I went down hard. Going thirty or thirty-five miles an hour in the city  of Portland. I got caught on a trolley line. Little Wing’s front wheel got caught in the indent that runs in the road, I felt it catch. I attempted to get out by steering quick, but the rain and trolley line disagreed with my decision. All combined, the tire, the line, and the wet, we skidded out. Down Little Wing went, and I went down as well. Luckily enough I detached from the bike. My body continued pointing West (the direction we had been going). My legs pointed towards the bike, my eyes were also pointed that way. As I slid on my left side I watched the bike skid. Little Wing went down on his left side as well. He went down in such a way that his tires pointed at my toes and the seat was pointed West. Meaning, the bike went atleast 180° after I let go. I watched it skid towards opposing traffic. Besides the rain the image I remember most clearly were the sparks. The thought “I’m ok, but I don’t have a bike anymore,” skidded along side me.

I got off the black top and I swore. My legs hadn’t touched the pavement, neither did my head, but my left arm took the brunt of the fall. When I stood I felt a pain in my left elbow. I checked for range of motion and it was fine. I would find out later that my jacket made of kevlar and mesh had saved my elbow from everything but a purplish bruising.

They guy who could have ran into my bike — or more accurately, the car my bike nearly skidded into — had stopped. The Driver, a young man around thirty, asked if I was ok. I responded in a rude manner that tends to rear its ugly head when I get scared, “I sure fuckin’ hope so.”

I was an ass.

The man got out of the car as I walked over to right Little Wing. The driver appeared in my helmet-modified field of vision, and as he did so a college aged man appeared from the other side. “Are you okay? Can I do anything to help?” The College Boy asked.

The Driver asked the same question. I looked down at Little Wing, my strength all gone. I did something that I don’t often do. I told them that if they wanted to pick up the motorcycle that would be awesome. They did. As the rain fell, hitting hard against my helmet, and making streams of oily water flow on the incline I had recently skidded down, the two men brought my bike to the narrow shoulder. They asked again if I was alright. I said yes, and thank you, but I didn’t say it enough. My frustrations left me sounding a little ungrateful and for that I am now sad. Those men were so kind when I needed kindness, when I was at my worst, and I didn’t say thank you enough.

Little Wing started up after a little coaxing. My left mirror was twisted a bit, but everything else was seemingly fine (I would later find out that my left footpeg was also busted). I escaped with a sore spot on my elbow and a working motorcycle; I am fortunate.

I am alive. I have all my limbs. I am alive.

Enlightening discourse, bits of knowledge one can collect from other intelligent humans. My dad used to call these bits ‘pearls of wisdom.’ Often times his gifts to us were made up of, or padded with, these pearls.

The pearls were beautiful and shone with knowledge. They had a colorful sheen that was colored even more by the words Dad chose to wrap them in. They told of his life, the people in his life, and the many challenges and grace that had been tossed at him all throughout the whole thing. The glow of these pearls was something almost imperceptible to my naive sister and I. We saw it as just another talk. Just another thing Dad was saying *yawwnn* to hear himself speak. Dad called ’em pearls.

My host in Portland is father to one girl. He told me that raising a kid was difficult, because often times they don’t appear to listen. He figured that as long as he said the words though they would be there. The words would be in her head. When she needs them now she can draw on them.

As I make my way through life I often times am reminded of words Dad said to me. Pearls make their way forward and glisten within my line off vision when I need them most. All those *yawwwnn* moments seem to be paying off.

My thoughts as I slid across the pavement and watched the sparks fly were mainly curse words. However there were other words floating through my head. Pearls of wisdom from many voices popping up. I had trouble grasping all but one, but they were there.

Over the last week I have met some interesting individuals. I had the pleasure of being hosted by a man who was in the midst of a family reunion. He was ever-so-kind in offering me a bed. I was one among four other guests and the only female of the bunch as well as the only stranger. Six of us slept there that night, five men and myself. Discussions were fun and the food delicious. My host was a born story teller and his two brothers, dad, and nephew seemed to know it. It was a fun thing to sit among these guys as they chatted and caught up. That evening we sat together and the next morning we parted ways — I went North to Bellingham and they head South towards Seattle.

In Bellingham I took in the farmers market. I tasted the best grapes I ever tasted. Bought some amazing tea made by a lovely young woman. I bought bread for dinner as well as some nuts. I met some lovely people and got to watch angry proselytizers preach hate in the name of God. It was an experience, and as the market closed up I made my way back to Little Wing with my armful of goodies. I had parked beside a Goldwing with an Arizona license plate. As I made my way to my trusty steed I saw a man standing over the Goldwing. “Is that your bike?” the man asked.

“Yes, it is. Is that yours?” I pointed at the Goldwing with my one free hand.

“Yes it is.” He went on to tell me about how he had obtained the bike (a gift from another rider), and why maybe I should consider getting a Goldwing. We chatted for a bit and he invited me for a ride.

The last time I rode as a passenger on an on road motorcycle I was two or three. One of my earliest memories, I remember my uncle holding onto me as I sat leaning against his belly. On the Goldwing I sat on the back. Kai, the owner of the vehicle, and I chatted.

It turns out he was a Yogi. He was quite wise and had been living off a motorcycle for decades. We had much to discuss. He offered me a place to sleep that evening and I took it.

It is funny the people one meets. It is funny that I met a Yogi who spoke of humans being perfect the way they are after my discussion with the nephew of my host that morning.

The morning before the market was met by tea, served to me as soon as I was awake and dressed, and a breakfast of eggs, bacon, and toast. A hearty breakfast to welcome the day. Other than the nephew all the men had atleast a decade on me. The nephew was only a few years older than myself, and a rather attractive boy. He was in the Marine Corps and had a definite military bearing. He was shy while also being opinionated, which made for interesting discussion.

As the rest of the guys dispersed towards the great outdoors the nephew stayed and started up conversation. He started with a question, asking if it was wrong of him to think that boys in skinny jeans were douchebag.

I mentioned earlier that one of the things I got to experience at the farmer’s market were angry proselytizers. They were a couple of men preaching hate and holding bright neon signs. They were saying things like “God hates gays,” and “God hates atheists.” They also had in tow a little boy, about five years old, who was speaking to strangers about repenting. Humans preaching hate, a thing so common in this world, but something that usually seems so obviously wrong to an observer.

I have heard negative words placed against boys wearing skinny jeans before. I have heard the same disgust for boys wearing cowboy hats or girls with died hair. I hear words like jugalo and hipster tossed around with contempt, much like the words homosexual and atheist. Labels that people assign and then apply some level of judgement to. Words that are just words, but that are used to justify hate.

“Yes, that is wrong,” I told the nephew. “Apparel, regardless of your thoughts on it, does not make anyone a douchebag. Appearance does not define people.” This discussion turned from a mere funny anecdote from the young nephew into a Diamond-rant about being kind to others.

Boys wearing skinny jeans don’t deserve a label any more than a Marine. A chick on a motorcycle doesn’t deserve a label anymore than a chick with an old rusty truck living in Minnesota. Humans are all different, we are all in a state of constant change. To label someone who might seem different than yourself is wrong because we are all different, and since we are all different we are also all the same. We are all snowflakes. Each snowflake is different, there aren’t any two that are the same. Unique, beautiful, and perfect the way they are. They are all special, and therefore none of them are special. They are all just snowflakes. Humans are all just human.

This rant was delivered a little more stuttered than the way I just laid it out, but there it is. My revised speech, my pearl of wisdom. My second day in Bellingham I attended my first church service. Before that Sunday the only church services I had attended had been weddings and funerals. The service was pretty though. The speaker did not spew hate in the name of God, he spoke love. He said we were love and God was love, and we were all apart of God because we were all in a state of being love. He spoke of accepting and loving others. He spoke my language.

Pearl of wisdom no. 1) Treat others how you would have them treat you. Would you have people judge you by your appearance? Or maybe by the beliefs you hold? Would you have others preach at you? Call you a douchebag?

Pearl of wisdom no. 2) Listen with an open mind. Yogi Kai was full of intriguing wisdom, I’m glad I had the chance to speak with him. The church service was fascinating and because I listened I was pleased. The Marine nephew was intriguing despite the fact that I disagreed. Speaking to him taught me something about my own viewpoints.

Pearl of wisdom no. 3) When you go down get up faster than you fell. Resilience.

Dad said many wise things. I have considered all three of these pearls over the last week, but the only one that skittered across the pavement with Little Wing and I was the resilience. In that moment in time I was pissed, I was not feeling love. I didn’t treat The Driver or The College Boy the way I wanted to be treated, but I did bounce off the road gripping that resilient pearl in my hand.

Sometimes we all forget the things we strive for, like love or being kind. None of us are perfect, but we are perfect in our imperfections. We all of us are snowflakes and not one of us gets through our life cycle without melting or breaking off a few crystalline limbs. We all suffer, we all breathe. We all fall into judgemental mode, and we all fall. 

Pearl of wisdom no. 4) Don’t let the bastards get you down. To borrow a more graceful saying from Elenor Roosevelt, regardless of the hate, rain, or  trolley lines “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” If you want to pick yourself up you will. Love is a super power by itself, and employing it doesn’t hurt. Learn from the falls. Be the love you wish to see in the world, and let the way you OVERCOME define you.

