.png)
The author contemplates one last great adventure
Watching your parents heading down the final furlong is frightening. For me, the physical degradation wasn’t the most alarming part, although holy shit. It’s the closing in.
My mother spent her final years in an assisted living condo in Del Ray Florida. The woman renowned for her art patronage was surrounded by the remains of her astounding collection. My father and her friends, such as they were, were gone.
Daphne Farago shared meals with residents in the facility’s dining room. She embarked on the occasional group visit to local attractions. But she spent the majority of her time watching TV in her sitting room.
Mother’s pre-Pandemic lockdown was jarring. Wanderlust was our family’s way of life. My parents dragged my brothers and me to museums, castles, cathedrals and pyramids throughout England, Europe and Mexico. We made a pilgrimage to my mother’s South African homeland.
The travel bug stayed with me after my escape from childhood. When a parachute accident sidelined me in my late twenties, I quit my job, sold my stuff, bought an around-the-world airplane ticket – and almost got killed looking the wrong way coming out of Sydney airport.
I hung out in Australia, Japan, China, Israel, Egypt and Greece. I purchased a motorcycle in Amsterdam and wandered the length and breadth of Europe and Scandinavia. When I married and “settled down,” my wife and I continued exploring, including an African safari and Antarctica.
Diminished finances, the Wuhan flu and an insidious psychological shift put an end to my expeditions. My existence has been largely reduced to a brace of cigar lounges, a local steak house, upmarket grocery stores and the gym.
About two months ago, I was listening to the Talking Heads’ Once in a Lifetime, staring out at the crane-filled skyline, smoking My Father’s cigar. I remembered my mother’s golden cage. And thought, holy shit. I’m there.
The first step to finding a way forward? Stop. I made my decision. When the weather warms, I’ll rent-out my 33rd floor aerie, hop on a motorcycle (christened Charley to honor John Steinbeck) and blow town.
I’ll head to Tennessee (Tail of the Dragon), amble up to Providence (location of my novel Reservation Point) then steer north to Maine (lobster roll). I’ll cross Canada to British Columbia, roll down into California and back to Texas.
I’ve got no particular timeline in mind, and reserve the right to delay or divert on a whim. On a Honda Goldwing actually, but you get the point. At the tender age of 64, I’m embarking on what might be my last great adventure™.
I’m not bothered about severing ties with my Bat City amigos. By both nurture and nature, I’m a loner. This is hardly the first time I’ve told myself “let’s blow this popsicle stand.” I’ve left so many people behind that saying goodbye is only slightly more daunting than saying hello.
The more vexing problem: I’ve grown way too accustomed to my “comfort zone.” Warm bed, hot shower, hotter coffee, loud stereo, luxury car and big ass desktop computer. I’ve become set in my ways: write, smoke, eat, repeat. I’m not that old guy at the start of Up, but I’m not not him either.
What will it be like - four decades after my last two-wheeled peregrination - to wake-up somewhere new with only a general idea of what the day holds? Where I’ll go, what I’ll see, who, if anyone, I’ll meet. My bike my only real companion. My only home.
Not to go all Eeyore, my “last great adventure” could also be my swan song. I could find myself in a stupid place with stupid people doing stupid things, who really don’t like the cut of my jib. I could crash. Fall ill. Freeze to death. Swelter to death.
I may not laugh in the face of danger, but the fatalism I’ve acquired in my journey from the forceps to stone enables the occasional snigger. Besides, as Jon Wayne Taylor says, no danger, no fun. I reckon solo motorcycle meandering qualifies.
I won’t be completely alone; I’m taking you with me. I’ll be blogging from the road. And while I won’t depend on the kindness of strangers, I’ll look for it and accept it gladly.
I need this trip, and not just as a tax deduction. My reportorial roots, my quest for Everything excellence, demands fresh grist for my mill. Not to coin a phrase, the Truth is out there, somewhere…
When my mother was on her deathbed, unconscious, my middle brother told me to forgive her for the abuse I’d suffered at her hands. I leaned down to whisper in Mother’s ear, so my brother couldn’t hear.
I didn’t forgive her, I wasn’t ready for that. I thanked her for being a monster. For making me the man I am. A man who knows that no matter where you go, there you are.
Taking this show on the road won’t – can’t change that. But I hope my travels with Charley changes me. For the better? You be the judge.