Jumping
I’m in Charlotte now. I got here yesterday afternoon. I’m resting, or in dude-speak, takin’ ‘er easy. Since about the time I left Roswell, New Mexico, I’ve been sort of jumping around on this site in terms of what I post. One day, I post about what happened the night before, the next day it’s something that happened two weeks prior. Many days, I posted nothing at all.
It’s been difficult to keep up. I really wanted to tell the story of the three-day drive from Roswell to Houston as it was, for me, a big part of the journey. But I didn’t have the time or energy then to write about it. (I’ll get to it.) Driving at night became standard operating procedure during that time as it was too hot to drive during the day, and the trip took on an altogether different… a different everything.
Anyway, when I finally reached Houston, I lounged with Liz and remained in a state of total and utter relaxation. I took practically zero photos (outside of the two shoots with Kesley and one with Jas). I didn’t want to get back on the road. I considered staying in Houston and starting a new life there. Or thereabouts. And why not? I have a myriad of friends in the area, a lot of connections, and inside the beltway is entirely livable. But I got back on the road, as much as I didn’t want to, to head east.
I spent another two days in Beaumont, Texas, after I left Houston. Why on earth I kept getting drawn to Beaumont is beyond me. In any event, I’m in one spot now and I’m going to catch up on things. I’m going to go back and finish the 
tales, more for my own sake than anything. So that I can have a record of what happened. I’m catching up on photos now, although, as I told someone else, I found the southeast less inspiring than most anywhere else. I think that’s perhaps because I already know this land. That, and it doesn’t hold a lot of really good memories for me. Plus, I’ve been sick since Mississippi. The photos I’ve taken along this last half of the trip, for the most part, have been more of a chronicle of the drive than anything else, a large number of the photos actually taken while driving or stopped at a light. Things that caught my eye while, literally, on the road. Then too, I did stop to take some in particular.
It seems like a year has passed since I was in Los Angeles. But it was only a month ago. So much has happened. But nothing of any real consequence.
Last day, for a while
It’s 12:51am. I’m in Clinton, South Carolina. I’m less than thirty miles away from the house where my children live currently. I thought of staying in that crappy town so I could see them for a night (before I see them as planned a few days from now), however, they’re at the beach for the week. Oh well. Soon enough. I’m roughly ninety miles away from my parents’ home and I am heading there in the morning. I’ll be glad to get there.
I really don’t mean to whine, but I’m going to anyway. I spent two nights in Jasper thinking I would get better. Then I drove to Rome. Surprisingly, changing my geography didn’t heal me. I thought I would drive to Athens and stay in a hotel again to try and get better and I decided instead to camp out just west of Athens. Again, no improvement to my health. The next day, the shakes came on again from a fever. I stayed in Athens for a night. Today I finally got out of Georgia and drove here. To Clinton.
I’m emaciated, I’m entirely without energy, I have more infections than I can count, and I have a cold on top. I’m reasonably certain that I’ve remained dehydrated for a while now despite drinking liquids. I’m also reasonably certain that I’ll be visiting a hospital next week. And it’s probably going to be a VA hospital, you know, me being a disabled vet and all.
The thing I loathe about going to the hospital is that whenever I arrive, they always want to admit me (and I usually need it). And they always think that maybe there’s something else wrong with me other than what’s been diagnosed one hundred times over. And they always think that, “ah, well, we can fix him.”
I do love me some cold, clinical care, though. Those nice quiet rooms, somewhat muffled voices coming from speakers in the hallways that, from time to time, call out for Doctor Such and Such to report to the ER. Machines sitting still beside the bed with the occasional green beep, a black-faced LCD constantly monitoring something or other on a precise and pretty screen (matching paper readouts also available). A saline drip into my veins, after three attempts to get the needle into my arm. (The nurse had a bad day, what with her daughter just wrecking her new car; can’t hit the vein.) The sheets that are too tight on that first night before they become a mountain of blanket and sheet in one corner of the bed, the flat sheet covered in sweat, exposing the mattress underneath at the edges. The continual smell of strong antibiotics. A tray of food with a jello fruit cup that never tasted so good yet was so difficult to swallow.