If there is one pearl of wisdom I can hand you, words I can put in your head for later, let them be “be love.”

I am fixing my footpegs tomorrow and I’m looking into some more crash worthy pants for riders. I’m avoiding trolley lines and loving my fellow vehicle passengers. I’m learning. A fall doesn’t have to be just a fall.

Patience, young grasshopper.

When getting on a motorcycle one should always maintain the center balance of the bike. One must be sure not to let it tip one way or the other. Leaving the kickstand down while mounting is generally the best way to insure this.

Once one is comfortably situated on the bike it is necessary to disengage the stand so that when one starts the bike they don’t bust it off by riding with it down. Some bikes are equipped with an automatic shut off for such instances when people shift into first gear with the stand left folded down.

The kickstand is mighty important.

This morning an anxious rider mounted her faithful motorcycle. She started it up. It cut out. She pulled out the choke, restarted the bike, and let it idle in neutral. The rider then disengaged the kickstand. She snagged her helmet and started to put it on when she noticed something pertinent which she had forgot before mounting her motorcycle. She hung the helmet on the right handle bar and leaned the bike to the left, balancing it in its parked position so she could dismount and attend to the forgotten something-or-other.

Remember, the rider had disengaged the kickstand.

This young grasshopper saw the most entertaing thing this morning. The bike and rider were parked on green grass. The precipitation was such that small pin prick sprinkles glimmered and fell. The air smelt of Washington in fall, and the soft grass appeared even more bright in contrast to the dim, cloud filled, sky.

The rider dropped like a rag doll, still wrapped around the bike. She realized her mistake too late; the kickstand was no longer standing by her side. The bike leaned to the left, and kept leaning, and then gravity took hold and the bike fell with that rider still on it. The rider hit the soft grass like a rag doll.

This grasshopper isn’t privy to much in the way of humorous falls. In my recollection they mostly appear frightening. However, that rider on that motorcycle was just fine. Her cheeks were about as red as the lovely roses that adorned that green grass around the perimeter of the yard where the bike and rider had toppled. The rider untangled herself and clambered from under that bike — less than gracefully I might add. The rider brushed herself off, and gave a quick sweep of the vicinity to check if any eyes had saw, this grasshopper was the only witness. She picked that bike up, and continued about her bussiness, attending to the pertinent task that had caused the ruckus.

Kickstands are mighty important that’s all I’m saying. AND one should have patience, young grasshopper.

I am going to Bellingham, WA to go check out the glass blowers and the farmers market — a big thing on Saturday I’m told. Today I’m taking a ferry from Port Townsend to Coupville with Little Wing. When we get to the other side of the salt water and onto dry land we shall ride the rest of the way to the promised market.

I have a hope that I shall see sea-life, but I’m not too worried if I don’t because when walking Puget Sound in Seattle I observed a seal. We made eye contact and chatted and became pretty great friends. Before swimming away the seal told me that other sea critters aren’t quite as charming so no worries.

Nah, just joshing ya. The seal was exceptional, but I find hoping for things that aren’t likely makes one feel empty. Maybe the first story is better. Anyway, when I did see the seal I hadn’t been hoping for anything so I was very excited by the little creatures existence. It differed from the rest of the trip in that way. For example in Yellowstone I didn’t really want to see any creatures. While astride a motorcycle I’m sure that is many riders secret hope. I saw many creatures there though. I saw a buffalo with his ass hanging out in the highway as his front end wrestled a tree branch in the ditch. As everyone else stopped to take pictures I used my small vulnerable size to my advantage and got the duck out of there. The buffalo was on the left of me and in the opposing ditch. He had managed to stop a miles worth of vehicle ensconced, picture-obsessed, Yellowstone patrons with his animal antics. Regardless, I was not quite so fascinated. Being from the swamps of Minnesota I am very aware that animals can be sweet and interesting one moment and turn around to charge a motorcycle the next. If raccoons can do it so can buffalo.

The moral of the story is that I am happy to play the critter seeking tourist as long as the critters are in the water, but I’m not holding high hopes.

The water. This is the Pacific Ocean we are talking about. Dude. That’s cool. I’m pretty pumped. I’ve been on the coast about a week and the excitement hasn’t died. Speaking of being here about a week, let me tell you the story.

I went to Seattle last week. Little Wing and I arrived Thursday to a wonderful couple who hosted me. Julie, John, and cat and dog. Julie gave me a tour of the busy busy city so I got to see it without getting lost on Little Wing. We went to the Fish Market and to Jimi Hendrix’s grave. I took pictures so feel free to go check those out on the new The Pictures page there, up top, on the menu bar. We went to some of the parks and I got to attend my first party in a month and a half. A group of interesting minds gathered around to eat good food, talk and have a good time. Seattle was intimidating because of the traffic, but great because of the people. My method to life had me spend an hour lost while leaving the city. Despite great direction from my host I lost myself anyway. A reoccurring theme in my life, I gave Portland the same treatment when I left.

Yes Portland, my next stop after Seattle. “But wait,” one might say if they had followed this rambling story. “You are headed North to Bellingham, WA now. How? Why Seattle to Portland and then North?”

Great question. Be patient observant reader and I shall get to that. Besides, directions and I don’t usually keep a tight handhold. I went from Yellowstone to Neligh, NE and then back to Wyoming and headed North, I’m not much for straight lines.

Back to the story though -Portland. I have a friend back home who set me up with a passle of radio engineers that I could stay with. Sprinkled across the country are a handful of engineers willing to take Little Wing and myself in for a bit. My latest engineer, Gray, is ever so kind. A real treat to stay with. The conversation has been enlightening and the welcome warm. Portland itself is a great city. Though confusing and hard to figure out it is filled with art and an interesting group of people. I haven’t made it into the art museum yet (which I very much want to do), but the city streets are sort of the next best thing. Sculptures, paintings, culture, it is everywhere. I met a busker named Tony Street, a fascinating work of art himself, on the streets or Portland. We chatted, I took pictures (to be posted later), I gave him a small amount of money from my small supply, and we exchanged contact info. I continued on, exploring, photographing, taking in the town. Eventually I hopped a bus and got myself lost, got back on the right track, and made my way back to Gray’s.

I don’t know if you have ever heard of Utah Phillips. He isn’t well known, but he is good. If you haven’t heard him you should look him up. I first learned of him because he collaborated with Ani Difranco and a friend shared the album with me. I have since become a fan. The reason I bring it up is because Gray knew him and he is currently renting a room to Utah’s son. My brush with celebrity did not go without a few dramatics. It is hard to hide admiration regardless of how much one doesn’t want to sound like an obsessed fan girl. I didn’t sound bad, however I was slightly weird about it. This actually lead to a discussion with Gray about cool vs. uncool and some new thoughts from myself on the subject.

I have had so many brushes with cool. As a radio DJ I constantly approached musicians I admired, and felt overshadowed by, and asked for CD’s or conversed with them. I have worked with cool musicians, artists, and other humans, and managed myself well enough. I tamp my weird admiration down and try to get on with people without squealing. One of the things I have trouble understanding is people now calling me cool. People have admired my art and now my journey. People say things like ‘bad ass’ and ‘inspiring.’ People have admitted that they have slight envy and another said I should make a documentary. My friends are vicariously following my story as are people I have never met. The word ‘cool’ has been tossed around a bit and applied. What? Me? Cool?! It has been hard to understand.

Recently a friend told me that all she ever wanted was to be ‘cool’ and she never succeeded. This was shocking to me, I thought she was really cool. I didn’t have a preconceived notion about her being cool as I do with musician and artists and such, but I found her just as cool. I didn’t have to tamp down squeals, but I had to hold back appreciative hugs. And in that lies the answer.

We all have these dumb notions that cool comes with a definition. That because we feel uncool and dorky we must be those things. Well, the truth is that we all feel like that. If we don’t feel that way we very well might be ‘uncool.’ We are all stuck in our own brain. The only person we can or will ever know fully is ourselves. We look at others and see the superficial bits and think “that’s cool.” We hope that we can be like that, and as I said before, hoping for things that are improbable or undefinable is unfulfilling. One grows empty with the feeling of inadequacy and they wind up depressed.

I guess what I’m saying is a have no aspirations to be ‘cool’ because I’m happier without those aspirations, and just because I find another person cool doesn’t mean they agree. I find it is hard to make friends with people who admire me when I don’t understand why. I want them to treat me as an equal and not hold me on a pedestal so I am certain others must generally want the same. Despite being in awe of Utah’s son, I made a conscious decision to let it go so I wasn’t the one weird girl sitting around the table. And the thing is he is also a musician. He had a group called Fast Rattler which he is currently on hiatus from. He gave me a CD so I shall be soon playing him on the radio alongside his father.

