Why Stone The Road, Part I: Alone?
As I’m lugging the big dry bags from bus to airport to train, people ask, “Why the big bags? Where you going?” When I tell them I’m in Seattle to buy a motorcycle and ride it home to Vermont, they ask, “Alone?”
The two Uber drivers — the Ethiopian who drove me from downtown to the night’s Airbnb in Green Lake, and the Somalian who gave me and the dry (but heavy) bags this morning’s lift to a coffeeshop — had an intermittent question. “Vermont?” Used to have the same problem in Cuba, where I got very used to explaining, “Un estado muy pequeno, lejos al norte, cerca de Canada.” Here, it helped to say, “North of Boston.” But then they, too, asked, “Alone?” The follow-throughs are “How long will it take?” and “How many miles is that?” Sometimes there’s a little motorcycle talk, sometimes urgent advice: “You should definitely go to…” and “You gotta see…” But then we get back to, “Alone?” After my confirmation, the younger people say, “Cool.” So many are adventurers, or believe they soon will be. Alone isn’t a dealbreaker; it’s a viable option, an emphasis, a possible hashtag. If anything about my plan worries them, it’s me: the trip’s cool, the ride’s cool, the old guy’s the only weak link. Everybody else… receives my confirmation, thinks it over and says something nice. Some are ritual nice. “Well, that’s great. Wow. Good luck.” Most are really nice. “That’s… fantastic! I think it’s really brave. Whoa! Amazing!” Which seems overmuch to me — I don’t think of this trip as scary — but maybe they know better. Anyway, I’m glad to be able to provide them with a little head-shaking wonderment. And one or two have been Then Came Bronson nice, short-taking the famous opening scene to the 1969–70 TV series about a motorcycle wanderer: a suit-and-tie commuter in a convertible chats up Harley-rider Bronson at a stoplight, asks where he’s headed.
Bronson: “Oh, I don’t know. Wherever I end up, I guess.” Driver: “Man, I wish I was you.” One way or another, I’ve gotten this message. Slow head shake, lookaway, slow smile… I can see my yet-unstarted adventure has touched some old longing. And I am touched, and a little amazed, as was the TV wanderer. Driver: “Man, I wish I was you.” Bronson: “Really?” Driver: “Yeah.” Bronson: “Well, hang in there.”
(No, it doesn’t escape my notice that Bronson is a disillusioned journalist hitting the road to refresh his soul…) Why do I travel? To be reminded that I am never truly alone, that my temporary solitude is a choice, that traveling is my choice, that I am a fantastically fortunate man.