Those sugar packets are going in my milk, and once more, I will try and replicate the taste of that sweet milk I had as a child on some Pan Am 747 flight across the Atlantic. They used to give the children little captain’s wings. I had some of those. I used to have a lot of material things.
Things. It’s been interesting to see how this country lives. And it’s been interesting to see how, all across the land, it doesn’t live.
I saw a home today. It was in the middle of a forest, sitting on roughly ten acres. And on those ten acres, every tree that had stood there before was cut down. The land was barren except for this one house. Not a great house. A two-story, very plain (almost offensive) vinyl siding house. In gray. Only it was probably called something like Steel Gray or Gray Steel or Silver Lining Cloud Gray.
Eh. What do I care? It’s not my life they’re living. I didn’t mean that like it read. Listen, there’s no great shame in plodding through life, going through life being bland, just… existing from one day to the next. Buying things. Doing stuff. Collecting. Accomplishing. There isn’t. The world needs us. Rather, you. (Not you people, my friends; I’m talking to the ones who don’t read between the lines. Or in parentheses.) It’s just… it’s really not my bag, not living like that. And I’m not bitching about it. It’s fine. Like I said, it’s all part of some great balance. Or imbalance.
Or maybe not.
Ugh. Now Steven Segal is ruining my television viewing experience. At least there are 58 other sleepless channels to choose from, most of them in a language I can understand: the language of commerce. (And please, Tommy, should you read this, don’t think I’m just coming to some great awakening; I’m just delirious on Tylenol PM, for all your achy, stuffy night-time needs - or maybe that’s some other medicine.) Wait, what’s this? Two bikini-clad early 90s hotties in some dilapidated foreign prison?!?! Save them, Steven! Save them! Save them with your serious face(:|) and your fearless ninja skills(!) and your… an-and… are you wearing a girdle? Ugh.
Hospitals usually have a lot of channels on their televisions.
I’m sleepy now. I think I’ll go to bed.
Go ahead, ask me
The answer is yes. I’m tired of traveling. Perhaps if I wasn’t sick, then I’d feel differently. But I am, and I don’t. My plan for a while now has been to go to Charlotte, North Carolina, visit my parents, go to the beach, visit my kids. I’m in Georgia, I’m two to three days out from getting to Charlotte and I am tired.
It’s not helping my frustration level that there are four flies in this Starbucks here. Four that I can count anyway, buzzing around me as I try and figure out a new route to Charlotte. I believe I’m going to Athens, about 130 miles from here.
I’m just ready to get back to normal life. The first part of this trip, going to LA, presented new challenges constantly. There was a certain rhythm to traveling across the land, riding along the gulf coast, driving to Corpus Christi, driving through the southern part of New Mexico and eventually arriving in LA. The return trip has been the same challenges, but I am finding little of interest on the way back. I know the southeast, having lived here before and there is no magic in this land. Antebellum homes, train tracks running through towns that visibly divide the haves from have-nots, the feed and seed stores, the rollling hills… I’m done. Rome seems nice and I’m sure it is, but I just want to get the hell out of here.
The one good thing I can say right now (because I really should be positive) is that the weather is cooler and that’s a relief. After battling with the heat during the day, opting to do most of my riding at night, it’s nice to have the option of riding during the day again. Riding 30 miles per hour on rolling hills of two-lane roads through Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, and now Georgia… mildly nerve-racking.
But it’s cooler. So there’s that. And that’s good.
God, I hate flies.
Red lights
As I enter into the one-horse town of Bronco at 4pm, two pickup trucks, abandoned, rusted, and torn apart, sit on the state line. A single flower stands alone in front of the barbed wire fence. Time change from Mountain to Central in this border town between Texas and New Mexico. There is my lost hour.
In Plains, Texas, I stop to rest and put on my rain gear, the clouds darkening as they move in my direction. Across the street, behind flat-roofed buildings, a ferris wheel spins. I cannot see people. I cannot hear noise. A carnival? I saw no signs on the drive into town. Unusual.
Later in Brownfield, outside the closed public library, two kids on a bicycle ride by, one on the handlebars. They look at me strangely. Who am I?
After I finish my cigarette, I get back on the road and head south toward Lamesa. Crosswinds. Headwinds. Downwinds. Everything but tailwinds. The rain comes lightly and doesn’t stay for long. A gin mill stands in field by itself.
