I had been riding for a long time, days I think, but I wasn't tired. I had fueled 160 miles back, but my gauge said three quarters full, which is unusual because I only have a six gallon tank and the most I have ever wrung out of it has been 200 miles. So I kept on. No reason to stop. Made sense to me at the time. The house wasn't that far.
I passed other riders who had pulled over and were seeking shelter because of the rain, but I was completely dry, as was the road in front of me. Then it was almost as if it was slow motion, riding by, a biker's wave, a wink, that special salute.
The road up to the house became twisty, turny, a spaghetti sort of route that all I could do was look ahead and follow. The kind of road that is sweet to ride, but not for the faint of heart. Leaning into a curve, hearing the scrape of the floorboard on the asphalt in a deep turn. When you ride, as in life, you look to where you want to go, not to where you are, not to where you have been, or you'll drive off course. All of a sudden, when my back tire left the road, it rose up behind it to push it forward, like it was urging me to a haven, even though I didn't feel like I needed sanctuary.
The house. I was there. There were valets parking other bikes, cute little guys wearing chaps, but little else. Nice eye candy, but I drove to the back. No one rides my motorcycle but me. As I dismounted and locked up, I looked around and just felt off, like I didn't belong at my own family reunion.
There were groups of people milling about, going in and out of a tent that was erected on the lawn. The tent had a neon sign hanging from an awing that blinked "GET YOUR HIGH ON IN HERE". Humming "Stairway To Heaven", I grabbed a beer out of my saddlebag and walked to the house.
The house had many levels and many rooms connected by manicured lawns and pools, some for swimming, some for reflection. It was a magnificent spread, but every where I walked, every room I entered, every inhabitant was either drunk, high, or both. I don't mind a good party, but it's not fun when you're the only one sober.
I walked, sometimes trudged, though the house, up and over walls. In and out of pathways and corridors. Around orange traffic cones that were set up like pyramids. It was a maze, like those Indiana corn farm mazes that you have to carry a ten foot pole with a flag at the top just to be seen by the judges, by those who will rescue you when you will always get lost.
I was looking for something, searching. It's here somewhere. But I didn't know what.
I stepped into a hallway and saw my Aunt T. She was so drunk, she could barely sit. Son of a bitch, she never drank, certainly never did drugs, and looked down on those of us who did. But when I saw her, she was trying to hike herself up on a cinder block fence that lined one of the yards. There were men sitting on the fence smoking pot and she was wanting them to share. They were teasing her with the joint and kept calling her old lady.
I walked into one of those retro rooms from the fifties; dropped living room floor about six inches below the foundation and tumbled in, fell to my face. The floor was covered in plastic, with a thick coating of oil. There were bodies everywhere, writhing, undulating like a thick carpet of snakes. I slide around, trying to find my footing, wanting to escape the hands that were reaching out for me. Groping, orgy hands grabbing my ankles, my knees, my feet, trying to pull me down again.
I kicked out, and felt a crunch at the end of my foot.
"Fuck you! You are a Andes!" Someone drunkenly slurred at me.
"First of all, it's you are AN Andes. And secondly, the Andes is not a type of people. It is a mountain range in western South America, you cretin!"
I woke up.
I passed other riders who had pulled over and were seeking shelter because of the rain, but I was completely dry, as was the road in front of me. Then it was almost as if it was slow motion, riding by, a biker's wave, a wink, that special salute.
The road up to the house became twisty, turny, a spaghetti sort of route that all I could do was look ahead and follow. The kind of road that is sweet to ride, but not for the faint of heart. Leaning into a curve, hearing the scrape of the floorboard on the asphalt in a deep turn. When you ride, as in life, you look to where you want to go, not to where you are, not to where you have been, or you'll drive off course. All of a sudden, when my back tire left the road, it rose up behind it to push it forward, like it was urging me to a haven, even though I didn't feel like I needed sanctuary.
The house. I was there. There were valets parking other bikes, cute little guys wearing chaps, but little else. Nice eye candy, but I drove to the back. No one rides my motorcycle but me. As I dismounted and locked up, I looked around and just felt off, like I didn't belong at my own family reunion.
There were groups of people milling about, going in and out of a tent that was erected on the lawn. The tent had a neon sign hanging from an awing that blinked "GET YOUR HIGH ON IN HERE". Humming "Stairway To Heaven", I grabbed a beer out of my saddlebag and walked to the house.
The house had many levels and many rooms connected by manicured lawns and pools, some for swimming, some for reflection. It was a magnificent spread, but every where I walked, every room I entered, every inhabitant was either drunk, high, or both. I don't mind a good party, but it's not fun when you're the only one sober.
I walked, sometimes trudged, though the house, up and over walls. In and out of pathways and corridors. Around orange traffic cones that were set up like pyramids. It was a maze, like those Indiana corn farm mazes that you have to carry a ten foot pole with a flag at the top just to be seen by the judges, by those who will rescue you when you will always get lost.
I was looking for something, searching. It's here somewhere. But I didn't know what.
I stepped into a hallway and saw my Aunt T. She was so drunk, she could barely sit. Son of a bitch, she never drank, certainly never did drugs, and looked down on those of us who did. But when I saw her, she was trying to hike herself up on a cinder block fence that lined one of the yards. There were men sitting on the fence smoking pot and she was wanting them to share. They were teasing her with the joint and kept calling her old lady.
I walked into one of those retro rooms from the fifties; dropped living room floor about six inches below the foundation and tumbled in, fell to my face. The floor was covered in plastic, with a thick coating of oil. There were bodies everywhere, writhing, undulating like a thick carpet of snakes. I slide around, trying to find my footing, wanting to escape the hands that were reaching out for me. Groping, orgy hands grabbing my ankles, my knees, my feet, trying to pull me down again.
I kicked out, and felt a crunch at the end of my foot.
"Fuck you! You are a Andes!" Someone drunkenly slurred at me.
"First of all, it's you are AN Andes. And secondly, the Andes is not a type of people. It is a mountain range in western South America, you cretin!"
I woke up.
