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“That night we moved closer to the border, and clear across the prairie, at the very edge of the horizon. We could make out the gas fires of the refinery at Missoula, while to the south we could see the lights of Cheyenne, a city bigger and grander than I’d ever seen.

I felt all kind of things looking at the lights of Cheyenne, but most important, I made up my mind to never again tag around with a hell-bent type, no matter how in love with him I was” (Sissy Spacek as Holly, in the movie Badlands, 1973).

I recently had a moment of fond reminiscence of dangerous days, the thrill and passion of grasping tight while the wind and the world hit me head-on. Then I woke up.

There are all sorts of reasons that taking off in pursuit of adventure may seem like a fine thing to do, but in the end, most of them seem to involve running away from, rather than to something. The vague idea of adventure was a dream I inherited, a place I guarded in the back of my mind as an option whenever I was faced with too much unhappiness in too short a time.

Until I was in my late 20s, I never did much more than ponder that option. A few times, I felt myself drawn to the flame, flittering perilously close to entanglements that would break my heart, and did—but not irretrievably so. I jumped a few times, but felt that elastic pull back, bungeeing me back into a predictable existence to idle on the lookout for my own truth.

I wonder sometimes if it is a part of growing up, or if it is a part of growing up unhappy that leads a person find truth in sublimation. Sometimes I find that truth in words, my own words, a world on a page, or in a heartbeat, a smile, a carefully placed step and a song, a moment of pure grace. This is a sort of joy.

Try as I might, though, I never found joy on the back of a motorcycle, holding on tight while someone else drove through the unknown vistas and back roads. I did venture once, untethered at last, straddled the back seat of an adventure and never went home again. But where I ended up after that, I expected to stay.

I guess I should have known this was not a ride meant for settling, for bonding, or for discovering ourselves. The never-ending voyages tugged, threatening roots that grew ever deeper. “Why leave? Why not stay and see the flowers, the fruits, this life we created?” I wondered. Garden with me.

“Come alongside me,” he said, and I followed, while I still could. The urge to flee returned tirelessly, a malignant tumor, seeking still more—but what?—some indefinable thing that could ravage me in the process. One day, farther from joy that I ever imagined, I stayed behind; he left. But he could come home, to walk among it, to reclaim this life, this beautiful, imperfect life that had grown, with the weeds and thorns to disparage. He could come home, if only to pick the best fruits from among them, to look at love and believe it would always wait.

I wonder, what hidden parts of ourselves only find expression in actions that seem to defy what life passes to us, even what we choose? I wonder what makes us feel more alive when we speed through space, feeling the vibrations through our skin, into our minds, testing the very limits of our physical life, and abandoning in those sublime moments all that has meaning here on Earth.

And then… what makes us feel justified to return, perhaps unscathed, perhaps damaged irreparably, always hoping to be cared for and loved by the ones we left behind…. or at least, not forgotten?

I wonder what the seeker seeks, if he even knows, or is it the search that he lives for, the never-ending journey? What comfort does the road bring? Perhaps it is the moving skylines, the exchangeable faces, the well-polished security of the new and unblemished. Perhaps the road brings an illusion of perfection, and the safety of never truly being known.

This morning, I picked up a pan from the oven with a wet oven mitt. That sensation took me back, back to my childhood in the wilds of Webster Groves.

When I was nine, my mom gave in to my begging and let me go for a ride. My half brother only came over when he felt like it by then—no longer every weekend. It was 1974, and as the generation seemed to dictate, he delighted in infuriating my dad with his choice of dress, friends, and things he put into his body. This time my half brother was wearing a fringed leather vest and headband, long hair, but brought no friends or pipes: only an extra helmet. I can hardly remember the motorcycle he had at the time, but we were adventurous as a family with our choice of things to drive, so my thought was that it was faster than our go-kart, and street legal—unlike the minibike he had before. I got on.

We went around the circle that was my street, and I wanted more, so we headed down the hill, down Edgar Road, and down Glendale. Wheeeeeee! It was so great, so free, so … oh my God… what happened?!!!

Lesson learned: Do not wear shorts on motorcycles. And if you do, do not rest your bare ankle on the exhaust pipe.

When the blisters healed, that scar was infinitely cooler than any tattoo could ever be: not-too-obvious proof of my reckless side. I may have seemed the goodie two-shoes, but was attracted to danger and dreams, and seeking the sublime in whatever form it presented itself–but not motorcycles now.

I cannot say it is always healthy to seek this kind of adventure. It certainly can cause discord in an otherwise upstanding life.

But hell it sure can be fun.

(Above is Richard Thompson, singing “1952 Vincent Black Lightning,” a fitting song for my moods today. Wouldn’t you like to have him come play songs in your living room?)