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| Map of Travels |
| The Everlasting Summer The old man lay unmoving. The last rays of a dying sun entered the room; a mere whisper of energy, warming as if in sympathy, what would soon turn cold, but for the moment bathed his silvery hair and worn face it its golden light. It was a small thing, a fitting and gentle tribute to be remembered by the waiting shadows after he passed, not the months of pain and suffering. His ninety long years of striving; hard work, success and generosity could not be erased. A fitful breeze, stirring the curtains, soothed the restless figures hovering at his bedside. Family and friends had been summoned to pay their respects. It was a large room with high ceilings that catered to the architecture of that period. The wood paneling of aged walnut was counterpoint to the simple yet elegant furnishings. It was a wonderful room in which to complete a life and move to the next. The waiting would soon end. Some sat while others moved silently in and out of the room. As the sun gave way to darkness the old man took his leave. His thin shrunken body, lost in the big bed, finally gave in to the inevitable. His labored breathing eased and then stopped. His journey to the Great Mystery had begun. The old man’s last conscious thoughts were not about family or money or past successes but about the wonderful period in his early life when he raced motorcycles. His mentor, a man several years older and the fastest racer in their club, saw raw potential in the younger man and offered to coach him. “Raw talent alone would take you just so far,” he explained. “Preparation, tactics and exercise to tone the body are the keys to success,” he pointed out more than once. They raced against each other and over time the young man began to win his share of races. Their friendship lasted more than three years until one rainy night the older man crashed his machine on a lonely stretch of road and died before help could reach him. The spirit and passion for the machine died within the younger man that day. He turned away from the sport and never rode again. As consciousness left his body he passed into a dark void. There was no feeling, no pain, no joy . . . there was nothing. What may have been years, or months, or moments even, in earth time, was meaningless. His awareness began to return. A pinpoint of light began to grow larger. He sensed he was moving toward it, or was it moving toward him. There was no way of knowing. He shrugged mentally. It really didn’t matter. He felt overwhelmed with the feeling of lightness and wellbeing, feelings he never experienced before. The process moved slowly until he began to feel sensations as if he was still in his physical body. It was hard to describe but he began to feel as if he was in the bed in which he passed over. He knew he was “dead,” at least dead to the physical world, but this was something else, so much better, he kept repeating to himself, so much better! He felt he’d reached the surface as a brilliant golden-white light caressed his mind and his new eyes. He felt a breeze with a feathers touch, caress his face. He sensed movement around him and opened his eyes to discover a deep blue sky. Hanging branches with small leaves danced gently in the moving air shielding his face from the glare of the sun. He moved his arms and hands from their repose on his chest outward to feel what he soon learned was grass. He slowly turned his head and stared at a large tree. His strength was returning so he struggled upright to look around him and was never so surprised in his life. He was in a glade shaded by an enormous willow. The grass and wild flowers that defined the glade moved with the rhythm and flow of unseen energy. He could feel the pulse of these vibrations all about him. He moved to his knees and after a struggle stood upright. He groaned as he straightened. “Oh my,” he croaked, “I haven’t done that in a while.” As his strength returned he turned and almost fell, the surprise was so abrupt. Not ten feet away was a revelation. Leaning on its sidestand was a motorcycle in iridescent colors and his old racing number boldly painted on the fairing. As he moved slowly around the bike, the colors flickered and changed blending dark red, green, yellow and blue into new and wonderful combinations of hue, frequency and color temperature. He felt tightness in his chest and pounding in his ears as he ran his fingers over the paint and leather seat. For the first time he noticed a helmet on the seat and a pair of goggles hung from the handlebars in the same place he’d always left them. He was numb and quite beside himself. “Is this a dream?” he asked himself over and over. He was so caught up in the visual he realized that he could now hear as well. The rustling of leaves and the movement of flowers and long grasses filled the glade with the gentle music of chimes; a lovely understated melody that filled his being with absolute joy. Another sound began to intrude the solitude of the glade. A sound he hadn’t heard in sixty-five years. The wailing song of a high revving engine dropping down through its gears. The wail seemed to echo off all living things in the glade as a bike burst into the clearing like a shooting star and came to a stop. Its colors in constant motion exuded such energy, it overwhelmed his senses. The old man held onto his bike to steady his shaky legs. One hand shielded his eyes until he realized the rider was his friend from so long ago. The happiness and joy of two old friends meeting again, when neither thought such a thing possible, filled the glade. The willow shook its branches and the animals emerged from their burrows to watch as flowers bowed and swayed their approval. The vibrant energy of love was everywhere. “How wonderful to see you again, dear friend,” said the rider with a large grin. The old man croaked an answer, too filled with emotion to speak. The rider removed his helmet so the old man could see the familiar face he’d often dreamed of through the long years. “It’s been a long, long time my dear friend,” said the rider as he moved to embrace the old man. “By Harry, there have been so many races won and lost since we parted,” he added with a smile. If you thought racing was exciting in the other place you will be thrilled to your core with the competition here. Most of the great riders are here competing. It’s gloriously wild and wooly. Ha, ha, you’ll fit right in. Oh yes, new blood to keep the boys sharp.” The old man held on to his friend, afraid that this was nothing more than a dream. “Am I dreaming? Please don’t tell me I’m dreaming,” he whispered into the rider’s ear. “Dreaming, dreaming! I should say not. This is real,” he said softly as he looked around the glade. "I’m real. You’re real, everything you experienced before, was the dream. Can’t you feel the energy that fills the air, the ground, the flowers, grass . . . and yourself? Listen to it, feel it. You are truly part of all that is.” The old man stepped back and looked more closely at the grass and flowers. He walked slowly to the willow and placed his hands on its massive trunk, and yes, he could feel the pulse of life as the energy flowed over and around his hand and his body. He looked back at the rider, tears of joy filling his eyes. He turned and walked to his bike, slowly putting on the helmet and fitting his goggles. “Can I do this?” he thought. “Can I really do this?” The rider spun with a laugh and leaped onto his saddle. With a roar he rushed from the glade, shifting rapidly to gain speed. As the old man settled onto his bike, feeling more and more confident, the little racer came to life. Anticipating the old man’s thoughts the bike slowly left the glade gaining speed as the old man gained confidence. Catching the rider at last, they rushed down the center of road, as if tied together, sweeping into left and right turns as one. The old man gained confidence by the mile and decided to take the lead but the rider anticipated the old man’s intentions and closed the opening. Up over hills and down into the valleys they raced. The bikes moved effortlessly. Small mistakes made by the old man’s tired reflexes were corrected by the bike. On they rushed, past low stone walls and tidy cottages, until finally the old man willed his steed to the front and as he passed the rider he glanced over and grinned. The circle is complete, the rider thought, as he glanced into the face of a smiling young man. |
| FOLLOW THE YELLOW LINE Motorcycle Touring with Stuart Davis and His Side Car www.followtheyellowline.com |
| Ramblings, etc. |