Twenty minutes to go before lunch, hamstrung at the desk until then. My mind travels back to the white, late model 330i that paced me all the way through town this morning and then all the way up the highway at just extralegal speeds when I wanted to be way extralegal. He (middle aged and balding) insisted on taking his own reasonable time completely ignoring the gigantic evil headlights weaving back and forth in his sideview mirror. Most people pull the hell over. He wouldn't budge. I debated doing a disused trick: a quick pass on the inside of a curve, gambling on no oncoming traffic. In the end I didn't.

It's those small things, the small annoyances like this that keep one alive to ride another day.

Staring through bugs on your faceshield is like rubbing earthy fingers together after digging carrots.  Not the most pleasant sensation known to mankind.  Not having time to clean said faceshield is sort of like not having time to wash the hands before wolfing the lunch pbj and returning to business immediately.

counting yarn, counting bits of yarn one after another, laying red bits of yarn in a row touching end to end.  This is what people in psychiatric wards do to waste time, you know.  Red bits of yarn turn to green bits of grass, green slime begins to pour up my arm, and my fingers wrap about the impeller blades like rubber bands in a Dali painting.  May God have mercy on my patience lest it die a gentle death....

Start, damn you, START!  There's fuel, I just cleaned out the air filter, the belts are not broken, it's not overheated anymore there is no reason why this should not be running no reason why none absolutely none it knows me and hates me it knows I exist machines are conscious they know we exist and they have organized to spite us the creature turns against his creator in a fit of impotent juvenile wrath and suffering....laughable in its narrowminded selfishness....mourning the loss of a bird.  We have no sense of our own worth, and let that be a lesson, a reminder to calmly bury pride.

leave the keys in my pocket and the handkerchief in the wind, the glow from the screen lights up the map.  Arteries, networks of veins in blue and green and dotted gray cover the wrinkled old skin.  Grass shows in the holes, the creases have been folded too many times over; young green blades of grass.  An ant crawls across my pants leg.  I like ants.  They work a lot.  Work is good. Very good.  But now the sun has set, and it is time to move inside.

To move, to travel is inherently unnatural to man.  To seek travel is unnatural. To travel for its own sake, that journeying we sing of and speak of with envy and shyness.  No, man was made to work, and from work comes possession, whether of land or of goods.  And land and goods imply stability, staying in one place, living and dying in one place with one's work and one's lands.

Goods, possessions drag man down, anchor him to one spot, prevent him from moving about.

Linear motion and circular motion; both species of motion; circular appeals to the infinite in man; linear to the finite.  Man is both finite and infinite, and is capable of travel both in straight lines and in circles.  To travel for its own sake is to travel in a circle; to travel for the sake of another end is to travel in a line with a beginning, a middle and an end.  Man is incapable of circular motion purely and simply speaking; whether he will or no he is either developing virtues or vices and no life activity is apart from this development.  All actions are moral actions.  All growth is linear motion, rest bounds growth and is circular.

I think that is a live freaking moth up there.  Why is there a moth in my tent.  WHY IS THERE A MOTH IN MY TENT I can't sleep with insects on my face and I take care to insure that there are no bugs in my tent before I go to sleep

this is why I don't camp

cheapass

oh, and you contradicted yourself about circular motion

shut up

The ancient Honda motorcycle puttered past me toward the Mission, the rider all but invisible behind the gigantic blue Tupperware container lashed to the back seat.

"Check out that rig," I said to no one in particular.  "That dude's got it figured.  Hey!  That's me in a couple years," I pointed out the disappearing contraption to my companions.

"Yes, that is you.  I can see you right now riding down the street with a gigantic milk crate strapped to your back".  The Sprit laughed and with a knowing look turned back toward the rows of roses. I hopped up on the low rock wall and began to walk along it.

*****  TWO YEARS LATER *****

I rolled the shopping cart next to the bike and heaved the box onto the back seat.  Honeywell 16" High Velocity Stand Fan the box said.  It was 3" longer than the amount of space on the rear seat, alloted by the tail box.  Damn. I guess I could squeeze in there and still drive.  The box stuck out on either side by a good four inches or so.

I opened the tailbox, pulled out my assortment of bungee cords, and looked up.  There was an old man in the red Mercedes parked across from me, watching me with quiet curiosity.  I went to work, lashing the massive (and heavy) cardboard box to the area available.  The coffeemaker box went on top of that.  (Technically I could have squeezed that one into my tailbox, but this was easier)  

Load lashed securely to the pillion seat, I high-kicked myself into the remaining upside-down wedge of seat.  Aah, this was very uncomfortable.  Start the bike - shift into first - pull away into the street.  Definitely awkward.  But I can shift, I can steer, I can move, I just have to sit up very straight.  Smiles showed on the faces of people waiting to cross the walk zone in front of the Target.  Yeah, I guess I look like a bum.  A very uncomfortable bum. The front of the pelvic saddle was definitely not designed to hold up my whole weight in this fashion on this uncommonly hard front edge of the seat.

