

________________

1500

MILES

ON

A

SCOOTER
1500 MILES ON A SCOOTER

Tom Schimmel

Fifth Smashwords Edition, revised January 2010

Copyright 2009 by Tom Schimmel

All rights reserved.

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Cover photo and design by Tom Schimmel.

This is a true story.
ALSO BY TOM SCHIMMEL

THE BIG HUG

THE CLEAN ENERGY REVOLUTION

QUIRKS AND CHARMS

INTRODUCTION

Hope in the Time of Dinosaur Juice

Saturday, October 25, 2008

During a week in May of 2007, I rode one thousand five hundred thirty-two miles on a scooter with an eight horsepower engine. The price of petrol was a hot topic, given that prices had doubled in less than a year's time. My scooter's tiny power plant used just thirty gallons of gasoline to complete my wobbly loop around the American South. It was a stark comparison to surrounding interstate clogged with tractor trailers and gas guzzlers. As you will read, I had no intention to ride so far; and absolutely no clue where I would end up going. This may be why the larger lesson had such a profound effect on my life.

My personal experiences are shared openly. But really, they are only within these pages to explain how I ended up in places like Gulf Shores, New Orleans, and Graceland. While I am grateful to have visited these locations; what lingers prominently in my mind today is the message of this book. Much has changed since that week in May of 2007; and much of the change has been unpleasant. Yet, as always in the face of difficult times, hope is more powerful than ever. A flailing economy may - for the first time ever - be able to save itself by saving the planet.

After losing my job this past spring, I began expanding on the notes, blogs, and maps from my trip. My goal in writing this story is to provide a firsthand account of a sprawling and hazardous addiction to combustible liquids. I refer often to gasoline as "dinosaur juice" because it is a fossil fuel. About a month ago, in the wake of Hurricane Ike, there was a shortage of dinosaur juice in the state of Georgia. For the first time in my life, I saw dozens of empty fuel stations and a handful with lines of forty and fifty cars hoping for a fill up. Price – even over four dollars a gallon – became largely irrelevant. For a few weeks around Atlanta, we all were junkies searching for our next hit.

When hope is a strong force in the world, it seems to me that we can be sure of being precariously close to some grave danger. These events herein have been replayed over and over in my mind. Some of the offshoots and conclusions have been posted online as blogs. As a writer and singer on MySpace, I have found something in common with many other artists around the world. Our styles of music and words are often drastically different; yet the desire for a clean energy revolution brings us together as friends. Without a doubt, this is a very interesting time to be alive.

I admit that writing this introduction ten days before the presidential election is a difficult experience. I've thought more than a few times that I should wait and see who wins first. What leads me to sign off on my introduction today is the story itself.

When I began riding in May of 2007, I had no idea what was going to happen next and whether I was going to like it. Uncertainty was the norm, rather than the exception. That seems to be in the spirit of both the story and the times.

A very positive note for America's future is that awareness of the economic benefits of a global transition to clean power is growing every day. Many people, local governments, and corporations have already begun planning, designing, and implementing.

If you purchased this book hoping for a gonzo ride, be assured you will have your vicarious scooter journey. Traveling at forty five miles per hour, there is a lot to see. Six states in seven days riding an eight-horsepower scooter without a windshield is, even by my own admission, something better experienced through the words of another.

Travel well!

\- Tom
CHAPTER 1

Straightforward Situations

Sunday, May 13, 2007

Bad luck is like good luck, in that it often comes in streaks.

I was in the middle of a terrible streak that regularly showed promise of ending, only to breed more spiteful circumstances.

2007 wasn't even halfway over. In fifteen short months, I had experienced divorce, three relocations, collapse of my finances, unemployment, and near death. My parents had reluctantly allowed me to stay with them for awhile at their home in a small suburb of Atlanta.

This was my welcome to the South.

Hello Yankee.

My mother had taken to calling me her indigent son.

The word "indigent" suggests to me a middle-aged man who does little but lie in front of a TV and drink cheap beer. My mother has always been very concerned about what other people think. My parents belonged to a local Catholic church. People whisper a lot about each other in churches. I don't think denomination has anything to do with gossip; but obviously she was embarrassed to have her grown son living at home when there were so many successful young men in her parish.