9pm. LaMesa. A line at the drive-in theater. Pickup trucks. Cars parked inside. On the outskirts of town, I pass by the Welcome Inn, the apparent refuge for forbidden loves. The lot is full.
The town is behind me. It is that time of the evening when the world sits between being too flat and too abundantly alive; life lies somewhere between the second and third dimension. The trees are too still. The landscape is too stretched. My eyes play tricks on me.
Darkness consumes the sky and I still have over one-hundred miles to go. I am driving well into the night.
Twenty six point nine
One hundred. Twenty-eight miles.
Lights.
Car. Is he passing? Does he see me?
Rearview mirror. He’s passing.
Everything was brown at the inn. Everything was dark.
Ten-sixths.
Three-fifths.
The hills roll. How far is that car behind me? One point two on the tachometer. How long before he passes? He’s at least a kilometer behind. No. Point seven.
Another car. Definitely farther away. Nearly two kilometers before he passes.
Point seven.
Sterling City. I’ll rest in Sterling city.
Three-fifths. Six miles. What is eight? Four. Six repeating. Add a dot.
What is that? Pinpricks of red lights, flashing in the distance. Tens. Hundreds. Is that a runway? That can’t be a runway. What are those bright white lights in the middle?
Seven point nine. What the hell am I supposed to do with seven point nine?
Blackness, except for the light from the scooter in front of me. Red light flash. Off again. There’s a tower. Red light on bottom, slow blinking light on top. How far is that? Ten more kilometers and they are no closer than before.
Can’t be a runway. What are those white lights? Is this a city? The tower is closer. Forty-eight point nine. Ten over six. Six is ten. Twelve is twenty. Three is five. What do I need to calculate the distance between bottom light and the blinking light on top. Speed. How far is it off of the road? Another eighteen wheeler.
Stop in the middle of the night. Side of the road. Nothing. The light strapped around my forehead shows bushes off of the road. An occasional car passes by, I listen to the sound of the wheels on the road. Cigarette. Water. Food. My mind returns to the lights forever away still.
Are those lights over that entire city? Flashing still in the distance. Can’t be. It doesn’t make sense. Fifty-two point three. Closer. Thirty miles to town.
A girl named Kesley
In the spring of last year, I scheduled a shoot with a girl named Kesley. Little did I know before we met, what a perfect model she would be. Such a treat. Beautiful, fun, funny, a sweet laugh, and photographed like an angel. The shoot was fantastic, producing some of my favorite photos.
I was so elated to have met Kesley and to have had the opportunity to shoot with her, we immediately scheduled a second shoot. Another great session: on the beach, indoors, at a baseball field… Perfect. And then, as it always happens with the girls I shoot, Kesley moved away. We’ve kept in touch and swore we’d shoot again if either of us were in the same town. And so on this trip, coming back through Houston, I met up with Kes for two great, great shoots. Woohoo!
The red hair is now black and Kesley is, of course, as beautiful as ever. The first shoot was done in two parts: the first sets were shot at a sort of pop-art motel (a complete stroke of good luck as it was a 
budget motel that I happened to stay in the night before en route to Houston), the second set is all outdoors in full cowgirl attire (down to the boots!!) replete with a mammoth pickup truck.
The motel shoot went really well, producing a sort of moody retro Vanity Fair look. Totally dug the way it went. The cowgirl shots could not have been any more perfect. In an abandoned field, Kes gave off just stellar poses around this gargantuan vehicle. A perfect cowgirl, even in the heat of the Texas sun.
The locale for our second shoot was a highrise in downtown Houston with spectacular views overlooking the city. (Thanks Liz!) Beautiful rooms, beautiful views, with Kesley in front. I wish we had been able to shoot into the night with the skyline behind her, but time limitations prevented kept us on a tight schedule. Actually, I wish we had been able to shoot every day I was in Houston. (You know I’m a fan, Kesley. 
)
A nice little milestone with our last shoot: Kesley is now the only model I’ve shot more than three times. 
(See moving away note above.)
Anyway, I’m still working through the photos from these last two shoots. And I STILL have photos I need to get to from the first two shoots. But all of Kesley’s photos from ALL shoots can be found here.
Birthday
This morning, I awoke in a forest in Mississippi. It was forty years ago today that I was born in Saudi Arabia. Dhahran, to be exact.
