You are... I am... Together we are... Kevin
Stillwater. Naked except for a pair of tight jeans... we are
slightly bigger, better, and stronger than we were only moments
before. I’m thinking that we are a big, tall, incredibly -- as in
unbelievably -- fit native American Indian -- maybe Navajo or Comanche
-- with long dark flowing hair... but the specifics don’t really
matter. They never do. Which is another way of saying, pick
the details out for yourself... like I know the first thing about
Indians -- Comanche or otherwise.
Having chosen a suitable body, let us get acquainted
with it once again. Shall we? You stand before the morning
sun. Feel the heat of the day rising about you. Wiggle your
toes in the -- already -- warming desert sand. Life doesn’t get
any better than this... OK. It does. A lot better.
But this ain’t such a bad start. You are totally free to do...
whatever you want.
For instance, you are free to stay here in this
inhospitable landscape and die a slow death (via dehydration)... or to
move on. While this idea haunts you, cast your eyes about and
look for that motor bike of yours. Where is it? And then
notice a bit of twinkling chrome up on a distant ridge... or maybe it
was the sun reflecting off a safety mirror. Whatever the case,
you’ll be spending the next hour or two gingerly making your way across
the desert floor -- avoiding a sharp rock here, a thorny bush there,
and even a stinging scorpion or a snake or two (if a bit of danger
suits your fancy). All the while, I beg you to recall that your
feet are quite bare, but then, with every misstep, you’ll probably be
reminded of this fact.
Having eventually regained your bike. Look it
over. It’s a nice one -- one of those hogs, one of those big
Harley numbers. It’s yours, so just hop on board, and give the
starter a good kick.
Feel it roar to life. Roar!
Listen to the engine’s powerful rumble. Rumble. Rumble. Rumble.
It is like music to my ears.
Now just pop in the clutch, lift your right foot up
under the gearshift (taking care not to touch the manifold with your
toes as you do this), kick the gear into first, release the clutch with
your left hand, while throttling the engine a little with your right,
but not too much, just so it purrs...
Look. I don’t really know how to ride a bike,
and when you get right down to it, all of that detail sounds sort of
complicated... and boring. Besides, it’s not important.
Just turn your wrist up and make a revving sound like a child at play. Vroom!
There you go. That’s all it takes. Now
just hop on board and ride that bad boy! Ride like the wind!
Or slowly pick your way across the desert
floor. Like some circus acrobatic showing off his skill while
performing an intricate slow motion ballet -- pop a wheelie, hold the
front wheel high in the air as you lift it gracefully over a rock, and
then set it down gently on the other side. As you do this, keep
in mind that your feet are not allowed to touch the ground (not once
for the rest of the day, it’s a matter of pride... and/or the rules of
the game). Of course, not wearing boots, you might notice that
your feet are quickly growing numb from digging into the stirrups (or
foot pegs as they are known on a motorcycle); and while we are at it,
lets not forget the rest of your body. As you jostle the bike
this way and that, feel the muscles in your arms ripple with pleasure,
while those along your back strain at the exertion. Standing
astride a half-ton bike while lifting it halfway into the air is no
easy feat. Even your mighty muscles have their limits, but
swinging a bike to and fro, this way and that, this your body can
handle -- perhaps with ease -- and to be honest the activity feels
good. So enjoy the sensation -- the feeling of power -- as you
repeat the process over again, only this time it is the back wheel that
gets lifted as you swing it gently over a bush.
Do not let the name mislead you. A desert is
still full of life... and we could not -- we shall not -- destroy the
tiniest portion of this wondrous world by trampling mindlessly over the
smallest corner of it. If we did, we might run over an ant, or
crush a flower... and we can’t have that!
So in some bizarre game of Around the World, use the
bike like a 1,000lb pogo stick or an unwieldy sled, and ease one wheel
this way and then swing this one that. Slowly and deliberately,
picking and choosing every movement, carefully thinking out every yard
traveled, and every inch gained.
Spend the rest of the morning dancing with your bike across this
desolate landscape until you are at ease, and the machine is but an
extension of yourself -- albeit a strong, powerful, throbbing,
monstrous extension of yourself hanging conveniently just below your
waist aching for action and waiting to explode... but quite thankfully,
you are a young man, and all of this power is safely under control.
Perhaps the best metaphor and/or literary allusion
is to view the bike as some sort of headstrong snorting stallion eager
to get on with it. Perhaps with every step -- with every movement
-- it becomes clearer and clearer that this beast longs for its
freedom, and that it regrets its foolish decision to abdicate its
freewill to the likes of you...
No doubt, with every fiber of its being, this dangerous beast, this
mindless machine seeks to cast off its reigns and regain control of its
destiny.
Yes. I think that must be exactly what this... this motorbike... this beast of burden must be feeling.
And as thoughts like this course through our minds,
you know that it’s going to be a long morning. Oh, the going will
be slow indeed, and then...
And then you are in the desert.
Who knows where you are?
Who knows which way you should go?
There is desolate scrub in every direction. A
wasteland as far as the eye can see. If you could find the
tracks, I suppose you could just follow your previous trail, but
where’s the fun in that?
Where indeed?
No doubt it would be best to head west, and hope
before long that we come to some crossroads, some trailhead, or sign of
the way, but until then we must:
Live to write? Or is that, write to live?
Because sometimes, words have more than one
meaning. And the story being read is never -- ever -- the story
that was originally being written.