My third day in Portland was met by a call from Tony Street and we met up at the fountain where we had met the day before. He played three different instruments, all within the woodwind family. He brought one with him the day we met up and we walked the streets. He was a bit like a tour guide. Like a tour guide straight out of a Tarentino film. I recently watched Django Unchained, it was actually the last Movie I watched. The busker was very reminiscent of Jamie Fox. He was wearing a red shirt under a vest when I first met him. He had on a pair of sunglasses and a cowboy hat as well. The day that he acted as my tour guide he wore all black and had lost the sunglasses. His hat remained though, and the most interesting part of his appearance, his facial ink, also remained. He had symmetrical lines adorning his chocolate skin that made him look like a work of art. He looked like something I would have drawn, it was beautiful.

Tony Street and I walked through the streets searching for yarn (for me), and interesting things to look at. We would also stop so he could play every once and awhile. I would watch as people stopped to listen while others just kept walking. We would find other musicians and they would pair up and play. It was such a work of art. I got to traipse beside and experience the life of a busker, and it was awesome.

The whole day I was observing while Tony was asking. He would talk to strangers and get the questions we had answered while I would look to signs for my answers. Between us we didn’t have a problem finding what we needed, but had he not been asking or I not observing we would have been lost. It was a fifty fifty split, we needed both skills to be implemented to have a productive day.

I came to realize that I don’t ask enough. I walk through life with an I’ll-do-it-myself attitude and often get lost because of it. If I asked more I wouldn’t get lost leaving big cities and I wouldn’t spend an extra hour on a bus when it was only meant to be a fifteen minute ride. I tend to avoid asking questions because of the word ‘cool.’ I find others too cool and intimidating or find someone might realize I’m ‘uncool’ if I ask.

You know what’s uncool? Being lost in Seattle. I have better things to do.

I’m about to get on my first ferry. Thoughts of music and busking fill my head. Thoughts of the walking art I wish to paint are dancing in there, kicking up the dust that is caking my painting muscle. Thoughts of farmers market and glass blowing are in there too. Thoughts of heading back to Portland permeate it all.

I am going back to Portland on Tuesday because I get to be cool. A friend set me up with an artist who photographs and films women on motorcycles. Little Wing and I are meeting her Tuesday which is the answer to that far away question, ‘why Bellingham?’ I’m killing time and exploring. I’m spending five days exploring the coasts and vineyards of Washington before going back to Oregon.

However, it isn’t as easy as saying I’m “asking questions,” I have to do it, and so that is what I’m going to do on this roundabout trip back to Portland.

Asking questions and being cool. I’m not allowing ‘cool’ to define.others for a bit to see what happens. And I’m taking a ferry to a farmers market.

That’s cool.

Back when I inhabited a house, in the days before becoming a transient, I can remember sitting down at a table of sorts to gather my wits for the day. Relaxing, breathing in and out, pondering.

In all actuality, this sitting and relaxing at a kitchen table wasn’t always the reality. There were a couple of years where I didn’t take time in the morning. I relaxed hit the snooze button.  Primped and pondered daily attire. Considered possible morning meals. Then I rushed out the door. Life was life then, I forgot about living.

I’m not really that old, so that two years was the time right after graduating high school. I was sad and unsure. I didn’t know that breathing was important. I’m not entirely sure where I got so uncertain since my dad had taught me the value of breathing and living my whole life (I attribute it to my rebellious phase). Eventually I remembered though, and so I left that style of life and moved onto a style of living.

Before taking off on the adventure I lived a whole year where I sat and pondered at a kitchen table, something I had learned to do growing up with my dad — taking the first few moments of the day to really breath deep and live.

The first moments define the day. If one wakes up from a bad dream and has a bad attitude they have a choice right then to change it. If one takes the stance of not being a morning person (a stance I held for years) they miss out on the chance to change. Sure, one can come back from that. They can, say around midday, be happy and chipper and walk about smiling, but think of all the hours they lost that morning? All the negativity they swam through and breathed in up until that moment of change. All that life was just endured rather than lived.

Starting my junior year of high school I remember waking up early with my dad and sister and walking four miles every morning before school. 4:30 was always a comfortable time. We would wake up, brush our teeth, grab our walking sticks, and click clack our way down the road. We started silent, looking around, giving our companions a moment to gather their breath and wake up. The only sounds would be that of our walking sticks and the slow sound of Mother Earth stirring. We would look up at the stars and out to the woods. We walked along the high way so we were often interrupted by early morning commuters, but we didn’t mind. We would eventually gather enough independent thought to start conversation, and then we would. We would converse. We would speak of life and futures. We spoke of things my sister had read or things my dad had heard on the radio. I would often fall silent. I found my knowledge was far surpassed by my older sister’s and my father’s. I would instead listen and look to the stars. As 5:00 rolled around the stars would slowly fade, and the closer we got to the two mile mark the more the morning shone. The walk back was always filled with the beginning stages of daylight, as though Mother Earth was also gathering her breath and waking up. We said good morning to beavers, and spotted wolf tracks. The birds of Northern Minnesota, always changing depending on the season, would sing to/ for/ around us — I mean who really knows? All I know is that all that life made me live.

High school was tough. I was an outsider, though I’m not sure anyone but myself really knew it. I’m certain they did, but I didn’t talk about it. I was also terrible at learning the way our school taught. This last year I had the honor of working with kids in an alternative school, I taught them art. I came to realize I should have been in a school like that. Either way, the walking helped. The getting up every morning and being mindful of breath and my surroundings, it helped.

After the walk and before changing out of our walking clothes (typically just our pajamas) we would sit down at the table and dad would pour us each a cup of coffee. We would sit, listen to the radio, and drink coffee. By the time 6:30 rolled around we would be making our way back to our room to change into school clothes and then it was off to school.

I became a morning person at that time. My senior year took a toll on me, but I didn’t lose morning person status again til I was out on my own. However, I regained it.

This last year I was doing art teaching art, and living with a fellow artist who is now one of my closest friends. We met a little over a year ago and since then became super close. She taught me to breath again.

Every morning I woke up and took a seat at her table to gather my wits for the day. Relaxing, breathing in and out, pondering. Often times this was accompanied by a cup of coffe. Hot, black, and very sttong. The coffee was my ally in helping me to breath and be mindful. Before starting the adventure I quit drinking coffee. I found it made me jittery and wired, which are two things one shouldn’t be on a motorcycle. It was hard, I love coffee, but I have always found enjoyment in tea as well. I think it is the sitting over a hot mug and breathing in the smell and warmth, as much as it is the beverage in the mug.

My tea has always been reserved for relaxing. I take great pride in my tea box, which is home to my mortar and pessel as well as my assortment of teas and filters. I had to leave it behind when taking off on the adventure but I did take some tea from it. Tea has always been the thing along side coffee. The just-in-case-this-doesn’t-work, or the come down-relaxer. I would take my tea box out for headaches, evening pick-me-ups, days of sadness, bad breath, and other such ailments. My roommate came to call it my ‘tea ritual’ and it was like that, a ritual. A special reminder to breath.

The reason I even bring this up, is that this morning I had my morning tea ritual. I fetched the small amount of tea from my commitments and loaded up my filter. I boiled some clean water on my popcan stove before making my breakfast, and I had a cup of tea.

It warmed my insides on this chilly morning in the Washington mountains. It woke me from my grogginess. It rid me of an on-the-rise head ache. And it reminded me to breath and be mindful.

Though drinking tea is not exactly the same as walking.. well actually, it sort of is. It is the act of doing something to better oneself while also being mindful. It is the comfort derived from doing activities that calm oneself and then the breathing that accompanies it.

I don’t have a tripomter on Little Wing, nor any form of gas gauge, so I have no way of knowing when to fill up other than my own memory. To save the strain of having to recall numbers I started writing the mileage on my windshield with dry erase marker. Below this I will also write the directions to my next destination. Right now my destination is simple, Seattle, so right now I have written the word BREATH. It is a reminder what this is all about. This transient living that I am doing right now.

I’m not sure what the meaning is behind it. I’m not sure why I feel the need for an adventure or why I wanted to do it on the back of Little Wing, all I know is that it is like the walking, or the tea ritual. It is meant to be done while mindful. I’m living right now, I’m not just enduring life. I’m drinking tea and breathing.

I had a friend tell me the other day that my excitement to be onto the next town reminded him of Mac Davis’ lyric “happiness was Lubbock, Texas in my rear view mirror.” Though in my case that was a good thing and it wasn’t just Lubbock, Texas.

See, in that song Mac comes to learn he was young and fooled by youth, and therefore memories of leaving his town were negative. That isn’t the case for me.

When my new friend told me this he meant my departure from Missoula and the excitement I was feeling to be on the road again, and he was right. Correct twice over, because the lyrics first brought to my mind the actual happiness I experience when I look in my rear view mirror. The happiness my rear view mirror brings me, besides the happiness that leaving brings me.

I have two differing mirrors, one factory and the other a cheapy to replace the other factory mirror I managed to bust off within an hour of owning Little Wing. The right one, which is the original factory mirror, is beautiful. It stays steady and when I look in it I can see the cars behind me. The other mirror, the twelve dollar lefty, is horrendous. It jiggles and jostles, and I can barely make out anything in it when I get above 50 mph. Though annoying I have decided that the left mirror only serves to make me more grateful for the perfection that is my right mirror. I feel truly happy when I look in the right mirror. Not only can I see the traffic that is behind me, I can also make out the disappearing landscapes. I can see mountains, and sky, and trees, and even towns, all behind me. It is like an opportunity to get a second helping of the delicious scenery I just took in.

