Fall 2005 PDF - Milton Academy

I began to inventory the sensations. Firstthe feedback from the bike itself. Steadyand satisfying. Then the weather. Mist onmy facemask. Droplets migrating to theedge of my windscreen. Super-cooled airprobing the layers of my protective clothing,tugging and buffeting. The little,blessed heat rising from the engine towarm me. And, finally, the imminentworld of a new road in an unfamiliar partof the country. The clouds receded slightlyand the rain abated and the world camealive, not because visibility improved butbecause I had begun to see with fresheyes, to listen with curious ears and towelcome sensation for the pure joy ofbeing free on a road I had never riddenbefore.Faces in nearby cars became interesting,inviting speculation about what it must belike to live in this particular place anddrive this road to work every morning ofthe workweek.Suddenly I heard Mary Della whisper inmy ear, “Stay alive,” and the milesbetween me and Milton changed theiraspect. Like life they were a gift, not anobstacle standing between me and warmthand comfort.I have the anniversary note sitting next tomy computer as I type. In retrospect, Iknow that many of the miles during thenext four days flowed together with nothingto distinguish them in memory. But inthe living, I know that they were amongthe most vivid of my life. For instance, it istrue that the highway between mile markers26 and 27 on Route 30 in Arkansaswas distinguished from that between 27and 28 only by the different versions of“Sweet Georgia Brown” I was improvisingat full throat in my helmet as I traveledover each. Then, at mile marker 29, I ranout of gas and, in the process of getting tothe nearest station, I met a crusty oldArkansan who gave me a ride in hisancient pickup truck. Wreathed in cigarettesmoke that almost obscured theproud glint in his eye, he reminded methat this little town, Hope, was the birthplaceof Bill Clinton. Later, walking backto the bike with my thumb out, I wasastounded when a 16-wheeler careenedDavid Peck on the shores of Galveston Islandacross two lanes and finally came to a stop500 yards down the highway. As I clambered,breathless, into the cab, I opinedwith a grin that I was simply too old to berunning that far and that I was hardlyworth his time since I only needed a rideof a mile or so. I asked my host where hewas coming from and he said, “Serbia.” Itwas a brief but very engaging ride steepedin generosity of spirit and laughter.During the following days, I met a galleryof engaging characters in conveniencestores, truck stops, motel lobbies, smalltownlibraries and state-maintained reststops. Between Memphis and Knoxville, Imanaged to master the task of stacking allthe states of the union in alphabeticalorder. I remembered hitchhiking the samehighway during a blizzard on ChristmasEve day of 1963, a young Marine headinghome on leave from San Diego. This timethe snow came in the mountains of southwestVirginia, swirling around the speedingbike and dancing circles on the pavementwithout sticking. It was glorious andinvigorating and made the roaring fireplaceat a rest stop almost impossible toabandon when the time came. Anotherfireplace in the home of Milton parents innorthern Virginia thawed me out thatevening, and my computer bag still smellslike wood smoke.The next morning the sun was warm onmy helmet for a few idyllic hours, and Idiscovered a completely unmarked andfascinating ruin of a 19th-century stoneinn on a quiet, country road. When Istopped at an elementary school in thenearby village to inquire about its history,I found that no teacher or administrator inthe entire school lived in the town. In fact,they all drove in from West Virginia eachday to teach the children of parents whospent their days working 50 miles away inWashington, D.C.The ride through Maryland, Pennsylvania,New York, and especially Connecticut,became progressively colder, and when theVirago glided to its new berth onRandolph Avenue, it was with honestrelief but a deep sense of well-being that Ibegan lifting off the luggage. Mary Dellahad given me the means for bringing theworld so close that I must continueembracing it even during a time of loss.The trick, of course, is to stay alive off thebike as well as on.47 Milton Magazine