My Journey Embracing the abnormal

Come on man are you really planning on stealing a motorcycle I’ve only owned for four hours?

“My br--------ain man, it doesn’t work so good,” he said, as he looked at me through distant eyes.  In all respects, he was a normal guy except for those eyes. The eyes had their own story to tell.

He had sauntered over and was eyeing my newly acquired motorcycle like he owned it.

Here we were in the carpark of this fleapit of a hotel and here he was planning to steal my motorcycle, or so I thought. The trip was hitting a few speed bumps already.

Speed bumps, a pissed off pilot, a banking vice president and L.A traffic.

The speed bumps had started 26 hours before on a runway on Abaco Island, Bahamas. The pilot of the jet I was on had announced that the plane wouldn’t start, he didn’t know what was wrong with it, he had other places he’d rather be and he was pissed off about it.  For me and the other passengers the engine failure led to a chain reaction of closed airports and missed connections. As for the pilot, I’m not sure whether he got to whatever it was that was so important. 

I finally got to Los Angeles 18 hours late. Running on 2 hours sleep from the previous 36 hours, I did the deal on the bike in a trance like state.  The banker I’d brought the bike from said he was sorry he had to sell the bike and wished he could come on the trip.  I made sympathetic noises and managed to hit the road in Los Angeles’s famous rush, thinking everything is a mirror image of back home.  I guess that’s what happens when you come from the other side of the world.

The traffic looked like it reached all the way to my destination, Alaska. I weaved my way in and out of the long lines of cars trying not to fall asleep as I travelled out to Santa Ana. No insurance, no sleep, no protective gear other than a helmet that smelt like someone had vomited in it. Maintain your zen I told myself. Just a pity the other 10,000,000 miscreants on the roads didn’t do the same.

The mission

An hour later I arrived at that fleapit of a hotel on the side of a freeway, shaking from lack of sleep and fear.  The mission was to fit all the farkles (showy accessories) and make the bike trip ready. I had chosen that hotel as it seemed to have an assortment of stores nearby that might prove useful. 

I deploy the ‘don’t fuck with me stare’

So here we were standing in the carpark me and the sauntering up I’m going to steal your bike crazy eyes man.  I give him my best ‘don’t fuck with me stare’.  I should add the last time I deployed the stare I got a head butt for my trouble.

“No offense man,” he said, as a switch seemed to turn on behind those eyes.  His facial expressions altering from those of a motorcycle thief to those of a motorcycle enthusiast.  “I-----ve got brain damage,” he said.  There was something about the open expression on his face and the way he seemed to know exactly what I was thinking which was disarming. I pushed aside the road rage and for the moment put aside my suspicions. “None taken,” I said. 

“Some people around here don’t like you looking at their things,” he said.  “I noticed that,” I replied,” as I recalled when I’d first checked in.  The family of six with a child in a wheelchair in the room opposite mine, who when I’d glanced over, gave me their own ‘don’t fuck with us stare’. The Hispanics outside the Wendy’s with their tracking bracelets had also given me the “furry eyeball” when I walked past.

The sauntering, crazy eyes man tells his story

“I used to have a motorcycle but my family made me get rid of it. I’ve had three aneurysms so my br------ian does not work so well. Now I have a car,” he said pointing to a dilapidated 74 Porsche.  At least it’s a Porsche I thought.  Looking at the Porsche I could see that he had been living rough.  “Sometimes I live in it,” he said, in answer to the question I never asked, it was uncanny how he could do that.  “I’ve had three strokes my br-------ain does not work so good.  Sometimes I live in hotels like this one.  My family like to have me close but not too close, you know what I mean.  They like to think they are looking out for me,” he states. I hope no one starts looking out for me, I thought.

“What’s all that you are putting on your bike for?” he asked. “I’m heading up to Alaska,” I answered.  “Cool. I’ve always wanted to travel, I’ve got a passport three times but my family keep stealing it,” he said.  “What would they do that for?” I asked. “You know my b--------rain does not work so good, they think they’re looking out for me,” he slowly replied. I definitely don't want anyone looking out for me, I thought.

More to lose by staying than leaving

I never did see him again, as believing I had more to lose by staying than leaving I opted to leave that day, blowing a night’s accommodation in the process.  So, started my journey, my post mid-life crisis, my new life.

To be free

Sometimes now I think back to the sauntering, crazy eyes man at the start of my journey. In my mind's eye, he is on a shiny new V-Strom motorcycle, new passport tucked in his jacket pocket, giving his family the finger as he heads north to Alaska and beyond. 

Wait a moment, it’s me he’s giving the finger to.  Hey that’s my motorcycle he’s riding!

