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The Joy of Going Nowhere
by Gary Charpentier |
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I
have a beef with Minnesota weathermen. I'll choose one in
particular, who is the epitome of everything I hate about
these foggy-minded prognosticators. Let's call him "Johnny
Yahoo". He's a skinny, well-dressed little twerp who pops up
on my television every weekday morning at five thirty sharp,
and immediately begins chirping about doom and gloom and
thunderstorms. Oh, some days I want to hurt him so
bad… Do you think he
knows that riding my motorcycle to work makes all the
difference between a wretched, horrible day and a tolerable
one? Of course he does! That's why he always pads his
forecast on the pessimistic side; to screw me over and to
cover his bony little ass just in case it drizzles during
the day. Well… fine. I have an answer for
that. So I tell the boss
I have errands to run and I go home early before the alleged
freeway turns into a rush-hour parking lot. Pulling into my
driveway get out of the truck and head straight for the
garage. I'm not EVEN going into the house where I would have
to answer questions. My jacket and helmet are hanging from
the handlebars and I'm suited up in record time. I turn the
key, set the choke and start that beautiful engine. Toeing
the shift lever into first, I roll out of the driveway
without a backward glance. Although I have no
idea where I'm going, I instinctively head towards the
river. The roads there twist and turn out of necessity,
following the contours of the shoreline. It is now
rush-hour, but the backroads remain relatively deserted.
With the wind rushing past my helmet, leaning into the
curves, my mind finally relaxes. Going nowhere on my
motorcycle is kind of like living a daydream. As long as
there is fuel in the tank and the machine is operating
correctly, we can just drift along on currents of asphalt.
At some point I
notice a rhythm to the curves and I can tell we are getting
close to the water. Sure enough, I spy a patch of silver
through the trees as we approach a small picnic area. Now
the Mississippi River doesn't have that fresh smell of an
ocean or even a large lake, especially not downstream from
the Cities. But it's really not that bad tonight, so I sit
with the motor turned off and gaze out at the water awhile.
I reflect on how
fast my life seems to be passing, and how I rarely take the
time to stop all the frantic noise and commotion, to sit
still and just… breathe. I can still hear the traffic
on Concorde over the soft rush of the water and I
contemplate these two parallel currents that are so opposite
in character. I wish I could transform my bike into a boat
and sail away down-river but as I glance at my watch I
realize that the demands of reality are already pulling me
back towards that other, harsher stream. Heading north on
Concorde again, I stop at Dairy Queen for a small cone. As
my tongue savors the ice milk, my eyes are surveying the
traffic. Ah, here we have Mizz Yuppie Soccer-Mom at the helm
of her German luxury panzer, nattering into her Nokia as she
orders every single detail of her family's evening while
remaining oblivious to the proletarian traffic around her.
Why should she worry? She's fully insured… Reluctantly I push
off into the current again riding upstream towards home. I
pass the once-booming strip of cafes and bars across the
road from the old stockyards. It feels like a ghost town
tonight. We ride on past Fury Motors where my father bought
his first brand new Dodge back in 1960. It was a gorgeous
sky-blue and white convertible with a 383 cross-ram motor
and a push-button automatic transmission. He named it "The
Blue Angel". Today the dealership has moved out to Hwy 494
and what's left on Concorde has a rather seedy look about
it. Betty's Café closed long ago, but the sign still
remains. I get the feeling that this section of Minnesota
Highway 56 was really jumpin' back in the "good old days".
Life is all about
change. I've heard that and read it a million times. That
doesn't make it good, or right… it just makes it true.
Most of the changes that have taken place during my lifetime
look to me like steps backward or maybe forward into an
undesirable future. This is where my very own original maxim
"Nothing Cool Ever Lasts" comes from. It seems as though
some very greedy people, way above my pay grade, are running
the show. Sometimes I have to think really hard to figure
out what I can and can't do about that. Tonight I can ride
my motorcycle for a little while and hope to glean some
peace of mind from the experience. Finally, we turn
left up the hill towards home and the nightly family
routine. Upon arrival, I linger over my bike in the garage,
listening as the motor ticks and cools. It wasn't much of a
ride, but it was enough to get me through another day. As I
walk towards the house I feel the first raindrop hit my
forehead. The clouds have gathered while I wasn't looking. I
guess old Johnny Yahoo got it right after all, just a little
bit late.
M.M.M.
But
instead of punching my fist through another expensive
picture tube, I resign myself to the fact that I have to
join the dull ranks of four-wheeled sheeple on the freeway,
yet again. I drive to work and go through the motions,
occasionally peeking out the window or checking the weather
radar on the internet. No rain. The big green blob that was
headed our way out of the Dakotas at dawn has been breaking
up and dissipating throughout the day before it ever reaches
the Twin Cities. What the #$%!? Why, that dirty bastard did
it to me again! I could have RIDDEN!
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