I was grateful I didn’t wake to a scorching sun as I crawled out of my one-man tent this morning. I was grateful I didn’t wake to the 600 mosquitoes and moths that had swarmed around me last night. I was grateful I didn’t wake in Louisiana. I was less grateful that I awoke in Mississippi and not anywhere remotely close to friends and family.
I grabbed my cigarettes, walked to the edge of the nearby lake, and let my brain ease into the morning as I looked at the grass, the fallen trees, the murky water with small brown beetle-like insects skimming the surface. Campers milling about in their RVs behind me.
Last night, as I drove along the dark and hilly road that is Hwy 84, I reflected briefly on my life over the past forty years. It’s been nice, I suppose. I don’t really have any regrets. I do hate that I wasted my twenties married to that woman. But apart from that, it’s been okay. A childhood in the desert, traveling around the world, private schools, college, the birth of not one but two beautiful, brilliant, well-adjusted boys, a good family, good friends. I hit a marked level of success in the corporate world, up until I lost interest in it.
I have a nice collection of memories over the years. People. Places. Things. I saw them, I knew them, I loved them. Most of them. I’ve seen a lot of beauty in this life. I’ve seen a good deal of this life. I paid attention to most of it. I thought there would be more cheese sandwiches, though. I like cheese sandwiches.
Photography has been nice. Since I left music, it’s been my creative outlet. I remember those solemn days in college, sitting on the bench in front of that perfectly-tuned grand piano in my professor’s basement office. Dead plants lining the left side of the piano, a desk in the back corner. Chopin. Holding a tennis ball, form work.
It bothers me somewhat that, in this life, I will never be a 16 year old girl wandering through the neon haze of Tokyo, my childhood home. I will never have that experience. I think about that on occasion. There are too many lives, too many possibilities, too much in this world to do and see. Too much to experience. And there is not enough time.
Some things may not be possible for me to do in this life (see 16yo girl in Tokyo reference), but I want to do more. I want more out of life. I want more experiences.
The town church bells rang a moment ago as I walked out of the county library to smoke a cigarette. Two verses of “What a Friend we Have in Jesus”, followed by “Amazing Grace.” (I know these songs from my childhood. Singing them in a Muslim land. Singing them in Baptist churches throughout the deep South. Vacation Bible Schools. Small wooden tables, smaller wooden chairs.) As if on cue, a large dog in a coat of thick white fur barks as it runs past me. It continues to bark as it runs alongside the sun-weathered black pickup truck driving up the hill to my right. Up the hill to where to the church bells ring.
It’s time to get back on the road. I need to find a good cup of coffee. Maybe I’ll buy myself a cupcake.
Happy birthday, me.
General Store, Caprock
A Short Tale
Three hundred miles. Five hundred kilometers. Thirty miles an hour, stop every fifty kilometers, rest for 15 minutes. Ten stops. Twelve, maybe thirteen hours. Drive into another time zone, add an hour.
12:20 in the afternoon, Roswell enters my rearview mirror. East on 380. A long road reaching across the yellow plains before me. Gone are the days of cool mountain air. No clouds to block the sun. Fifty miles beyond Alien Town and the scooter overheats. I get off the scooter. I think about the time.
Dry desert. Dry, faded-green plants. One smallish, green fruit like an avocado hangs close to the barbed wire fence away from the road. I walk toward the bush, pull it from the branch and cut into it with my knife. Four wedges with skin like an orange. Underneath the skin of each wedge are off-white slices having the appearance and texture of waterchestnuts. I ponder the taste of the fruit in my hand. I try to imagine the taste of it on my tongue. I cut apart each slice, separating them between my fingers, inspecting these imposter waterchestnuts, before tossing them to the ground, to the fire ants beneath me.
Cars occasionally pass. As each does, I drink the warm water from the bottle - the one that’s been sitting behind me, bearing the brunt of the weight of my backpack since leaving Arizona - to appear that I am simply resting. It would be a waste of their time to stop and a burden to me to explain why I am stopped by the side of the road.
The machine starts after several more tires. I let it sit a while longer, smoke another cigarette, and then get back on the road, the road which leads me to Caprock.
