Now I'm Done
Here, then, is the final crew, left to right: Ian "Mad Scientist" Wood, Richard "It's All Good" Blackstock, Thomas "Havin' A Butcher's" Lipscombe, and Anthony "Kiwi" Irving. We first met Tony in Monterey, where he'd had his bike stolen from in front of the aquarium (one of the reasons I didn't like that town very much). After I left Rich and Tom in Monterey, they hung out there with Tony for a day, and then he stayed behind to pick up his shiny new bike, catching up with the boys again in Oceana a couple of days later. They'll be riding together down to the Mexican border, where Tony will high-tail it northwards to some airport somewhere to catch a flight down to South America. Rich and Tom will dispose of their bikes in whatever way seems best at the time, and head into Central America where they plan to become very rich by selling the contents of one medium-sized briefcase. Then they'll continue travelling until they'll reach Rio, where they will try not to catch the pox from watching volleyball on the beach.
And I? I shall fade, the way that great adventurers do, and--
Wait, that was a bit pretentious. Let's try:
Well, it's really done now, isn't it? Travelling companions have become erstwhile, and transformed into friends. My home has turned back into a trike which needs new tires and a tuneup. My tent remains rolled up in its stuff sack, doubtless in need of a good airing out and a fungicide treatment. I never know where any of my stuff is, because I now have more than a trailer's worth of space to lose things in. Tomorrow, I'll have been off the road for one week, but it feels like I left Virginia yesterday, and arrived in Santa Barbara a lifetime ago.
I am experiencing a sensation of dislocation that borders on vertiginous. The windchimes hanging from my mother's porch aren't ringing with a clear tone, because the strong wind makes them clang and noisily bind together. I feel the same way: there are no clear tones of Me, not quite yet. The transitions continue, and there's still much to be done. The fact that I pedaled nearly 2,000 miles for nearly four months to get here doesn't seem remarkable to me, sitting here on the couch, tossing pixelwords out into the tubes, just like I've been doing for the past four years. I remain a mote in spacetime.
And this mote needs a sandwich.
