I’m riding from Minneapolis to Portland, Oregon to visit Greg, my brother.
Long travel on a motorcycle gives you time in your head. Nothing to brake your thought, to infringe on your psychic wander except the feel of the day, now cooler now warmer, the splat-crunches as bugs hit the fairing, the arthritis in my left shoulder settling in, not going away but settling in, the ache easing. I rest my elbow on my thigh to give it a break.
On the two-page spread in the Rand McNally atlas, the miles of bright blue North Dakota interstate turn grey as the road shrinks into farm country. Orange topsoil from the green Deeres tractoring the land on both sides fogs the road and the smell of the dirt fills my sinuses and I lick the grit on my teeth and feel the wind pushing it down my neck and turning my long underwear the color of the land.
Pairs of wooden power poles mark my road, sixty feet tall with a timber cross-member and X-bracing between to hold them straight and true. All very much as they should be. This is a god’s country. And once you’re on the grey two lanes, the traffic spaces out and the surface is mostly good and the speed limit is sixty-five and I push it by ten and the carpet of turned soils drops off the horizons all around.
The farm equipment in North Dakota is big and slow but on the long, straight road clear to the horizon, passing them by is easy. There are lots of mobile homes out here and rusty cars with a worn spare tire holding them off the road. A Help Wanted sign at my dinner diner, “All Positions Available.” My burger, fries and chocolate shake are delivered without incident; a tall teenager with black roots under orange big-city hair, an earring, well-built sentences and an easy laugh. He won’t be here long.
The rear suspension on the Harley spanks my butt. There are aftermarket shock absorbers; for a thousand bucks, it feels like a bargain. And the steady mumble of the engine and the constant inputs to the handlebars; everything needs an input, a dip, an oil stain, a bit of shredded tread from a recapped truck tire, a nudge to the right for a passing Kenworth, the constant armwrestling with hard-muscled winds from the south; the inputs, the inputs, I can feel them in my shoulder but it’s settling in. Gas is ninety-one octane at the Kwik Trip; we’re getting just under ten miles per quart in the heavy breeze.
The Harley’s a nanny bike, it protects and entertains. Flicking through the screens on the dash, I know how fast, how cold, how far I’ve come and how far I have to go, the time, my altitude above sea level and when to turn left. It gives me maps and pictures of my exits, brightly colored warnings when I’m low on fuel or there’s an upcoming road project. It warns me about red light cameras and when I cross a state line, a pulsing orange banner cautions me about Next State helmet laws. When the speed limit drops without warning from seventy to twenty-five for some tiny western town, it’s right there saving me a ticket in flashing yellow. It even yells at me when I miss a turn. It’s all brain sugar, something to tickle the neurons while I wait for the horizon to arrive and the dashed yellow lines flick under my left boot. And it distracts me from my shoulder. My room at the Days Inn in Minot was $67.00 plus tax. Business must be soft.
There was a construction crew staying at the Days Inn. They parked their truck next to the bike. I nodded and said “Hey” and the guy in front, a guy my age, a guy who knew his business, looked at me and nodded back, “¿Cómo estás?”; his voice was tired, a construction guys’ moment. I thought about him the next day as I passed a dozen or more cars jumble-stopped in the traffic lane of a bumfuck eastern Montana town, doors open, emergency lights flashing. Traffic was at a crawl as we eased through the congestion and I watched as men in military outfits pointing rifles and yelling forced two men — dark hair, dark skin, green polo shirts — to lie face down in the bar ditch. Most of the cars didn’t have police markings.
And as the clouds skud across the blue I think about my brother Greg, Greg and his dementia, Greg, best friend and constant companion growing up. In the last six months, he’s been kicked out of two nursing homes for violence. This is the third. I hope he recognizes me.