Blank and Bewildered

The Snickers bar is a favorite of mine and I consume it with a slow passion savoring every bite. Judy is away for a few hours continuing her nursing education and so I’m left to my own devices. I had planned on continuing several stories I have started over the last couple of days. (Ok, maybe it’s been a week or so.) A nice quite house with no disturbances. But all I can do is to sit and stare at the words I have written. Reading and rereading them I can think of nothing that fits or flows. Maybe this is what I have heard about happening to writers from time to time. Writers block. Try as I might I just can’t come up with the right words.
I hear the weather on the TV calling for more rain. My mind begins to wonder. Thinking about ridding and another wasted evening when I could be on my bike. The feeling of freedom ridding brings. The power that I alone control with just a twist of my wrist. The calming high it brings as I lean back into my wife as the road beneath continues to flow, opening roads before us. The direction is ours for the choosing and all ways are optional.
I think of the recent passing of a friend. A verbal promise to ride together with her and her husband is now too late. I think too of my childhood friend. The many rides we rode together. From a young age we rode and explored the trails and the times we would take a break and just talk and listen to each other’s dreams while The Keepers would whisper to us from the forest surrounding us. The many mud battles we would wage on each other. Churning up mud with our machines and at the right moment, hitting the throttle and flinging mud into a “rooster tail” and upon each other. Then too on dry days we would race for the lead on the dustiest of dirt roads vying for position to see which would eat the dust the other had kicked up. My friend’s dreams ended far too soon without being fulfilled.
The TV now proclaims storms with strong winds shortly as my mind goes into recall of cross country trips traveling alone to see friends. Ridding through down pours on an interstate. A thousand miles from my home. Ridding down the western side of the Rocky Mountains in a cold rain in June and being hit by sleet and snow. I remember sitting in a city with air temperatures over one hundred degrees and feeling the heat of the asphalt and the motor below me wishing for a cold rain. Along with the heat, rain, and snow, I also remember the miles and miles of corn fields on a bright sunny day and a long stretch of road ahead. I remember the many days of ridding in a perfect scenario of sun and smooth roads. Turns that led to new discoveries and sights.
I remember some of the people I have met while on my voyages to where ever I would end up. Talks with perfect strangers about many and all things. Deep heart felt stories from bikers of years past. Now to old to throw a leg over the saddle they often get glassy eyed describing the motorcycle they sold when the reality of age became more powerful than the longing to ride. I fear that day more than I fear death.
Whether the road is often traveled and familiar or a new road on a journey to a distant place, there are turns to unfold. Long stretches to roll over and free the mind and thoughts. Roads that will put miles on my machine. I live for the ride. This is my quest.
Well, this is all I could think of. This is all I could write about. Judy will be home shortly, so I think I’ll watch TV and finish my Snickers. Maybe I’ll finish my other stories tomorrow. Or someday…