A large red sign with yellow letters (or possibly a yellow sign with red letters) tells me there are burritos ahead. I see an outcropping of trees against the plains. The town of Caprock is defined by this solitary building ahead; by this farmhouse, by this general store, by this home standing with nothing around for miles. I park next to a lone, blue pickup truck. It seems there are children’s swings in the front yard. The entrance is on the side of the house; a screen door behind which the wooden door is open. The springs creak on the outer door as I open it.
Two card tables to my right, crosses of various sizes cover the far wooden wall, a large console tv sits in the corner, a separate UHF antenna on top. Two plastic bowls of peanuts, one on each table, sit half-full. The larger table in the back is in disarray with papers scattered across.
To my left are shelves with homemade preserves, white Christmas lights strung between them. A neatly arranged row of potato chips and a small case containing single serving gourmet coffees.
The hall across the room in front of me seems to lead to a bedroom on the left, a kitchen on the right and two rooms at the far end. I step slightly forward to confirm.
No one is present in this home, this store, this restaurant.
“Hello?”
No answer. I am about to call again when an older woman, mid-sixties, walks quietly in from the kitchen. Cotton blend slacks. A comfortable blouse for around the house. Slip-on flats.
“Hello,” she says. I am another traveler stopping at her oasis in the middle of nowhere. I feel strange having entered this home. Rather than simply ordering a quick meal from some teenager standing behind a counter, I am in the position of having to engage in dialogue. I don’t mind; I welcome it, in fact. But it is unexpected and I am at a loss in this situation. I ask if she serves food, knowing she does as the sign against the wall listed suggested donations for a select menu consisting of burritos and french fries. And pie. She does serve food, she points to the menu board.
Presently, a thinly framed older gentleman walks out. Seventy-ish. Cowboy. Straw hat, a faded plaid lavender and purple shirt tucked into blue jeans with worn white edges on the back right pocket showing the outline of a small wallet. The jeans hang loosely, held up by a dark and tattered brown leather belt fastened by a large tarnished belt buckle. Cowboy boots.
The woman, for reasons I can’t discern, guides me through the home, showing me the rooms. The front bedroom is country cozy with a well worn single mattress tucked into the corner. The recently finished second bedroom in the back appears to have been remodeled for children. I never look into the other room in the back. Was the door closed? I ask if this is an inn as well. She tells me no.
I sit back down at the table in the front. The cowboy has disappeared. I look at the menu against the wall - the words ’suggested donations’ atop the whiteboard confuse me momentarily. I order the green chile burrito.
A minute later and a microwaved pre-prepared burrito is before me. As I fork and knife my way through this simple meal - the burrito would be the state food for Arizona, New Mexico and Texas if such a thing existed - the woman mills about, rearranging the knick-knackery for sale throughout the living room; the ’store’ part of this house. She is moving crosses on the wall. Prints of cowboys (or possibly Indians) sticker-priced in the lower-right corner, hang without dust and wonder if today is the day that they will be rearranged. Or maybe even bought by this new visitor.
She is trying to find a good spot for the worn, handmade leather satchel she has brought out from the front bedroom. The cowboy, who has since sat down to enjoy a slice of pecan pie with his iced tea, tells her it will work beneath the far cross. She hangs it on a nail already present. The yin and yang of an old married couple at work.
The man recommends I try the pie of which he himself has just eaten a slice. I ask her if I might have a piece. Of course, she tells me. Microwaved for a few seconds too long and I burn my tongue on the first bite.
She returns to the kitchen and the cowboy and I talk. He talks about Alaska. We talk about visitors. I finish my pie, the woman comes out. I pay for my meal, thank them for their hospitality, and leave.
I check the time; I am now running well behind schedule. I look once more at the General Store, try briefly to piece it together…
I leave.
Travel day
I intend to cover a lot of ground today. Probably not the best idea considering that it’s already after 11am and I’ll be entering Central Standard Time today, losing an hour.
Doesn’t matter. I have a mission. Get to Houston. (Not today; just very soon.)
I’ll be driving through (or around) Austin and I should probably stop. I have friends there and it would be great to see them, but I’ve got one destination on my mind and that’s it.