I maneuvered out to the main road.  So this is how it is when one can't borrow a car.  I watched my rearview mirrors for the expressions on the faces in the car behind me.  I'm being far too self conscious about this....

...ha, suck it ya'll who say motorcycles are impractical!  I've got a freaking floor fan lashed to the back of my bike, and it'll stay there till I get home!.....

(It did stay there, up to and including about 85 mph. I'm still sore, but I now have a floor fan AND an automatic coffeemaker and I think of the Sprit and her serious look and I smile)

"Hey um, do you know how this thing works?"

The two of them were standing, silhouetted in the brown streetlight.  I couldn't see their faces.  Traffic was rushing through the green light, battering the side of the old Accord in its wake, blowing tags off the trunklid.  A teenage boy and his girlfriend, fussing over a brand new plastic carry-can full of gasoline.  He was examining the nozzle trying to understand how this all went together. She had noticed my puzzled passing glance, saw her opportunity, and flagged me down.

(Why me?  Why does the world interested in me all of a sudden?  First there was that bunch of forlorn looking kids sitting on a pickup tailgate out of the trailhead up by the school, trying to wave me in.  They got a curt nod for their pains; I had to get someplace.  Then when I got home I stumbled into the acquaintance of my vertical-kittycorner neighbor whilst standing out on the street wiping bug flakes off my windshield.  Talked to him for a good five minutes. I tell you, I have had more social interaction in the last 24 hours than I normally have in a month.)

"I might.  Lets take a look."  It's cold, it's dark, I want to go home and go to bed.  This better be simple.  I set my helmet on the trunk lid of her car, swung the backpack with my drafting materials down into the street, and picked up the instructional label.

I wasted about 30 seconds trying to decipher the illustration.  The various nozzles, gaskets and plugs that came with this amazingly complex marine auxiliary gas-can assembly made no sense to me whatsoever.  Either some part was missing or it was a flawed design.  "Wow, this is a problem.  I have no idea what this is about, man.  Let's try this instead:"

I picked up the brimmingly full plastic jug and set one of the spouts into the fuel nozzle of the car.  I began to pour the can into the nozzle.

"We tried that but it's kinda overfull so it was spilling all over the place." she volunteered.

"Yeah, well this is going to be the best way for you guys to get out of here.  This should work.  It's going to make a mess, ok?"  Fuel began to splash down onto the street, bathing my hands and shoes.

No comment from either.  "I'm hungry..." she murmured to her friend with a stifled giggle.  I had judged correctly.  They were more interested in getting out and getting dinner than washing the back fender of the car with gas, or watching a stranger wash his shoes with it.  I continued to pour, carefully.  The splashing lessened.   I estimated that about a gallon and a half found its way into the car's fuel tank, and set the empty can on the trunk lid.  "Good luck guys, have a good night."

I collected my stuff and walked off.  Crap, now my hands smell like gasoline.  Now the hand holding  my helmet is going to make my helmet smell like gasoline.  I shifted my helmet under my left arm and tried not to touch anything.

The Accord's motor cranked and cranked as I walked away.  It was still cranking as I stood on the corner pushing the pedestrian-walk button.   They're Californians, I said to myself, they won't crank the car long enough to suck fuel back up into the engine; they'll try for five seconds, run out of patience and give it up for lost for no reason at all. 

Strangely, the starter whr-whr-whr continued, clearly audible over the traffic. Keep cranking it, that's right girl, keep cranking it.  There's no fuel in the carb floats, that's why its not starting, but if you keep cranking it it will start.  Not that you could possibly know what carbs or floats are. The cranking stopped.  I looked back down the street.  Don't give up, you silly girl.  It will start if you try one more time.  Try one more time....

The old car fired into life and pulled away, and I breathed a little sigh of relief.  Now I can go home and go to bed instead of mothering some nameless teenager home.  Lord knows my big brother instincts would have me putting those poor kids on a bus before I realized it was not my problem.

Those poor kids who couldn't get their hands dirty (whose mothers probably used to yell at them for getting their hands dirty)...who would have spent all night trying to figure out how to put a gas-can together instead of making a mess but getting themselves out of the situation....

....(pats self on back. Good big brother.  Good)....

The credits for 3:10 TO YUMA fade into silence, then the file stops and the screen glares white at me, filling the room with ghostly light.  It's about 11:20.

As if in echo from the last shootout, a deep male voice cries out help me from somewhere in the direction of the dumpsters.  Or maybe across the alley.  Or maybe from the freeway.  Or maybe...fragments of shouting float across the carport roof.  Man, I can't tell how far away that is.  Should I call the cops?

