The years of my wanderlust had finally put me where I wanted to be.
On a motorbike.
On a mountain.
On my own.
A fast sprint put me down the highway about 10 clicks. I doubled back. The roads that werent straight were the other way, behind me, and so was any possible reunion. If I was going to be lost, at least the edges of my tires were going to be hot.
I made a circuit of Aosta, 3 maybe 4 times. The village roads were narrow, and thankfully twisty. They swung back and forth, as did I, around low brick houses with wonderfully thatched roofs. Olde World as only an American could probably appreciate. Some homes were so crusty and dilapidated they could scarcely be called a shack, and then only if one was rather generous.
I certainly was.
In my eyes it was nothing but glamour. And I had the throttle to scoot around the edges. Would a doublewide in Western Kentucky illicit an italian to gawk admirably as I was? I wondered. And I kept my mind occupied. Gravel in the road, swerve left. Switch back, lean hard right. The twilight faded and my speed adjusted with my eyes to accommodate the darkness. Throttle hard. Downshift. Pass the Agip Petrol Station yet again.
When you get right down to it, there is but one reason I mount these smelly obnoxious beasts. Concentration is of such import that all other matters fall away. Zen by gravity and combustion.
The glowing fuel island would snap me back to reality every time I would zip by, and I could only avoid it for so long. However, I must say, I was doing a fabulous job of self-initiated amnesia. Regardless, a quick counter lean brought the Honda vertical and I slowed to a rolling stop along the roads shoulder.
It was worth a shot. Running around in circles might have produced some happenstance that could have reunited me with my companions. Assuming, of course, they were of the same mind as I was and were making the curvy rounds of Aosta as well. So, I gave it a small effort. Not that I was looking too hard, but no luck. They were gone and it was time for me to follow suit.
The Auto Strata had started on the southwest side of town. I managed the roundabout and pushed off into a sharp chill of mountain air, fading the note of my exhaust through a tunnel, as only it can when you race through a giant hole in solid rock. Quite a lovely sound, and one of my last moments of solace. Straight lines on a motorbike allow for multiple thoughts, and my mind obliged. The time to figure out what to do... REALLY what to do was at hand. As much as I would have loved the escape of responsibility, my friends needed to know what was up. At the very least, Id like to reassure em I didnt fall off the side of the continental divide. After all, what are friends for, if not that?
With only one Auto-Strata road dropping south into Italia, a practical assumption could be made that somewhere the guys and their Fiat were on the same path as I, and I needed to find out. I looked in vain for an exit. Do the Italians even have freeway exits? As the kilometers rolled in circles on my instrument gauge, I began to doubt it.
Night descended. I did too. The mountain pass declined into a valley the seemed to have sucked the heat of the day right into it. If I couldnt find an exit and service station with a phone, I at least needed a basic stop to shed some of my excess leather. Within a half dozen kilometers a distant glow of florescence started to appear. It brightness increased and I knew that the 20th century was at least around the next hill, and with it a phone.
Plan B was now in effect as my RPMs revved down.
I couldnt even say it was plan B. More like Plan E or F. Or maybe even the farther distant letters of the alphabet that only jet fighter pilots use to talk in Greek code. Plan Upsilon? Plan Zeta? Xi? Most likely: The plan only half considered through muffled wind visors as we sped away from our first petrol stop in Germany. A yell over moving traffic in a light intersection on the streets of Kassel.
We get separated, call Gunter!
What?
Call Gunter if we get split!
Yeah?
Yeah.
Do you have anymore beef jerky?
Yeah.
Save me some for later!
I never did get that dried meat.
A Telecom Italia red phone booth was well lit under a mercury light in the far corner of the gas stations parking lot. I popped the throttle and was across the blacktop, at the glass hutch in seconds.
Two hours and 25 Euros later I had finally figured out how to use Italian public phones.
Hallo?
Gunter? Hello! Plan Z was a half success!
Matthew? You are lost.
Apparently, Gunter was already in on plan Z. I felt like the odd man out. Surely, although hes a very bright and spry gentleman, Gunter hadnt developed the ability to divine my woes from half a continent away. Thankfully, only one other option:
Chris called. You are not with him.
Yes.
Rough English from my German pal and my American mumbling would soon turn into a homecoming of sorts.