The things I have noticed out my rear view mirror are pretty much the same as what I see out my visor, the same stuff I see ahead of me, but it still seems magical.

In Montana the distant hills and mountains look to be a colored pencil drawing. So lovely and soft in their appearance, I feel as though I’m riding in a work of art.

Wyoming, in its rectangular shape, is like a desolate yellow painting. A windy painting with fields, oil rigs, and cows. Surrounding the picture though is a lovely intricate frame. A rectangle of mountains and trees and gorgeous sky’s framing the yellow painting.

Every state seems to have it’s own type of beauty. Every state has a subtle shift in the way things appear. The fields of Washington look nothing like those in Nebraska when one looks carefully, and no state has trees quite like Minnesota. Even Idaho is not easily mistaken for Wyoming even though they are right next to each other, and the northern tip up by Coeur d’Alene is all its own.

I have been trying to relate things as I go. Sometimes I will see a field and consider how it looks like the farm areas surrounding St. Cloud. At other times a rock face will remind me of Duluth, or a swampy area will bring me over to Mile Lacs, but the truth is that none of it is comparable. The U.S. is a variegated territory filled with borders that contain differing magical bits inside each one. Different pieces of art for the eye to see.

My rear view mirror captures it all. When I haven’t seen enough of a place I look in my right mirror and stare for longer. When I am leaving a city I can choose to look in my right mirror or my left mirror, depending on how I felt about the area. My mirrors do bring me happiness. Like a moving picture frame that fleetingly captures the past.

The leaving of a town also brings happiness. The Mac Davis quote is actually quite apropos to my journey. I find comfort in getting on Little Wing and riding away. Regardless of the welcome I received in an area, or the friendships I acquired, moving on is my comfort zone.

I have always enjoyed leaving. When the going got tough I, being tough and all, got going. I up and left.

I do stick things out as well, though. Like many people I have stuck around stress-inducing jobs for to long. It wasn’t to long ago that I was known to turn my cheek more than twice in human relationships. I sometimes work on tough problems for longer than most people think I should. I don’t completely abandon some projects that remain unfinished for excessive amounts of time, I keep them around expecting to get to them later, and I do. However, when things get really tough, when I know there is no solution, or good answer to tell me why I should stick to it, I run.

When the going gets tough I get going.

Once I do run or get going it is hard to get me to go back, and that is why I say I enjoy leaving. I love the freedom that comes from ‘giving up.’ Turning tail and bolting. Looking at bad situations out my shaky left hand mirror, and allowing the lack of clarity to envelope the past.

I have left many a big town recently. From Laramie to Rock Springs, WY. Pocatello, Idaho after that, followed by Missoula, Montana. Coeur d’Alene, Idaho was the last big town, and after that I was ready to be done. Too much of the hustle and bustle. Too much interstate riding, I was ready to hit some back roads and say good by to the interstate out of my left hand mirror. First, though, I had to get to Spokane.

Spokane is a busy place, a frighteningly busy place. In order to get on Highway 2 out of Coeur d’Alene though I had to cross it. The freeway was insane. It was busy, fast, and rather lawless. The 60 mph signs did no good with the renegade traffic all around. It was worse than the freeways into the Twin Cites from my home state, Minnesota, and I thought nothing got worse than that. I was at the mercy of fast moving traffic, and as its casualty the freeway apprehended my license plate.

A traumatic event if nothing else. Okay, well actually, it wasn’t that bad. The worst part of the event was the traffic, the losing of the license plate really only relegated me to the back roads and small towns of Washington, which is really what I wanted anyway. I’m on my way to Seattle so when I figured out how to get my new plate from Minnesota to Washington it was all sort of golden. Like an occurrence put in place and made meant to be by some larger force. With the help of an amazing friend, and the state of Washington DMV I am legal, and should be even more legal once again come the weekend.

Washington has its own beauty. Mainly it is the smell, but the fields of produce and friendly small towns don’t hurt. Signs that speak of safe driving all begin with the word ‘Please,’ and that is sort of the atmosphere here. It feels gracious and safe.

Driving laws are tough here, or so I was told by the man at the DMV. Emissions standards are set and regulated, and organic orchards crop up along the smaller roads. It is all part of this culture of being kind to one another, I think. I dig.

I just rode through this town called Quincy. It was home to a apple factory (is that what its called? Or is it a processing plant? Or what?) and a potato plant (plant, as in another word for factory). The town smelled amazing. It smelled like a great day in the kitchen and made me hungry for some healthy, plant derived sustenance. As I continued to ride I became engulfed by fields and orchards on either side. Grapes, apples, blueberries, pears — the amount of fruit was ridiculous. The best part was that the majority of these fruit patches were labeled organic. It just makes one feel happy. I was looking in my right hand mirror as much as I was looking ahead.

The best part of seeing town in my rear view mirror is the unadulterated scenery one gets to take in once they are on down the road. The scenery free from ostentatious bill boards, or never-ending traffic. Landscapes that are home to cows, fields, trees, vegetation, and luxurious spots to stop and rest encumbered by other humans. Happiness is the moment when the previous town is absent in Little Wing’s right rear view mirror and nature takes over.

Little Wing, myself, and the landscape, the going ain’t too tough.

Since I’ve been on the road I have changed Little Wings oil, trimmed my out of control locks, and had a tire changed. Over four thousand miles traveled in a months time. Maintenance is my middle name. Little Wing has a small oil leak due to factory seals. Nothing bad, easily controlled by constant monitoring. Everday I check all the nuts and bolts to make sure things haven’t come loose, as they tend to do. Little Wing is a one cylinder making it quite the jittery machine. So maintain I do. I tighten the bolts, check the oil, adjust the tire pressure, and toss a helmet over my short doo, and life is good. Honestly though, despite all the maintaining, I’m almost the furthest I’ve been from high maintenance. I don’t shower regularly (though that’s not odd for me). I don’t often look in the mirror. My ears are un-bedazzled despite all the piercings they are speckled with. I wear the same clothes everyday without washing them often. I am totally grunge right now, bringing back the 90’s one dirty motorcyclist at a time. Grungy motorcycle, spattered in oil and dirt, and I am not too far from that description myself. My wardrobe consists of two t-shirts, one pair of jeans, two pants, two warmer shirts, a set of Under Armor, and the necessary socks, underwear and hats. Generally I consider myself rather dapper in my appearance, and now I find I’m grungy and loving it. My pants are men’s Wranglers that work wonderfully for riding and staying anonymous. They are my daily wear. The t-shirt that I also make a daily item is a Patagonia shirt. I bought it at an outdoor store out side of Grand Rapids the day I left. It is one of those wick-away-sweat, 100% cotton, shirts. It was an interesting story actually. I walked into the store about 11:00 am on the day of departure, after attending to all my necessary responsibilities that morning. I was sweating. It was an 80° day. One of those beautiful September days that started at 35° and warmed up quickly. I was wearing my Wranglers and my JC Penny bought band tee with Jimi Hendrix on the front. I had known that polyester shirts were an unwise idea for hot days, I mean I had been riding all summer. However I hadn’t yet purchased a good cotton shirt so Jimi was all I had. Needless to say, it was hot. So when I rode into Thousand Lakes, the outdoor store I was desperate to be less sweaty. I just kept wondering how I was going to survive in Arizona’s heat if I couldn’t even handle Minnesota’s. The store mostly contains fishing gear, but also has some camping gear, and a very nice selection of outdoor clothing. The sales associate, one of the owners of the business (the customer service there is awesome, just so ya’ll know) asked me what it was he could help me find and I told him I was searching for clothing meant for hot weather. To my extreme pleasure they had actually just put the summer wear on clearance that morning. He showed me to the women’s shirts which were all pastel colored, I wasn’t impressed. It isn’t that I dislike pastel colors, but when one is planning to wear a shirt day in and out while possibly sweating profusely light colors are the last thing they want. I was also looking for something a little more geared to the men’s pants I had on — more unisex. So I turned to the men’s shirts, seeng they had the badass black and grey colors. The sales associate asked my what I was looking for and I told him something darker in color. “How ’bout this?” I turned to see him holding up a black shirt with the picture of a guitar on the front. The guitar had only one string and under it were printed the words ‘live simply.’ “Yes, exactly,” I said. It was perfect. The shirt that embodied my newly chosen lifestyle for the next ten months or so. I went to the rack and picked the exact shirt I would be living in for months and paid for it. It was 30% off, so though spendy it was the best deal of the day. I am wearing my Wranglers and live simply shirt right now, and though grungy I feel rather dapper. My grungy motorcycle is parked, and when I look at it I see the “patina of my adventure” as one friend has said. The beautiful smudging of dust and grime mixed with oil. The generally shiny rainbow colored pipe is now fogged over from the time in the mountains when it snowed. Little Wings teardrop tank is scratched from my tank bag and my windshield is caked and layered with dead bugs. On the second day of my trip I posted a blog about the same day I bought my live simply shirt — my now moto shirt. It was about the day I took off, September 3rd, and the cleaning of Little Wing. The lovely feeling of closeness I had with him when sponging off all the grime. Since then I haven’t had access to the facilities to wash Little Wing. We both keep getting grungier and grungier, which actually gives me as much of a feeling of closeness as washing Little Wing did. We are two of a kind. My apparel is wonderfully mine. I look like a grunge master and I haven’t yet seen anyone dressed like me yet. I am one of a kind and so is Little Wing. However there are things to be high maintenance about. 1) Oil levels. One must be vigilante about the spots oil might be leaking from and how it is leaking. 2) Tire pressure and tire wear. With only two tires to fall back on one must be certain they are well taken care of. 3) Tightening of various nuts and bolts. One does not want the bike falling apart as they go down the road. 4) This ties into the last one quite well, safely securing commitments to bike. Having a loose piece of anything caught up in the tire spokes is a terrible thing to imagine. 5) Brushing ones teeth. I feel that doesn’t require any explaination. And there it is. Living simply is easy on a bike. That is as high maintenance as I get. Of course all five of those things are infinitely important, but that is much less than a list a may have made six months ago. Living simply. That may very well be the purpose of this journey on Little Wing.