My Journey Embracing the abnormal

Come on man are you really planning on stealing a motorcycle I’ve only owned for four hours?

“My br--------ain man, it doesn’t work so good,” he said, as he looked at me through distant eyes.  In all respects, he was a normal guy except for those eyes. The eyes had their own story to tell.

He had sauntered over and was eyeing my newly acquired motorcycle like he owned it.

Here we were in the carpark of this fleapit of a hotel and here he was planning to steal my motorcycle, or so I thought. The trip was hitting a few speed bumps already.

Speed bumps, a pissed off pilot, a banking vice president and L.A traffic.

The speed bumps had started 26 hours before on a runway on Abaco Island, Bahamas. The pilot of the jet I was on had announced that the plane wouldn’t start, he didn’t know what was wrong with it, he had other places he’d rather be and he was pissed off about it.  For me and the other passengers the engine failure led to a chain reaction of closed airports and missed connections. As for the pilot, I’m not sure whether he got to whatever it was that was so important. 

I finally got to Los Angeles 18 hours late. Running on 2 hours sleep from the previous 36 hours, I did the deal on the bike in a trance like state.  The banker I’d brought the bike from said he was sorry he had to sell the bike and wished he could come on the trip.  I made sympathetic noises and managed to hit the road in Los Angeles’s famous rush, thinking everything is a mirror image of back home.  I guess that’s what happens when you come from the other side of the world.

The traffic looked like it reached all the way to my destination, Alaska. I weaved my way in and out of the long lines of cars trying not to fall asleep as I travelled out to Santa Ana. No insurance, no sleep, no protective gear other than a helmet that smelt like someone had vomited in it. Maintain your zen I told myself. Just a pity the other 10,000,000 miscreants on the roads didn’t do the same.

The mission

An hour later I arrived at that fleapit of a hotel on the side of a freeway, shaking from lack of sleep and fear.  The mission was to fit all the farkles (showy accessories) and make the bike trip ready. I had chosen that hotel as it seemed to have an assortment of stores nearby that might prove useful. 

I deploy the ‘don’t fuck with me stare’

So here we were standing in the carpark me and the sauntering up I’m going to steal your bike crazy eyes man.  I give him my best ‘don’t fuck with me stare’.  I should add the last time I deployed the stare I got a head butt for my trouble.

“No offense man,” he said, as a switch seemed to turn on behind those eyes.  His facial expressions altering from those of a motorcycle thief to those of a motorcycle enthusiast.  “I-----ve got brain damage,” he said.  There was something about the open expression on his face and the way he seemed to know exactly what I was thinking which was disarming. I pushed aside the road rage and for the moment put aside my suspicions. “None taken,” I said. 

“Some people around here don’t like you looking at their things,” he said.  “I noticed that,” I replied,” as I recalled when I’d first checked in.  The family of six with a child in a wheelchair in the room opposite mine, who when I’d glanced over, gave me their own ‘don’t fuck with us stare’. The Hispanics outside the Wendy’s with their tracking bracelets had also given me the “furry eyeball” when I walked past.

The sauntering, crazy eyes man tells his story

“I used to have a motorcycle but my family made me get rid of it. I’ve had three aneurysms so my br------ian does not work so well. Now I have a car,” he said pointing to a dilapidated 74 Porsche.  At least it’s a Porsche I thought.  Looking at the Porsche I could see that he had been living rough.  “Sometimes I live in it,” he said, in answer to the question I never asked, it was uncanny how he could do that.  “I’ve had three strokes my br-------ain does not work so good.  Sometimes I live in hotels like this one.  My family like to have me close but not too close, you know what I mean.  They like to think they are looking out for me,” he states. I hope no one starts looking out for me, I thought.

“What’s all that you are putting on your bike for?” he asked. “I’m heading up to Alaska,” I answered.  “Cool. I’ve always wanted to travel, I’ve got a passport three times but my family keep stealing it,” he said.  “What would they do that for?” I asked. “You know my b--------rain does not work so good, they think they’re looking out for me,” he slowly replied. I definitely don't want anyone looking out for me, I thought.

More to lose by staying than leaving

I never did see him again, as believing I had more to lose by staying than leaving I opted to leave that day, blowing a night’s accommodation in the process.  So, started my journey, my post mid-life crisis, my new life.

To be free

Sometimes now I think back to the sauntering, crazy eyes man at the start of my journey. In my mind's eye, he is on a shiny new V-Strom motorcycle, new passport tucked in his jacket pocket, giving his family the finger as he heads north to Alaska and beyond. 

Wait a moment, it’s me he’s giving the finger to.  Hey that’s my motorcycle he’s riding!