The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of

Another blogger reminded me of dreams I had vaguely formed in my twenties that I had never made real. He also reminded me that it is never too late to drag them back out from the dusty corners of wishful thinking and actually live them.

When the Navy and I parted ways, back in late 1969, my principal transportation was a 1966 BSA motorcycle. It was my third motorcycle and, I think, the finest of them. I had been a roamer since my teens. I would wander far and wide; hitchhiking, on bicycles, and later in my car. The travel by car was best. I was young and agile enough to actually get relief from fatigue by sleeping in a car. Seats are soft enough, there is protection from the weather, even a bit of privacy. They are, as many fathers of teenage girls might tell you, like motel rooms on wheels.

But there is something about the motorcycle that appeals to wanderlust like no other means of transportation. Especially when you are in the American West. Riding through the mountains or across the desert, the motorcycle lets you experience the environment; it makes you a part of it and separate at the same time. You begin to think you understand the reality of the lone cowboy or frontiersman. It is the most freedom I have ever felt. (Of course, you aren't. Free, that is. You are tethered to gas stations and diners by your need to refuel bike and body. And the bike is a bit more demanding than the body.)

As I approached the end of my tour, the dream started to grow. I would ride my motorcycle back to Florida. The dream of that trip began while I owned my second motorcycle, a `65 Triumph Bonneville. It was dashed by its theft shortly before I was discharged. Buying its replacement took all my available funds.

No matter. It was October when I got out of the Navy and it seemed to me that waiting until March to leave might be a good idea. The trip might take me a month or more as I was not planning on a direct route but more of a meander eastward, exploring interesting roads and places as I went. I would get a job, put away some cash for the Trip, and explore life in Los Angeles for a few months.

The job I found, since I was not looking for a career, did not pay well and Los Angeles is a very seductive (and a bit expensive) mistress so money accumulated very slowly and the dream was obscured. I felt I had plenty of time, 5 months, to prepare. And preparation only meant packing up and shipping off my stereo equipment and most of my clothes to my parents' home in Florida.

The Gods had other plans. The glitter of Los Angeles distracts. The drugs, booze, sex, and rock and roll dull the mind and sap the discipline (of which I had very little to begin with). And then disaster strikes. On a ride down to Laguna Beach one evening, the engine blew a bearing. More money taken away from the fund to get repairs done. The repairs were ineffective in the long term and the bike was eventually traded in for a van because transportation was badly needed. The girlfriends created another problem. Decisions had to be made. And I was never good at making those.

The Trip never happened. It morphed into a journey in a Dodge van with a pregnant wife. But the dream is still there in the deepest shadows of my mind...

It still wriggles in my brain, squirming enough now and then to remind me of things I had planned but have yet to do.