I’m sitting in Missoula Montana at a quaint little cafe called the Walking Mustache listening to live music. The cafe has pictures of Charlie Chaplin on the walls, which is where I assume the name was derived from. I’m taking in a lovely woman with a strong voice and an acoustic guitar belting out her art. It is lovely.

Less than forty-five minutes ago I was standing in front of my bike posing for a picture with another lovely woman that I had just met at a theater here in Missoula. Now I’m drinking water at 10:30 pm in this Mr. Chaplin adorned cafe.

I am in Missoula after an approximately 400 mile ride from Pocatello, Idaho. Last night I was hosted by a stranger there in Pocatello. By the time Little Wing and I took off this morning she was no longer a stranger, she was a friend. This evening I met another stranger who is hosting me tonight. I am certain that we shall soon be fast friends.

He works at the theater here in Missoula. A small quaint theater which features independent releases. Tonight they were featuring a documentary about hiking the the Camino Trail over in Spain; it was quite beautiful. The movie focused on the internal journies we embark on when we start physical adventures, “right up my ally” as my new stranger/friend, Chris, said to me. The movie was too cool, I recommend it ( Walking the Camino: Six Ways to Santiago, you should check it out).

When I walked in Chris introduced me to the lovely woman I mentioned earlier (not the singer, the one in the photo). She was from LA and was helping to promote the documentary. We chatted about life, this country, and adventure – my favorite subjects as of late. She was wonderful. One of those strangers that was soon a friend.

I told her I was sure I would love the movie and she told me to report back. Of course I loved the movie and after it was over the director gave a very interesting talk. She spoke of life, the world, and adventure.

I went back to report to Claudia (that being the lovely woman’s name) after it was all done. She made a point of introducing me to the director, and that is why a little more than forty-five minutes ago I was posing for a picture in front of Little Wing with my new found friend.

The director was as interested in my journey as I was in the ones she portrayed in the documentary. It turns out that Little Wing and I are taking the same route down to Portland as the movie tour. We are certain we will run into each other along the way, and what a neat thing that’ll be?

It is crazy the friends we make when we aren’t even thinking about it.

A friend has challenged me to find as much live music as I can and Missoula was one of the places that has been suggested as a good city for art. I guess that is true; friends and art. Now here I sit, taking in the marvelous vocals of an independent singer/songwriter. I met her too. Her name is Kristi Neumann, and the lovely woman who was once a stranger with a great voice is now a friend.

The song that kept running through my helmet today was The Doors’ People are Strange. The song goes ‘people are strange when you’re a stranger,’ and ain’t that the truth? Yes they are.

‘Faces look ugly when you’re alone.’ Yes they do.

You know what I think? I think people are less strange when you get to know them. There is nothing strange about a new found friend. You are never alone when you have new friends around.

Today I met a neat fellow (I actually didn’t even catch his name) at a gas station in Osgood Idaho. He was driving an old rusty Honda from the early nineties. The gas station had bars on all the windows and the doors, giving it a slightly creepy appearance. The man was unshaven with a few day old five o’clock shadow. He could have appeared strange. The setting was just perfect for one of those horror movies, and had I been a giggling fifteen year old girl again I might have found some reason to be creeped out by this kind man and that creepy gas station. Instead I sparked up a conversation, and we discussed life, this country, and adventure. When we were done conversing and filling our tanks we each got back on/in our vehicles and went our separate ways. It was quite pleasant.

Yesterday I had to get my tire changed. It had been one hell of a struggle to find a shop that had a tire for me. See, I was in Wyoming before I got to Pocatello. October 2nd I had rode from Laramie to Rock Springs on a balding tire. That section of highway is the most windy stretch I have rode thus far. They call it Windy Wyoming there. I stopped at a rest stop to check my tire and use the facilities about thirty minutes West of Laramie. The informational sign there told all about the wind and why it was vital to Wyoming and its habitat. The very bottom of the sign said “wind is our friend.”

It was a lovely reminder to all those driving through the fifty mile per hour gusts who might have stopped to read the sign. All us drivers/riders who were cursing the friendly wind. I spoke to many people while I stood in the rest stop warming my hands. Everyone of them was as shocked by the wind as I was. These strangers finding something to relate to with this short stranger staring out the window.

The winds were so bad that the rest of the tire I had was gone by the time I got to Rock Springs. I camped that evening and in the morning went to the motorcycle shop I had found when calling around the day before.

The shop was called Joe’s and that was who I ended up meeting. He took Little Wing from me, gave me an estimate of an hour, and sent me to an awesome joint down the way for some breakfast.

I sat in the bar called Marty’s for an hour and waited for my tire to be done. I had soup, fries, and tea while I studied my route to Pocatello, Idaho.

After an hour I made my way back to Joe’s, where Little Wing awaited me with his fully tread new tire. I loaded all my commitments back onto Little Wing, and strapped it all down, all the while admiring the beauty of no chords showing through on my shiny black new tire.

I paid Joe for the work, and he asked me about my plan, where I was going. I told him Pocatello Idaho, but then told him I was actually traveling the whole U.S. Joe took interest in this so we discussed life, this country, and adventure.

Joe had a husky voice like John Wayne, and a way of calling me ‘little lady’ that was rather endearing. He was all biker though. Burly with a beard and a black Harley hat on, that matched the black of the rest of his outfit. Biker, cowboy, friend, whatever the label, Joe was no longer a stranger by the time I left.

People are strange, it is a fact. However people are also wonderful, and fun, and interesting.

The world is what we make it. If one wants to befriend it they can, or they can also stray away and call it strange.

The world is full of art and friends. It isn’t all that ugly. It is actually rather beautiful.

After wandering from the Walking Mustache (the Charlie Chaplin cafe with the wonderful singer/songwriter) I walked over to a bar called Top Hat. It was intriguing because of the awesome guitar solo that was being pumped out all over the block. I made my way inside where I was carded and stamped by an imposing bearded bouncer. I then made my way to the front where I saw three college boys rocking out. A drummer, a guitarist, and a bass player. A typical college band, but they were still damn good. It was a fun listen. They had a poet get up and join them with some spoken word over the rock-n-roll. It was late when I rolled out of there.

The music at the Top Hat reminded of two things. 1) Jim Morrison’s spoken word rock, which just brought me back to The Doors’ song about people being strange, and 2) the conversation I had with my host friend in Pocatello this morning. She had said that the mutual friend we shared was worried about me, and to alleviate her fears of this young woman going it alone my host had used an example of a woman walking into a bar.

“I asked her if she would go into a bar by herself, and she said she would. I told her that would scare some women, they wouldn’t be able to do that. I told her that was the same as you,” my host friend told me. “You are doing something that would scare many women, but to you isn’t that scary.”

That analogy used by my host friend was perfect. It IS like that. Women/people don’t go into bars by themselves because people are strange. ‘Faces look ugly when you’re alone.’

The worst type of people can sometimes inhabit bars. Some are out to do bad things to other people, and to be aware of that fact is good, it is the same of the real world. Some people are ugly. Some people mean harm. Some people don’t.

Some people are the kindest, coolest, down-on-their-luck people, just filling up their car at a gas station in small-town Idaho. To avoid talking to them because one is afraid of strangers is the silliest thing.

This evening has been filled with new friends and learning experiences, in fact the whole ride from Pocatello to Missoula has been this way. People are strange and wonderful. People are people. Being aware that people can be otherwise is good, but one should not be wary. Don’t stray from the beautiful faces that make up our lovely country.

Life, this country, and adventure.

“I won’t take the easy road. The easy road, the easy road. I try to Keep on keeping on.”

Those were the song lyrics running through my helmet October 1st. My personal jukebox was stuck on those few words for awhile. Stuck on repeat while the scratched CD refused to allow the rest of the song to move forward.

