Fall 2005 PDF - Milton Academy

Faculty PerspectiveAn odyssey:Embracing life during a time of lossDavid Peck, Performing Arts Department ChairI was about 25 miles south ofNacogdoches, 120 miles out of Houston.This was the first full day of a 2,000-mileride to Boston. The temperature was 37degrees and it was raining lightly. The previousday the weather had been gloriousas I waited impatiently for my helmet toarrive a full six days after it had been dispatchedfrom Milton. With temperaturesin the high 70s, a shakedown ride aroundGalveston Island wearing a borrowed helmethad passed the time and convincedme that the machinery was in excellentcondition. Formations of pelicansskimmed the wave tops as I rode on awarm, desolate beach, stopping to chatwith a solitary fisherman who had beenpulling trout and bluefish from thesewaves since his daddy taught him how.A week before, on eBay, I had found abeautiful Yamaha Virago 1100 in Texasand, after the usual negotiations withmyself about funds and priorities, placed abid. Once the bidding closed, I was committedto picking up the motorcycle andbringing it to Milton during spring vacation.This would be a replacement for mycurrent ride, a somewhat older andincreasingly unreliable Virago that I hadridden home from Pittsburgh and then allover New England and Prince EdwardIsland during 2004. Now, with a tiny packtent and a sleeping bag, I was going to beself-contained, capable of stopping almostanywhere. In addition, I had friends scatteredall over the region who would behappy to put me up for a day or so. Theusual temperature in the South in Marchis perfect for riding and, after a few daysof wandering byways, I figured I had agood shot at a break in the weather towardthe north. At the first reasonable opportunityI would dart across the Mason-DixonLine and be next to my own radiatorbefore the demons of late New Englandwinter had a chance to notice me. In thelanguage of dramatic criticism, this isknown as hubris.It turns out that Dixie has some late winterdemons of her own, and with theweatherman predicting heavy rain andtemperatures stuck at 20 degrees belownormal for the season, camping was out ofthe question. There was nothing for it butto start my dash immediately or spenddays huddled in inexpensive hotels, watchingMarch Madness on TV as my newprize slowly rusted outside.Which brings us back to U.S. Route 59,south of Nacogdoches. My hands andknees were cold already, just an hour outof the Livingston Inn and with at leastnine hours to go before Memphis. I couldfeel the storm moving up behind me, apredicted two-inch downpour for the GulfCoast. On the other hand, the redbudtrees were defiantly in bloom and the sunwas occasionally burning a hole in themist, spreading an unearthly radiance overthe rolling hills of early morning EastTexas.I thought of Mary Della. On the occasionof our 30th anniversary she had given mea gift-wrapped book and a small envelope.The book was one she knew I wanted,Rogue Nation—nice but not terriblyromantic. I opened the note. “OK, a bookis pretty cheap for 30 years. So here is thereal gift. (Even cheaper) My permission toget a bike. Stay alive. Love, MD.” Within amonth I was riding my first motorcycle—very carefully—determined to heed herinstruction. Four months later she wassuddenly gone, the victim of an internalhemorrhage, and her note took on theaspect of dark irony. Still, I rode the bikeconstantly and still carefully, though I wasnot quite sure why. When the time cameto carry Mary Della’s ashes to Maine, theyrode on the back of the Virago. I learnedthat you can scream, rant, curse, weep andgenerally carry on in a full-face helmet at70 miles an hour and no one will notice.That was often a comfort.Now, alone on a distant, frigid highwaywith only names on the map to look forwardto for days, I needed to define thistrip in some way that would rescue it fromthe inevitable tedium and grinding fatiguewhich lay ahead. Given the wind chill at70 miles an hour, even very good gloveswill not keep fingers from going slightlynumb after an hour or so of cold-weatherriding. If I was going to stay alive, I couldnot afford to let my mind freeze up aswell. I began working on the problem ofremaining alert. Separating one momentfrom the next. For an actor that meansgetting specific. Really seeing, noticingintensely, waking up your interior by connectingto the exterior. And for a biker theexterior is immensely rich. The sound ofthe engine, the state of your body on thebike, the surface of the road and how thetires and shocks are dealing with it, crosswinds,every detail of the traffic aroundyou, vibration, airflow through your helmet,potential hazards, and the constantlyscrolling landscape.46 Milton Magazine