America is a beautiful thing…
Riding a motorcycle in 103 degree weather across Iowa and Missouri, north to south, is not a story, no matter how sweaty your t-shirt.
Chatting it up with a bearded, long-haired local in a camo-schemed 70’s Chevy 4×4 pickup idling along a gravel track in a secluded State Recreation Area is not a story, it’s a movie. And you know what happens. Except nothing happened, there were five kids in the back of the truck and they’d been swimming ‘dahn tuh crick’. They waved as they idled away.
Riding a motorcycle through St. Louis in 80 mph rush hour traffic, hot and tired, could be a story, but only if you don’t make it. Close calls don’t count.
An abandoned Red Crown gas station with Premium still priced at $0.299 is cool but without characters or narrative it’s not a story. But it was great background for the Revival.
Having breakfast for dinner at Waffle House is not a story. It’s breakfast (scrambled eggs and a waffle). The young waiter was curious and chatty and bad at his job and he wanted my story. For himself. (I love Waffle House)
The wisps of cool as I rode into the evening, the temperature on the dash gauge dropping in little fits below 100 degrees for the first time in hours and then below ninety so that the feel of the wind became cool, refreshing, ethereal. Not a story, but a damn nice way to end the day.
That’s the story.
I’m in Poplar Bluff, Missouri.