I’ve decided that I’m going to start my own personal playlist on this here blog. I’m going to post the videos that go with the songs my mind keeps playing. It is an interesting mix, and one of the things I miss most being on this adventure is my music. I am without a radio, and this dinky cellphone screen I’m typing on houses a very slow computer chip which makes music listening almost painful. So there it is I’m going to be your online DJ for the time being, it’s settled.

I was actually hosted by a radio engineer and his lovely history buff wife the other night. They are from Minnesota (surprise surprise) and know Northern Community Radio, my station (the one I DJ on), very well. In Wyoming they have a pretty good public radio station as well and that was the soundtrack to yesterday morning, eating breakfast at their table. It reminded me of the thing I feel I ‘miss’ most about home; music.

Music and trees.

Anyway, back to the skipping CD, the soundtrack to October 1st before I met up with my lovely hosts. One might ask what caused the scratch that stopped my song from progressing. Well, if they were to ask I would respond “snow.”

And then one might say, “Oh, snow. Whatever could you mean my dear Diamond? I mean after all, you are in the mountains of Wyoming on the first day of October. What has you speaking of snow?”

When the question is put that way I actually feel a little less open about telling the rest of the story, however I feel I should anyhow. I never claimed to be genius. Well, not recently anyways.

I was riding out of Colorado and back into Wyoming. I was slightly vexed to see that the roads on the northwest side of Colorado were in fact blocked with snow. This meant getting out of the state before seeing the mountains, but because I’m a genius.. wait, wait, I can’t use that word. Because I’m intelligent I knew that a motorcycle and snow don’t actually go well together. So off I rode, north, into Wyoming and straight into Cheyenne. What I noticed as I got closer to the border were rain clouds. What had started off as a gorgeous, blue, Coloradan day was turning into an overcast Wyoming day the more North I went.

It was funny because the rain didn’t officially start until I was a few miles across the Wyoming border. I had my rain pants on, but I had forgot to toss on my rubber gloves over my leather ones. Gloves I had bought just for this purpose; cold heavy rain. I decided I would put them on when I got to Cheyenne and kept on riding. However upon my arrival to Cheyenne my leather gloves were soaked and I was frozen. 40° and rain is not anything I wish on anybody riding a motorcycle.

I stopped at a gas station, did my typical layering up of clothing. I had to be careful when pulling my sack of clothes out of my waterproof duffle because I didn’t want to get everything else in it wet, so I parked under the gas station awning/roof (whatever that big damn thing over the pumps is called) got the sack out and set it near a garbage can. I was impressed by my genius. Wait, no! Gah, I can’t use that word. I thought I was clever.

I parked the bike, went back to fetch the DRY clothing sack and went into the gas station to don more warmth. After a brief warm up break I was back on the road.

“I try to keep on keeping on.”
I had been warned about riding around Laramie in October, however I had new found friends there who I was determined to meet that evening. So I precariously steered through the pounding rain along I-80; Little Wing and I the lone motorcycle and rider amongst a sea of fast driving semis and four wheel drive trucks. The downpour of precipitation around us making the figurative sea a literal one as well.

When I should of stopped I kept riding. When semis passed at high speeds and then cut in front of me ridiculously close I screamed. I screamed and sang “I won’t take the easy road..”

It helped. For some reason singing while being blinded by the back splatter off an eighteen wheeler is actually quite effective. Or maybe it’s the screaming, I don’t know.

I kept riding. An hours worth of rain ahead of me, I just kept thinking of the only thing that would keep me focused; the mile ahead of me. Often times  (in fact pretty much all of the time) one should only consider what they can see in front of them while riding. To focus on anything more only seems to make the ride unbearable, especially if one is cold or in a bad place.

Anyway, so there I was being passed by semis and big trucks, screaming, and singing “I try to keep on keeping on.” One of the semis passed me and did that thing where he passed to close, and the blinding screen of rain stuck to my helmet. I reached up to wipe it with my rubber gloved hand (I had remembered to put the gloves on when I was in Cheyenne. I had just layered the rubber gloves over my soaked leather gloves which was a terribly cold idea) and white stuff crunched off my glove and made more crunching sounds as it flew back, knocking my helmet.

Snow.

Right there, in between Cheyenne and Laramie Wyoming on the first day of October, I encountered snow. One of the reasons I decided to take off on Little Wing this year was to avoid the terrible winter that Minnesota provided us with last year. I wanted to get away from the cold and snow and instead experience adventure and welcoming temperatures. Well, yesterday it was a nice welcoming blanket of white. Going fifty-five on a slushy interstate on a two wheeled vehicle is not the best and most genius way to go about adventure. I had no other option but to keep riding and singing “I won’t take the easy road…”

The thing I would find out later that evening, is that the stretch of I-80 in between Cheyenne and Laramie is actually home to the highest peak on that particular interstate. The peak is at an elevation of 8640 feet and is known as Sherman Hill Summit. However, this was knowledge obtained after the fact. All I knew during the ride through this summit is that it was snowing, and I was frozen.

I couldn’t see very far in front of my face. I was unsure of whether that was because of my helmet face shield being fogged up or if it was truly a white out blizzard. Regardless, my breathing inside my helmet was fogging up my face shield so I did have to crack it a little bit. This prevented the fogging from the interior, but allowed the snow to come in and pelt my face and glasses. On I went, singing. The soundtrack still skipping. Semis still passing unreasonably close. My fingers frozen, my toes numb, but nothing I could do about it. All I could do was direct Little Wing forward one mile at a time.

The snow started slow and got bad quickly. It quit in the same fashion being intelligent (not a genius) I put two and two together and realized that Laramie was on the downhill slope. So even when I considered pulling off at an exit to warm up and slow my shivering, I did not, knowing that the closer I got to Laramie the farther away from snow I was.

My soundtrack changed a little bit. The shivering made the CD move a little bit and my new song on repeat went something like “I won’t take the easy road. Warmwarmwarm. The easy road. Warmwarm. The easy road.” My new official song set on repeat.

I took the first exit into Laramie. A slow semi in front of me had the same idea. Being a semi he started slowing down 300 feet before the ramp. Little Wing and I can slow down a lot faster than that and my frozen limbs did not respond well to this meticulous drivers method of exiting. I was so pissed off that the first slow going semi in the last hour and a half was blocking me and my warmth. In my half-hypothermic state I remember interrupting my skipping CD to yell at the tail end of the twenty-five mile per hour driving semi “why are you doing this to me?”

It sounded much more whiny and tragic than I can portray through this tiny screen. Let us just say that by this time I was a tortured soul.

Once I finally got off the exit I looked for the nearest pleasant smelling fast food joint. My iced over feet slipped off the icy shifter as I downshifted into a Wendy’s parking lot.

I climbed off the bike slowly. Grabbed my soaked tank bag and sheepskin and at this point noticed the inch of slush/ice buildup that remained on Little Wings windshield. As fast as my frozen legs could bolt, they did. I bolted for the door. Dropped my bag, my sheepskin, my helmet, and my gloves at a table and rushed for the bathroom where I put my hands under the hot faucet. I looked in the mirror and that is when my tragic straight face cracked and I sobbed. It was like a deep wounded sob that only comes to me after a shear panic. The kind of sob I have only ever done a handful of times.

In my lifetime I have found that I am great at handling stress when it really comes down to it. I have found I can put all emotion aside and just deal, but when the dealing is done it all comes out.

My deep heavy sobs filled my throat as my fingers started to regain sensation. I calmed my breathing, and took my hands to the hand dryer and stuck them under the heat. Once I could feel all my fingers again I ripped off my coat, my rain pants and my boots. That is the moment that I realized my waterproof leather boots were in fact not impermeable to pelting snow and down pouring rain. My toes were frozen because my wool socks were soaked. The soundtrack continued as before, “I won’t take the easy road. The easy road, the easy road. Keep on keeping on.”

However at this point, as I was leaving the bathroom the skipping again altered. As I looked out the Wendy’s window and saw a Starbucks across the way my soundtrack adjusted at the thought of hot tea and a reclining chair.

“Show me my silver lining, I try to keep on keeping on. Show me my silver lining.”

I gathered all my belongings and hiked it across the road where I drank hot tea and thought about the crazy thing I had just done. First Aid Kit’s song Silver Lining was the only apt description that I could find for the insanity of the dangerously dumb thing I had just taken Little Wing through.

After two cups of hot tea I meandered back to Little Wing. The sun had come out while I sat in Starbucks, and all the slushy snow was gone from Little Wings extremities. We were both back to our pre-summit state. I got on, idled up, and took off for my goal; my new found friends in Laramie, WY.

As I got onto the main drag something felt wrong. I looked down and saw that my sheep skin was missing. My woolly warm companion was not overhanging on my saddle.

I turned around, pulled back into the Wendy’s parking lot, this time warmer. I bolted for the door, went back to my original table and saw nothing. I went to the counter and asked them. There was some confusion that came with the description of “animal skin. It still has it’s white fur on it. Slightly tan. It was wet from snow.”

I was met with blank stares, but as more servers stepped up, curious about this young girl going on about an animal skin, one spoke up “is that what Art found? You know, the thing that he didn’t what it was.”