At least, thats what was going through my mind then...
On a motorbike.
On a mountain.
On my own.
A fast sprint put me down the highway about 10 clicks. I doubled back. The roads that werent straight were the other way, behind me, and so was any possible reunion. If I was going to be lost, at least the edges of my tires were going to be hot.
I made a circuit of Aosta, 3 maybe 4 times. The village roads were narrow, and thankfully twisty. They swung back and forth, as did I, around low brick houses with wonderfully thatched roofs. Olde World as only an American could probably appreciate. Some homes were so crusty and dilapidated they could scarcely be called a shack, and then only if one was rather generous.
I certainly was.
In my eyes it was nothing but glamour. And I had the throttle to scoot around the edges. Would a doublewide in Western Kentucky illicit an italian to gawk admirably as I was? I wondered. And I kept my mind occupied. Gravel in the road, swerve left. Switch back, lean hard right. The twilight faded and my speed adjusted with my eyes to accommodate the darkness. Throttle hard. Downshift. Pass the Agip Petrol Station yet again.
When you get right down to it, there is but one reason I mount these smelly obnoxious beasts. Concentration is of such import that all other matters fall away. Zen by gravity and combustion.
The glowing fuel island would snap me back to reality every time I would zip by, and I could only avoid it for so long. However, I must say, I was doing a fabulous job of self-initiated amnesia. Regardless, a quick counter lean brought the Honda vertical and I slowed to a rolling stop along the roads shoulder.
It was worth a shot. Running around in circles might have produced some happenstance that could have reunited me with my companions. Assuming, of course, they were of the same mind as I was and were making the curvy rounds of Aosta as well. So, I gave it a small effort. Not that I was looking too hard, but no luck. They were gone and it was time for me to follow suit.
The Auto Strata had started on the southwest side of town. I managed the roundabout and pushed off into a sharp chill of mountain air, fading the note of my exhaust through a tunnel, as only it can when you race through a giant hole in solid rock. Quite a lovely sound, and one of my last moments of solace. Straight lines on a motorbike allow for multiple thoughts, and my mind obliged. The time to figure out what to do... REALLY what to do was at hand. As much as I would have loved the escape of responsibility, my friends needed to know what was up. At the very least, Id like to reassure em I didnt fall off the side of the continental divide. After all, what are friends for, if not that?
With only one Auto-Strata road dropping south into Italia, a practical assumption could be made that somewhere the guys and their Fiat were on the same path as I, and I needed to find out. I looked in vain for an exit. Do the Italians even have freeway exits? As the kilometers rolled in circles on my instrument gauge, I began to doubt it.
Night descended. I did too. The mountain pass declined into a valley the seemed to have sucked the heat of the day right into it. If I couldnt find an exit and service station with a phone, I at least needed a basic stop to shed some of my excess leather. Within a half dozen kilometers a distant glow of florescence started to appear. It brightness increased and I knew that the 20th century was at least around the next hill, and with it a phone.
Plan B was now in effect as my RPMs revved down.
I couldnt even say it was plan B. More like Plan E or F. Or maybe even the farther distant letters of the alphabet that only jet fighter pilots use to talk in Greek code. Plan Upsilon? Plan Zeta? Xi? Most likely: The plan only half considered through muffled wind visors as we sped away from our first petrol stop in Germany. A yell over moving traffic in a light intersection on the streets of Kassel.
We get separated, call Gunter!
What?
Call Gunter if we get split!
Yeah?
Yeah.
Do you have anymore beef jerky?
Yeah.
Save me some for later!
I never did get that dried meat.
A Telecom Italia red phone booth was well lit under a mercury light in the far corner of the gas stations parking lot. I popped the throttle and was across the blacktop, at the glass hutch in seconds.
Two hours and 25 Euros later I had finally figured out how to use Italian public phones.
Hallo?
Gunter? Hello! Plan Z was a half success!
Matthew? You are lost.
Apparently, Gunter was already in on plan Z. I felt like the odd man out. Surely, although hes a very bright and spry gentleman, Gunter hadnt developed the ability to divine my woes from half a continent away. Thankfully, only one other option:
Chris called. You are not with him.
Yes.
Rough English from my German pal and my American mumbling would soon turn into a homecoming of sorts.
At least, thats what was going through my mind then...