Adding to my woes was physical injury. I had torn my Achilles tendon at a basketball game in March. The injury left me unable to bear weight for almost a month. The rupture was very serious. A fifty to sixty percent split, by my best guess. Most of the tendon had unraveled and formed a ring around my lower leg. Still it had not snapped, and that was the most important thing. I didn't have health insurance. A surgery and the related procedures would have been completely unaffordable.

I never visited a doctor. Not once. I knew enough about modern medicine that an office visit would lead to referrals, x-rays, MRI, and follow-up visits. That alone was more than my bad luck could bear. I was aware of this situation. A ten thousand dollar surgery was not an option. I was already paying off an emergency room visit from December, 2006. Stress had come very close to killing me then in the form of hypertensive headaches and stroke. I emerged alive; but deeper in debt.

Instead of the emergency room, I had chosen a sports medicine website posted by the University of Kentucky. I could see my leg matched the pictures. According to them, surgery seemed to be the only option. The operating table pictures I found on their website caused me to hop to the bathroom on my left leg and gag myself with a toothbrush.

There had been a positive note in April, when I had used five years of professional catering experience to chef the fiftieth anniversary party of my mother and father. I had cooked from scratch for over one hundred guests. The festivity, thanks to wonderful efforts by family and friends, had been memorable in all aspects, including the food.

The good feeling of that success resided after that party. The black swelling around my ankle was not as important as cooking for the celebration had been.

But then the revelry was over, and it was back to the reality that I was divorced, living with my parents, injured, and without a steady job. The work I was doing – mowing lawns and cleaning yards – was keeping me afloat; but it wasn't enough to help me rent my own place again.

The only reason it took me so long to crack is that I am an optimist.

Most of the time, I had faith that better would come and that this was one of those karmic transition periods of my life that I would someday laugh at when things had straightened themselves out.

Right now it was not funny. Not at all.

There was a distant carrot hanging from a string at the end of a very long pole.

I am an optimist; so my brain inserts hope into the future at the edge of what my anger will tolerate. I was pissed off, but I was able to contain it.

It should come as no surprise that when one of my parents suggested I was being lazy, it was enough to snap the pathetically thin shell of tolerance that contained it. On this particular day in May, my mother's words had the effect of an arc welder in a fireworks factory. This entire story was catalyzed by her untruth.

"You don't do anything around here".

Noises had come out of my mouth. An explosion of yelling that fell mostly short of forming actual words. I was too angry to actually speak. I could only yell.

Then, there was clarity.

Fuck the carrot. Fuck this place. Fuck my whole fucking life.

I had been trying so hard to make things right that a simple nasty comment was enough to pop the thin balloon of my sanctity. I was physically and mentally exhausted. The pain of injury and the need for regular stretching and strength training was a heavy burden. It's hard to cook and do yard work when it hurts to be standing at all.

I began packing that evening. Traveling in any conventional form of style was impossible; but I was focused on escape at all costs.

My only way to break out was manifested in the form of a small automatic motorcycle.

This twist-and-go scooter was Chinese built with a retro design suggestive of World War Two motorcycles. Can you imagine Adolph Hitler as a San Francisco hippie love child instead of an evil chancellor? This is what he would have ridden around Chinatown as he painted and made love with his single nut to the attractive and promiscuous local women.

I had purchased the Red Baron after my divorce because it was a method of transportation I could afford to own. The total purchase price was less than two thousand dollars including tax, title, and insurance. It also had an automatic transmission which meant both brakes could be hand-operated. This turned out to be helpful after my Achilles injury, when I rode myself home from the basketball game. The use of my feet was not required, except to maintain balance at stoplights.

My life had been in sufficient upheaval. Riding a scooter instead of a crotch rocket was probably a very good thing. I may have taken my anger and frustration out in different, more deadly ways. Sometimes bad luck is a well-hidden blessing.

I am an optimist remember. The ride that I did own and could safely operate was a small automatic motorcycle. The engine was approximately the same size as that found on push-type lawnmowers. I could afford the insurance and I could afford the gasoline.

Monday was spent saying goodbye to family, plotting routes, and arranging communication. My plan was to ride to Gulf Shores, Alabama and find a summer job.

"I just need to go" is what I told everyone. It was true. I had been so pissed off the night before that I had yelled at the top of my lungs. That was a clear sign.