Should I?

I look out the window.  I see the motion sensor light over on the carport blink on.  There is silence.  What would I say if I did call 911?

.....

Ten minutes later sirens wail distantly from the street across the drain canal.

Yeah, Friday night in a small California town too close to the city for anyone's comfort.

The forks chuddered and rattled with their characteristic cheap-hardware clunking over the scattered array of cobblestones.  Green light hah green green green revving up banking her hard HARD right yellow silver SUV stay the hell put and let me finish this maneuver... and through.... and past the corner.....

(why is the pavement so close to my right knee?  Why is the longitudinal axis of the motorcycle not following the front wheel?  It's not supposed to do that.)

(why do I feel like I am water skiing?)

(oh yeeeeah.  'Member last night how you went in and did the tire sidewalls all up pretty in that shiny silicone stuff?  And then like an idiot you shined up all the outer tread blocks thinking that would complete the picture?)

(I remember that.  Gosh this is weird.  It's so smooth and peaceful, just like gliding it is, gliding along athwart the centerline)

(I wonder if the lady in that silver SUV is watching me.  I wonder if her kids are watching me.  I wonder if her kids are going WOW! Look at that motorcycle SLIDING! and she is going Now this is why you should NEVER think of riding motorcycles!)

(Glad I put those crashbars on when the wind blew this thing over.  I hope they protect the engine.  And I'm glad I'm wearing my kevlar-lined pants.  I hope they protect my legs.)

(Okay, it's been long enough.  It's been one and a half seconds and one and a half seconds is way more than enough time. WHY AM I NOT SPRAWLED ALL OVER THE STREET???)

Like a fisherman reeling a fish in on the line, the motorcycle has reeled is back end into its proper longitudinal place (slthrrrpppp - just like that!) and there! is standing upright and humming along toward the stop sign at 20 mph as if nothing had ever happened.  I giggled inside my helmet.  My motorcycle drives itself. It freaking drives itself! And this is not the first time! Suzuki I LOVE you, you have designed the DAMNDEST machine for beginning riders EVER!   I swear it goes on self stabilizing autopilot when it senses the rider is no longer in control.  I giggle inside my helmet again as I brake at the stop sign, peek into the rearview mirror and there is soccer mom in the SUV, stopped dead, with her hand over her face.

The trembling does not begin until I am well on my journey, off onto the freeway and giving thanks that I am undamaged, that it is undamaged, and it is just another sunny Sunday of another sunny week....

I missed the exit and suddenly there was no more ground.  Brown pillars soared into the mist, carrying my narrow freeway up into the clouds.  The syncopated wail of electric guitars, in rhythm with the expansion joints, filled the ear pockets in the helmet as I flew along, white lines channeling me, railroading me ahead.  I had no clue where this was going. I was along for the ride, clenched to the handlebars searching desperately for a cross street, an exit to somewhere, someway to escape this madness carried in the current of cars and trucks.  No, please no, don't dump me into West L.A.!  Anything but west L.A.!  I'll take 10, I'll take Century, I'll take little surface streets I promise I'll never miss an exit again just don't leave me in West L.A.!  They say no one returns from there alive!

LAX, spread out for miles beneath me, whirled around slowly as the freeway climbed and arced through the sky.  The yin-yang symbol of Korean Air shone softly through the fog over the cargo building.  I can't be too far from something I know.

The exit for Sepulveda suddenly appeared from nowhere and I exhaled, relaxing on the throttle and clutch, humming down, gliding down from the heights to the ground again.  Normality resumes, taxis and Jettas and black clad Lincolns.  A 767 fills the sky, thundering into the air, trailing mist from the wings.

The freeway in the city is a funny thing.   It's like a river, it can carry you to strange places and you are only in control of where it takes you about half the time.  The other half is left to the vagaries of traffic and the vagaries of your own sense of direction and distance.  It may dump you anywhere and leave you stranded on any chevron island as you search for a way to escape your plight.  It ebbs and flows with the time of year and road construction, with the forces of bureaucratic physics.  It has sand bars and wicked snags, overhanging bridges and burnt-out exit lights.  It is covered in trash and graffiti, the scum of the earth take refuge in the concrete nooks of overpasses.  Unlike a river and unlike freeways in open country, it knows no peace and no beauty but only the ugly.  And the dark and hellish determination and intensity of drivers bent on their own destination, their own exit, their own speed and schedule.   Drivers like me.  I watch a handkerchief flop lazily along the centerline.  A pickup truck mashes it flat into the pavement and it lies there plastered as I race by.  No roadkill, not even the dignity of dead birds or tumbleweeds.  Just trash...styrofoam boxes....recycle(1)....ASK....