Some discussion ensued and it was determined that Art had thrown it in the trash. “Can I get it back please?” I asked.

“If you want to go dig in the dumpster.” The woman told me.

I didn’t like her.

I went out to the dumpster, my panic was back and so was the soundtrack. There were two dumpsters, two TALL dumpsters. I had to climb into them to look.

There was no sheepskin. Old fries and fat. Full, uneaten, burgers and salads. Napkins cups and wet colorful liquid everywhere, but no sheepskin. After fifteen minutes I went back inside. I asked “Could whoever threw it away tell me which dumpster they threw it in?”

A different lady came over to me and informed me they had actually just got a call from a guy who had picked it up. She said he had thought it looked cool, but realized it might belong to somebody and decided to call about it. He would be back in ten to fifteen minutes to drop it off.

I went outside, sat on a rock, and waited.

“Gotta keep on going, looking straight out on the road. Can’t worry ’bout what’s behind you or what’s coming for you further up the road. I try not to hold on to what is gone, I try to do right what is wrong I try to keep on keeping on.”

The soundtrack to my day was utterly perfect. I got my sheep skin back from a sheepish guy with two kids in the back of his suburban. He refused to make eye contact despite my exuberant gratitude. I got back on Little Wing, idled up, and took off for my goal; my new found friends in Laramie, WY.

Today is October 3rd. I have been a month out on the road. It has been amazing. I have learned so much, I have lived so much. My adventure has just begun though, because I hear Minnesota is getting 1-3 inches of snow this weekend. I have many months before Little Wing and I can make it home to trees and music.

Home is where the heart is they say, so I guess I am home. My heart is here, on the road, with Little Wing.

One month, seven states.

“Be it for reason, be it for love. I won’t take the easy road.”

When I was younger I remember being fascinated with cows. I remember the excitement I felt whenever I saw one. I remember turning and staring, allowing my eyes to follow them until I could no longer make them out. I felt this way about horses too, but even more so, because in my western loving eyes horses were even more rare.

It is an interesting thing to remember. What a funny concept, being excited by the sight of domesticated hooved creatures. I recalled this memory as I entered Colorado, or, as I have humorously dubbed it for the time being, Cowlorado. A memory spurred by the sudden on-flux of cows in fields versus the regular corn and beans which dominated the Nebraskan landscape.

My fascination with cows still sort of lives on, but I remember I was about six when it took hold so well. I remember riding in the car with my dad and my sister. I would stare out the window for entertainment. We were from the swamps of Northern Minnesota, cows were sparse in those parts. I can only remember one friend at that time who raised ’em. Other than that it was just my Grandma in South Dakota, and she didn’t have cows, she had horses and sheep, but no cows. So there I would be in the vehicle, impatiently waiting for the next destination, hoping that next stop would involve donuts, staring out the window observing the passing scenery. My sister would usually join me in staring for a while, but being older and more literate she would pick up a book and eagerly devour it’s contents with the same hungry eye that I saved for my hunt of the hooved beasts.

And then, there would be one. “Cow!” I would exclaim. I would prod my sisters shoulder and point. Sometimes she would look on with shared enthusiasm and other times it would be blank stare (as we got older and her interest in literature was greater it would more often than not result in me annoying her. Annoyance was demonstrated by a grunt and a small smack of my prodding finger).

“Cow!”

“Horses!”

“Cow!”

“Cow!”

And so it would go. Well at least until my dad would get fed up, which was bound to happen every time. “They are all over, Diamond. You don’t have to say it out loud.”

I had trouble understanding this response, where was the disinterest coming from? It wasn’t til much later that I put two and two together and realized that as a South Dakotan boy my dad didn’t actually find cows as fascinating as I did. Being raised around the animals tends to help lessen the fascination.

I have found that even though I still hold an interest for cows I am much more interested by trees.

“Tree!”

“Cow!”

“Cow!”

“Cow!” My running monologue is usually rather barren when it comes to trees. Though the  Nebraskan and Cowloradon landscapes are sprinkled with a few of ’em the majority of don’t look like Minnesotan trees. Cows, however, look a lot a like the country over so they bring me right back to home, and my obsession with counting hooved beasts.

It is interesting, despite the fact that I was raised by trees I haven’t lost my interest the same way my Dad did with cows. I suppose it has something to do with the smell. Trees smell amazing and each one is unique in the way it grows and leafs out. They each have their own unique way of turning color in the fall. Cows always look the same. The majority of them are a solid color these days, and they are usually always eating grass. They also do not smell good. I remember rolling up the windows when driving through cattle country back in the day. It is easy to roll up the windows in a car, not so easy on a bike. In fact, Little Wing actually doesn’t have any windows much to my chagrin.

The smell that lingers around cow farms sticks in ones nostrils. It doesn’t go away because it worms it’s way under the helmet and infiltrates the crannies and crevices. It hangs tight until it finely, begrudgingly, loosens its grip about five miles down the road, by which time:

“Cow!”

Not even the smell of a skunk seems to stick as much as the smell of a cow farm.

Despite this, moving creatures of any sort grab my attention on the bike. Living trees and meandering cows, they all peak my interest. It is crazy the things we find to focus on and the memories they bring back

It says on the welcome sign right as one comes into Cowlorado “the colorful state,” and that’s the truth. So far I have only been in cow and corn country, but even so, the colors are gorgeous. The ditches are filled with all variations of green and yellows. There are some spots of blue and orange where the wild flowers pop up. The cornfields right now have yellow, spring green, and blinding traces of neon green that all meet up to the back stands of deep dark green trees that line the fields. The sky yesterday was so blue. It framed all the yellows and greens I was seeing in such a way that it made all the shadowy areas appear to be red or orange. The fluffy white clouds that dotted the sky  were backed by a gauze of stretched out white clouds. Two different types of clouds enhancing the rich sky blue. Of course when I say white clouds I mean enchanting rainbow colored clouds because clouds are never just white. Reflecting the same colors as the fields below plus some, those clouds were fascinating. There wasn’t a color in the rainbow that I couldn’t make out in those fields of corn yesterday. It actually got to the point where I was looking forward to seeing a field versus seeing more cows.

I’m in Cowlorado now. Soon Little Wing and I will be into the mountains everyone talks about, I am excited.

I can’t wait to see what colors the rest of the state has to hold.

“Cow!”

I am currently in a tent in Western Nebraska, taking on windstorm, which I’m sure will soon turn to rain.

If I close one eye and only chicken peck on my tiny phone screen with one finger I can almost imagine I am a pirate out to sea. A one eyed, one handed, pirate. The sound of the blowing wind and rattling leaves are the crashing waves, and my flapping tent is the sail on some old sailing ship. It isn’t true of course, but it sure is comforting.

I’m close to Kansas so the other part of my imagination is taking me to Dorothy’s house before she was transported via twister to a place much farther away. There is a barking dog outside, it belongs to one of the campers in the RV park I am currently stationed at. It is a small dog, reminiscent of Toto when it yips, so it just makes the scene I’m running through my head seem more real.

However, I’m not concerned or worried about a twister, I’m a badass pirate with a hook and an eye patch. I’m waiting out a storm in my ship, waiting til morning when I will safely arrive ashore to rejoin my trusty steed, Little Wing, as we make our way onward to the land of Colorado (a place I shall not go tonight by way of my humble home and twisting wind gusts. I just won’t).

Something I have to keep reminding myself of is the fact that I’m in Nebraska, wind is normal. Actually wind is normal everywhere. The flatter the landscape – the more plains combined with less trees – the stronger the wind seems. In the Dakotas and Wyoming I experienced this; the world is windy. I know it is a fact, but it is a reality I have generally had blockaded by trees.

I remember one summer, sometime in middle school, watching pieces of windmills go past on their way to distant places. There were many semi-trailers with ‘WIDE LOAD’ banners plastered on the front. Flashing helper trucks leading and proceeding the trailers containing the large pieces of metal on their way through Northern Minnesota. There would be at least one full disassembled windmill a day that would pass. Pieces on their  way to be constructed on some gustier piece of land.

It wasn’t until recently, the start of my adventure actually, that I saw a fully assembled windmill in Minnesota, well one of the newfangled ones I’ve been talking about anyway. It was on Highway 75, the nearest north/south highway bordering the Dakotas. I was riding along, enjoying the beautiful scenery of Minnesota knowing it would be the last I would see of it for a while, when I saw them. A field of windmills off to the west. It was County Road 13 I recall (though I don’t remember which county), and like I said, it was pointed West. So was I, so I followed it.

The enormity of those giant structures is something I couldn’t comprehend until I was riding under them. Intense, gorgeous, and loud — windmills are fascinating.

I often see windmills now. The gustier states are home to many. I always take it as a sign that I need to brace my arms on Little Wing, prepare for the berating force against our side that is the wind. And berate it does. Right when the bike feels stable and my arms feel tight along comes another gust, forcing me to tighten my arms more and lean my body into the wind to stay upright. My spine remains stiff as I hold my head motionless, pointing forward to keep my helmet securely in one spot as the forceful gusts push on it. Windy days result in sore arms and a tense neck. Both of which I am nursing at this moment, as the thunder and lightning sweep overhead, and the gusts make the sails of my ship billow in out in out innn ouuuttt in out n out n.