Considerations of what was needed and what was not were thought out carefully. What I owned would fit into a car, but not onto a scooter.

As of Monday night in May my cargo and carrying capacity included the following:

Two pairs of jeans, a black hoodie, t-shirts, tank tops, swimsuit, towel, shaving kit, flip-flops, sunscreen, a laptop, a map of Georgia, athletic tape, topical analgesic cream, ibuprofen, pseudo ephedrine sinus tablets, elastic bandages, antibiotic cream, screwdriver, flashlight, sunglasses, cigarettes, money, a rain suit, and three CDs. To secure the load were two bungee cords and two rope tie-downs. There was also electrical tape, a spark plug/tire wrench, and a photocopied meditation on overcoming fear. I had eighty dollars in cash, four hundred dollars in the bank, and about sixty dollars in available credit on a Visa card.

Monday evening brought a friendly conversation with both my mother and father. I explained my plan and apologized for yelling in their house. My mom's voice would choke as she explained her mistake.

"I didn't mean what I said. You are definitely not lazy. I'm sorry and please know that you don't have to go."

Forgiveness is a wonderful thing. As a family, it is one of our great strengths.

"I'm glad we cleared the air, but I still have to go", and then explained.

"I have a lot of frustration. I need to take it somewhere."

Magazine psychiatry is a superb resource. Sometimes we all need a break. Their protests quieted. I had been working very hard with little forward progress.

"Besides, I can actually afford to travel there on my scooter, and meanwhile rest my leg."

They nodded in agreement. Gasoline now cost over two dollars per gallon. Everyday they watched me limp around the house. Every night I would sit outside on their porch with an ice pack and my laptop. Empathy overrode their protective instinct. They knew I was in pain.

The engine on my scooter was smaller than most lawnmowers. The owner manual rated the total horsepower (rounded-up) at eight. The single piston was the size of a chicken drumstick. Some scooters are built for touring. Not this one.

Understandably, it could seem scary. Really it should seem scary.

An important observation about long distance scooter travel: anyone who thinks it might be a good idea is at least somewhat over the edge.

I slept smiling that Monday night. I didn't give a shit anymore about the edge. I was floating, enthralled, and excited at the prospect of the open road and the sand of Gulf Shores, Alabama. I was heading into the heart of the South.

I had given up on fitting in and accepted what means I had been provided.

I was ready to travel.

* * *
Chapter 2

How to Get Away

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Liberation was instantaneous as I mounted my single-piston pony and headed south. While the expression gives off the odor of manly adventure, it remained true that a traditional style of mounting was not only impossible, but subjected any attempt to the certainty of personal injury. That is to say, you don't mount a small scooter. Mounting implies girth and roundness.

John Wayne mounted a horse by throwing his leg and body over his noble steed. The Rock raised his leg and settled into the saddle of his Fat Boy. My bright red scooter was neither kind of horse. I could walk over the back without lifting my leg. Settling into the saddle was something you could only do at cruising speed. A scooter provides none of the machismo associated with riding a motorcycle. You only really have to straddle and sit. The engine and gas tank were located under the seat. Up front you set your feet on a flat panel. Your legs are protected from the elements. If you have a ruptured Achilles tendon, you will find that it doesn't hurt to ride this way. You can't operate a full-sized motorcycle when your calf muscle becomes unattached from your foot.

I was a tall, athletically built man riding a very small machine. The styling of my scoot was decidedly European. It was sharp, but very far away from American macho. The main consolation for my lack of manly presence was at the filling station. The price of gasoline had recently jumped over two dollars. Even though my scooter's single piston required premium, I was one of the few unaffected. My life may have been a mess, but gas prices weren't messing up my life. I could fill my tank for five bucks.

Atlanta was twenty five miles away. I moved quickly through traffic and into the downtown. The buzz in this city of three million people is more powerfully felt in open air. At the middle, the opulence shimmers. Bright lights and surprising cleanliness reveal gleaming storefronts, tuxedoed doormen; and all the finest things in the world that power can amass and money can buy. The outskirts, especially the southern neighborhoods, are a different story. Remote from the central shopping and dining districts, the houses are poor and dilapidated. There is less construction in the streets, but more trash. My north to south route was a brief but poignant cross-section of income disparity in one of the most profitable cities in the United States. At some point, the street sweepers had turned around. There were lines of wealth and poverty like that everywhere. Tax revenue had been gerrymandered and then distributed without apparent regard to the edge of town, which really could have used a fresh coat of paint.

