Diary Sat July 12

 

 

I got up this morning at 9:00, having slept precious little because those little bastards next door watched TV all night longÉ no, litterally all night long (Diary June 11th ). Well in any case, I got up, packed up, and was out of there by 10:00.  I rode down the highway to the supermarket, still woozy and dreamy from the previous night and rounded up some food.  I felt like a zombie rooting for flesh, as I flopped all over the store, taking random items that looked edible. I ended up with an arm load of impulse buys: pasta sauce in a squeezy tube (didnÕt want to break any glass and get sauce all over my bag), a drinkable yogurt, a bagle, some margerine in a squeezy tube, a loaf of ciniman swirl bread (oh so delicious), an assortment of granola bars, and toothpaste to replace the tube I left in Philly.  I paid for it all and went out to the parking lot for breakfast. 

            I had intended to eat the bagel and the yogurt, but as I was unpacking my feast, I got into a conversation with the woman who was getting ready to pull out of the space next to mine.  SheÕd seen the sign on the back of the moped and was inevitably curious. 

            Sometimes when people ask me about the trip, I just give them the stock answers, that ineviatably lead to more stock questions.  This amounts to answering the specific question they asked, usually in this order Òto CaliforniaÉ yes to CaliforniaÉ 20-30, depending on the roadÉ about two monthsÉ on steep or long hills yesÉ alright, see ya.Ó  Other times however, and this usually corresponds to my feeings about the trip at the time, I get into better conversations, which boils down to Òanswering the question you wish you were asked.Ó  These conversations are much more interesting and can go on for a half an hour easy.  For instance, the questiton Ôwhat has it been likeÕ has never been asked, nor has ÔwhatÕs the wildest thing thatÕs happened so far,Õ or even Ôdo you like it, are you having fun?;.  These questions lead to stories, and I love telling stories. As a local of course, when I told her about my idea that the motel owner was using the place as a tax scam to house his family and friends without paying a cent, she got very excited and wanted to know all about it.

            One thing that she mentioned, that IÕd heard people say, but that really caught my ear this time,  was Òyeah IÕm going to do something like that one day.Ó The truth of the matter is that most likely she wonÕt ever do this, or anything like it.  Chances are, sheÕs completely bogged down.  Every once in a while IÕll be going up a hill on my ped, and the hill will be a little too steep and a little too long, and I end up slowing down and slowing down, and eventually I go so slow I canÕt even pedal, and then I hop off the ped and have to walk it if I want to get any farther, but IÕm too tired so I just put up the kickstand and lie down on the side of the road and check out the sky. This woman is just at the brink of slowing to a dead stop, and sheÕs trying to decide whether sheÕs got the strength to push herself up the hill walking, and in the mean time sheÕs giving it a couple feeble pedals.  But for her, the hill I a pile of snagging obligations and expectations, not a physical incline. Stepping out of my memoir here for a second, I you the reader to go do those things youÕve always meant to do, and go have adventures.  Work out ways to get out of your obligations, put all your expectations into a littlee bag and hide it under the couch and just get out there.  My experience so far in the last 6 days (holy crap, how has it only been that long) is that this is what life is really all about.  Not mopeding perse, but doing the things youÕve always wanted to do, especially if theyÕre not the most reasonable, easiest, or most pleasant things to do.  Ok enough preaching, back to the story

 

            It was such a gorgeous moring to day I was totally peacing out riding down the road.  The sky was tumultuous, and the clouds moving fastÉ

 