So I’ll be out of New Mexico today. Kind of a shame, really. This area of New Mexico, driving along Hwy 380, is gorgeous. By the way, don’t let any maps fool you: Bingham is not a town. I mean, I guess it is, but I think only four people live there. I think I saw a house, but I’m not sure. There was a store(?) advertising that they were selling Carrizozo Icy Cold drinks. Or slushies. Or something Carrizozo.
Speaking of Carrizozo… interesting place. Right outside of town is the Valley of Fires, a large region filled with lava rocks. And life sprouting up from the ground all around. Beautiful. The town of Carrizozo itself seemed cozy. I seriously debated stopping for the night and camping in the Valley of Fires, but I really wanted to get to Roswell, which I managed to do just before dark last night.
Was happy to finally reach Hondo, where the road finally turned into four lanes. Hondo, Lincoln, Capitan, Carrizozo… been there. Can cross those off of the list.
Roswell? Not so interesting. There’s definitely a slice of the economy here built around aliens and UFOs. Kind of sad. Lots of young people. Small town young people. This is not a metropolis. It reminds me of Florence, South Carolina, the major city in the Pee Dee Region of South Carolina: small town hoping to be more. But it isn’t.
Bottomless Lake Park seems interesting. But… eh. Not visiting. I’m sure I would find something fascinating in Roswell, New Mexico were I to stay, but I’m not. I’m leaving. In 3… 2… 1…
UFO Landing Site to Roswell
When pulling up directions on Google to Roswell, I entered my current location (Socorro, New Mexico) and was given three options to specify as the starting address. The first option was about five blocks from where I’m sitting now and was titled “UFO Landing Site.” Neat.
What’s NOT neat, and completely unrelated, is that International Coffees is apparently discontinuing their Swiss Mocha flavor. I found this out the other night in Springerville at the local grocery store as I was looking for dinner. I was bummed. In the history of my life, there have been three great discontinuances:
- Morton’s Honeybuns. There were (and are) no honeybuns better than these, and this is before they started packaging the four buns individually in the box; back in the day when they came stacked two on top of each other, the sugary icing gluing bottom bun to top bun, inside the cardboard box, no plastic wrapping anywhere.
- Frankenberries. My god, that was the best cereal ever. Kaboom, less so, but also discontinued.
- Swiss Mocha. RIP, 2009.
I’m glad to be out of the mountains (mostly) and out of the cold. Passed through some interesting towns over the past few days. It’s good to be actually traveling again. After a slow start leaving LA, it feels good to cover ground.
Really hoping to get to Houston by either Sunday or Monday at the latest. It’s a long way from where I’m now, but I feel pretty certain that I can cover that ground. Met a really nice fellow yesterday in the town of Quemado, New Mexico. A fellow “biker” on the road. College professor enjoying his summer break. (Really great meeting you, Mark.)
As others have done, Mark suggested I write a book about my travels as it’s so rare that people travel across the country by scooter. I really DO like the concept, even if it’s simply a book of photos. Something to think about.
I put up some photos yesterday (or maybe it was the day before) of photos from Payson, AZ to Springerville, AZ. I crossed back over the Continental Divide yesterday and entered into Mountain Time once more. I’m trying to get photos up from yesterday, but I’m having serious internet connection problems right now. But as always, photos from the trip are here.
Current conditions
64.3 degrees Farenheit. Partly Cloudy.
I’d give the five-day forecast for Heber, AZ, only I’m simply passing through. Resting at the current moment.
A point: those of you who drive on Hwy260 between Payson, AZ and Heber, AZ…. like the residents of Louisiana, I encourage all of you to retake your driving tests. I’d write your plates down as you pass, but they’re out of sight before I can see them. Losers.
Here’s a tip, though. If you can’t get over a full lane to pass me when there is NO emergency lane for me to go into, DON’T PASS!!!! Also, don’t honk your horn because you’re not getting to your destination fast enough. You want to switch places? Bitches. All of you.
Arizona, your mountains in this region are beautiful. Your towns are quaint. Your driving sucks.
I’ve been listening to my iPod this morning. Before you think it’s dangerous, it’s not. I hear everything I heard before. Which is the wind coming through the edges of my faceplate, the sound of the weedeater beneath me, and the myriad of cars as they pass me.
Today is a beautiful day. But it is cold. And the final ascent out of the mountains (which I think I’ve gone through now) went on forever. At 15mph.
