentum even though I should have been at rest. Then of course there was a trip to CotA for the 1199R launch, a fellow inmate invited me to meet up in NY (insane time!), overnight trips to at Buttonwillow, Sonoma Raceway and Thunderhill for track days. I bugged out in Death Valley (twice), drove back and forth between SF and LA more times than I can recall. In any given week my head might see 5 different pillows. And when that wasnít enough restlessness, Iíd wander at night (sometimes with a camera)
Perhaps darkness, rain, fog, were my ways of experiencing the familiar in an unfamiliar way?
You can only imagine how the state of mind I'm in contributes to the development of positive, healthy relationships. There seems to be only one constant: that I disappear, and emerge somewhere else, as if my life had folded into two and under the connected planes of the present, moments looped underneath. Moments that only I knew were there.
Traveling is a contradictory, temporary defense against the inevitability of my next trip; an insatiable need that intensifies the more I feed it. Iím still trying to discover just what makes me get up in the middle of the night and leave, whatís making it impossible for me to grow roots (or even want to). Iíve looked at places to buy, places to rent, places to sublet, cities to reside in, but have found none.
So for now I have just one key in my pocket that fits just one motorcycle.