**** As I was writing that last line, all of a sudden it started to pour rain.  ItÕs about 7:15, and the light was incredible, golden orange out to the west, and bright blue out to the east.  Not a cloud as far as I can see.  I slammed my computer closed, and bolted out of my tent, grabbed all my stuff from around the camp site, as freezing cold drops of rain pelted against my head and shoulders. The rain in the trees sounds like IÕm living in the middle of a creek, splashing white noise all around me.  I threw the rain fly over the tent, and everything else under it, right beside the tent.  I grabbed tbike rain cover, and bolted out to the ped.  The ped was less covered by trees so immediately I get showered like nothing.  I pull the cover right side out and top side up and slip it over the ped as fast as I possibly can, then run back to the tent to put the rain fly on correctly. IÕm smiling like mad, and my blood is pumping pure adrenaline.  IÕm not wearing shoes, so every few steps I grind something pointy into the bottom of my feet, and leaves and pine needles are getting stuck to the souls of my feet but I donÕt care.  First thingÕs first. I snap it on, stake it down, and jump into the tent, grab the camera and snap a few photos and jump back into the tent to write this as the rain splashes onto the fly all around me.  IÕm in my cucoon, and the rain sounds like perfection. ItÕs amazing how chaos and perfection look so similarÉ****

 

I would ride through a cloudÕs shadow, and itÕd hit me like IÕd walked into a frozen cave, IÕd peer out from the doorway to the shadow and see the rest of the world in bright vivid sunlight, and see the bright blue sky above them that they must be experiencing.  Bikers and cars come whizzing by. I wave at the bikers, who frequently give me quizzical looks, but weÕre in similar boatsÉ mine just has another month and a half before it docks againÉ 

 

I ride onward, only planning to do 25 miles or so today to get to a nice sounding camp site IÕd been eyeing for days.   R B Winter, state forest. 

 

I pass the lush green farm land and the beautifully simple praticality of barns and silos.  People are mowing their lawns. ThatÕs what people do here it seems.  Lawns here donÕt get to looking like they need to get mowed.  EverybodyÕs lawn gets a crew cut every couple of days or things get out of hand.  ItÕs a status thing in a way, a good lawn is a short and clean lawn.  ItÕs not status as judged by money.  ItÕs less superficial and material than that, itÕs about caring, and working hard, not having a tractor.  Though itÕs easier if you have a tractor of courseÉ

 

Everything is beautiful, and the wind is blowing right in my face.  I pull down the face shield to protect for speeding bumble bees, and grin. 

 

All of a sudden I pass a house that is a little different from the others.  ItÕs still clearly a farming house, with tractors and farmers doing tractor and farmer things out in the fields.  But there are small motorcycles in the yard and a sign that says ÒBobÕsÓ something something ÒMopedÓ

 

ÒMoped?Ó Moped!  I turn around and go back.

 

They have some gorgeous mopeds in the yard, and in the driveway,   Mostly new TomosÕ, including a brand new Revival, which hlooks like a moped of the Harley class.  ItÕs beautiful and sexy.  ItÕs got a nice maroon color, and chrome up the hooha.  A big smiling woman comes out of the front of the house and greets me.  ÒI saw you drive by, and I said to myself Ôis that a moped?ÕÓ we laugh.  ÒWhere you from?Ó

            ÒNew YorkÓ I reply.

            ÒNew York, wow, thatÕs one heck of a trip! Where you headed?Ó

            ÒCalifornia.Ó

            ÒOh my gosh! Are you kidding me,Ó she breaks up laughing ÒI say, thatÕs fantastic.  All the way to CaliforniaÓ  She speaks well, and with a rural accent, for instance she says ÔcaliforniaÕ in two syllables not four. 

            We talk about mopeds, theyÕve been moped dealers for years.  ItÕs her husabds thing.  TheyÕre farmers, but they do this on the side, She says. They used to drive up to NY to pick up new mopeds, but they stopped selling those in the United States of course. Now itÕs mostly Tomos.  She reckons their one of the only moped dealers in ÔPA,Õ we chat more, and she asks if thereÕs anything I need. I tell her a new pedal.  We go into the garage to get a pair, and I ask to use their tools, my wrenches are too big.  She says absolutely, and I go take a look at the pedals.  If I like she can get on the four wheeler and go get her husband.  HeÕs out in the field.

            It turns out the pedal crank is messed up so I ask her if she wouldnÕt mind getting her husband.  She gets on a four wheeler and rides on out into the Pennsylvania sun.

 

As I go however, and IÕm riding happily down the road into a blasting head wind,