The rain just started. I’m awake again after falling asleep. I dream’t of Dorothy, Toto and Pirates only to awaken in my own bed (sleeping bag and ground pad) to thunderous claps and sky splitting light. The rain is coming down in sheets, warring with the fabric of my tent walls. The wind and rain appear to have the advantage right now, but my tent hasn’t gone down for the count yet.

It was windy today, and I know the cause was this impending rain. It rained some last night when I was in Neligh, NE and then moved West. When I woke in the morning I followed it. Little Wing and I got the better of it and beat it here to this campsite, but the clouds that graced us the whole afternoon acted as a fore warning for what I am now sitting in.

The sails of the ship go in out in out. In. Ouuutttt. Innnn. Dorothy is relaxing, the thunder has gotten farther away, headed North, and the lightning is faint compared to minutes ago.

The trip was full of clouds and wind and windmills. As I fought the heavy gusts the windmills I passed spun lazily around. And around. A stark contrast to my aching neck and stiff arms. It was a pleasant sight actually. It was relaxing to see something benefiting from the breeze that was pushing Little Wing and myself around.

The windmills brought me back to this weekend. The underlying discussion that brought everyone to a once-in-a-lifetime concert in which Willie Nelson and Neil Young teamed up.

I was informed that when Harvest for Hope was looking for artists to come and perform for the protesting of the giant pipeline Neil Young came forward and asked to do it. He ASKED. Of course they said yes, and then he, Neil Young, went and asked Willie Nelson to join him.

To be honest, leading up to the concert I was aware of the protesting nature of it, but I was going more for the music. I volunteered with the hopes of a ticket, which I got, and the good cause was an after thought.

The pipeline is a controversial topic. I knew this from the Enbridge pipeline that is currently being discussed in Minnesota. The fracking, the tar sands, the ruined drinking water, I know of it, I just know little about it. Excuse me, KNEW little about it.

I am a green type of person, I try to live sustainably. It comes from a childhood of being poor and using the resources we had to make a home and a nice life. Awareness of the harm we do daily to Mother Earth has always been a constant in my brain. I remember taking on the topic in almost everyone of my high school reports from age fifteen up until I graduated. It was something I was passionate about, AM passionate about, but something that became less real once I graduated. How does one take on the topic of sustainability and protecting Mother Earth when they aren’t going to school? What does one do when they are young and broke and voiceless (or so it seems)? It is hard to be passionate about large topics when working a minimum wage job and having to live in apartments where sustainability – or the lack of – is actually not really up to you.

I do my part. I buy locally when I can, though it is super hard to afford. I use as little plastic as I can and recycle the stuff I do use. I stopped buying brand new clothing for everyday use, instead going to thrift stores. I stopped supporting the inorganic cosmetic industry. Reducing the purchase of petrochemical filled products and instead use coconut oil, vinegar, and baking soda as my main methods of keeping clean and fresh. However, I don’t know if that’s enough.

This weekend I was surrounded by people who had opinions about the pipeline. Some were for and some were against, but the main thing was the passion. They all had a voice fueled by passion. The loudest voices, the ones we came to hear, opposed the pipelines. So much so that they volunteered – just like I did – to be there. In front of 10,000 people Neil Young spoke out against the pipeline and spoke up for sustainable energy.

The problem with the Keystone pipeline that is being discussed is that it would cut right through one of the largest aquifers in the U.S. It is being proposed by a foreign company that would ship the oil overseas, so the benefit to be had is not actually coming back to us Americans whose water is being put at risk; at least that’s what Neil said.

I am of the opinion that we all have to decide for ourselves. I think that each and everyone of us should be passionate, but if it doesn’t come from within it doesn’t mean anything. I believe strongly in being sustainable. I believe Mother Earth needs us all to get over our self-fish, possession-honoring ways, and start giving a crap. However, I don’t like to preach, other people may have differing opinions and I accept that. As far as the pipeline goes, I have a small opinion forming but nothing that is passionate enough to live by quite yet.

I do know something though; it seems a lot like the wind. The wind that bothers me is natural. Mother Earth needs the wind, but I dislike it. At the same time it is providing sustainable energy to the Mother by means of windmills, and yet I still complain. I don’t like the wind, I want it to go away so I can ride Little Wing in peace. My inorganic, petrochemical based, engine that is emitting Carbon Dioxide into the atmosphere, I want life to be easier for the two of us. The reason there is so much wind is because there aren’t many trees on the plains. They have been removed for the fields of crops that are now on either side of me, fields that now tunnel the wind. The small amount of trees that were here were edited down for farmland (think Dustbowl). The crops are now shipped all over the country by way of petrochemical based engines to feed people in less than local ways. The Carbon Dioxide being emitted is being fought by the trees we are chopping down, and to make it all more sustainable we put up noisy windmills to capture the natural energy. The noise pollution they cause can be as disliked as the wind that I complain about while astride Little Wing.

The wind, the trees, the windmills, everyone somewhere has a reason to dislike one or the other.

When Neil Young, Willie Nelson, and others preach ‘windmills not oil spills’ people stand up against the oil energy. The same way people are standing up against the wind industry. Us humans just won’t be happy with what we have.

I have a motorcycle. I’m riding across country, a choice I made. It is supposed to be joyful and relaxing. Instead, here I am, complaining about the wind and how tough it is on my body and bike. I made a choice to ride. I am emitting Carbon Dioxide everyday into Mother Earth’s  atmosphere yet I bitch when she hands me a bit of her own medicine.

It is very much like littering. I was on trash pickup Sunday at the concert venue. There was practically nothing to pick up. Out of 10,000 people we maybe gathered ten garbage bags worth of waste off the ground. It was crazy. The thing we were all saying to each other after we were done is that all the attendees were there for a good cause, a sustainable cause, so it makes sense they would respect Mother Earth more than just tossing their crap around on her. It was interesting because I see trash on the side of the road everyday. One can see people in cars with a great superficial appearance tossing plastic waste out of their window. Humans who care about washing their car and vacuuming it out, but who have no thought in regards to keeping their home clean. Immaturity forcing our Mother to handle our mess.

The hypocrisy of our complaints as a human race can start to boggle the mind after awhile. Wanting sustainable energy, but not recycling. Buying ‘Made in America’ products but wanting a foreign pipeline to be built in our freshwater. Wanting a nice superficial appearance, but tossing trash out on the side of the road versus waiting for the next gas station. Wanting things to change but refusing to vote. Complaining but not standing up and being passionate when it really counts. Hypocrisy, us humans have it mastered.

Pitter patter. Innn ouuuttt. Innn. Ouuutttt. Pit pat pit pat. The sails are settling, the waves aren’t crashing as hard. The ship hasn’t even required buckets to bail ‘er out. The storm has moved north and Dorothy and the pirate are in the clear. Toto is somewhere outside though, giving the thunder the what-for. Honestly, he may have single handedly saved us from that hour and a half worth of storm. His yipping is enough to make anyone go north (said the whiny, sore, pirate in the tent).

I am privileged. Here I am in a tent I was given by a good friend. I have a warm sleeping bag, and good gear to keep me warm and comfortable. Out side sits Little Wing, the bike I’m taking across our beautiful country, all that is privilege. All the things easily taken for granted as the wind buffets and the rain crashes is privilege. There’s the answer.

When someone is privileged they learn to take for granted the small things, like the landscape. Our Mother is forgotten because we have a nice petrochemical based, Carbon Dioxide emitting, engine to carry is around. Our Mother is forgotten because we don’t like noise pollution and would rather ignore water pollution (I think my bias is starting to show). We forget those are not our only options. Harnessing the sun and wind are very sustainable, but there are other methods of oil that don’t make our water source nonrenewable. A little research will provide curious minds with answers aplenty, there aren’t just two.

I’m coming from a windy day and a concert that was right up my ally. I feel that everyone should make their own opinions and I believe they should be passionate about it. If this bit of writing spurs you to go do some research, yay! If it doesn’t, so be it.

The worst thing I experienced this weekend were people who had an opinion, but no clue what they were talking about. For or against the pipeline, saying loudly one’s opinion with no facts to back it up.. that isn’t passion, that’s privilege.

Freedom of speech. Freedom to the pursuit of happiness. The freedom to vote for who you want in office, those are simultaneously rights and privileges. People put there life on the line for those rights and we citizens of the U.S.A are privileged enough to benefit from them. I have found that the best way to honor that is to have passion and seek knowledge. Just my opinion.

The rain has settled. So has my mind. Pit. Pat. Piitt. Paatt. The rain is lulling me to a dreamland. Dorothy and the Pirate have no reason to hold the sails any longer now that the wind is slowing down. Toto is still yipping, but it is after midnight and dreamland is approaching.

I’m going to sink into my cozy sleeping bag in my warm tent. I honor all those who have allowed me to be here in Nebraska, holding out against this storm, thank you. I appreciate the passion that has allowed me my privilege.

Sweet dreams all.

Goodnight Dorothy.

Goodnight Pirate.

Damnit Toto.

Pit. Pat.