I had been living in Alpharetta. It was a northern suburb with a decidedly upscale twist. This was a new trip already, into a different part of Georgia. Navigation was handled by heading south. The road names changed over and over, and I was absorbed into the surroundings. I didn't need a specific route to make it through the city. It simply didn't matter. I came along Hartsfield International Airport and continued around an aviation facility that handles nearly one million takeoffs and landings in a single year. This suggests a level of resource consumption that creates problems for the framework of the imagination. Numbers are so vast that the mind struggles to grasp their meaning. Statistics have to be reduced by measures of time, and thereby quantity.

The Atlanta airport had recently constructed a new taxiway which was estimated to save twenty-eight thousand gallons of jet fuel each day simply by simply reducing the amount of time that airplanes spend idling on the tarmac. Passenger terminals consume two million gallons of water daily servicing the transient daily population. Human traffic is a very expensive thing. I was glad to be riding by on a scooter. I left the perimeter fence behind me and followed my nose through the hood.

My nose soon led me to a dirty gas station with the intent to consult a road atlas. Interstate signs had been everywhere, and they were like suicidal invitations to forward progress. I was committed to avoiding the national beltway at all costs.

There was a large pack of Mexican day workers waiting at the edge of the parking lot. They looked at me with strange eyes. I would guess I was the first gringo they ever saw on a bright red scooter with a backpack in their part of town. My ride seemed to demand a cautious respect from that moment throughout the next week.

Collectively there were about thirty or forty day workers waiting around at the corner when I pulled out of Atlanta proper and headed to a place I had never been before. Collectively, their eyes followed me as I bounced across the spasmodically paved parking lot and turned left. I was smiling under the glare of my face shield as I followed the road. The name of the same road would change over and over.

I didn't know it yet, but I would wear the same jeans, the same black hoodie, and the same black leather shoes for an entire week. I would change only my t-shirt, my underwear, and my socks. Besides my helmet – intelligently required by law in Georgia – my black leather shoes were my only concession to personal safety. The black hoodie would prove valuable at resisting sun, wind, bugs, gravel, dust, and any other airborne particulate matter that intersected with my path. I had packed quite a few other clothes which were intended for use during my summer along the Gulf of Mexico. I would arrive before the Memorial Day Weekend, assuring my success at finding a good job.

The route I concocted at the Clayton County Shell station was a long, rolling jaunt south that passed West Point Lake and headed further west from the town of Preston. I headed south after the town of Geneva to steer clear of Fort Benning. It was chilling to think how much fun a battalion of infantrymen would have with a guy on a little red scooter.

I was riding the back roads and ending up in places most people just don't go, especially riding on a scooter. People were very friendly and most everyone turned their eyes to watch when I rode past. Adults and children waved. It was a genuine and unattached version of Southern hospitality. If you ride a scooter through the South, take the side roads even if your ride is fast enough to keep up.

Since the inception of the Interstate System in 1956, some forty-five thousand miles of high-speed freeways have been built throughout the United States of America. The system has become without doubt, the primary circulatory system of the nation. You can take the pulse of an entire region, simply by watching the Interstate. Who and what are going where, how fast, and in what numbers?

The impact of former president Eisenhower's signature on the Federal Highway Act of 1956 is completely staggering. Private enterprise and consumer bliss were no longer dependent on public transportation. Food, building materials, and consumer goods could be distributed equally across the country. The railways were quickly forgotten as the pleasures of traveling by car created industry beyond any known scale. The entire nation was put to work with a single autograph of Ike's pen.

There will again be opportunity to diverge further into how the Interstate system created the United States as it is today. Along with expressway comes a smashingly bland concrete strip full of fuel stations, restaurants, restrooms, hotels, and fast-food eateries at regular intervals. These cookie-cutter businesses were created to nurture the arteries of America, not improve the landscape, and so their plastic aesthetics cannot be blamed on them. They are country-wide, a way to buy what you need and head back out on the highway. But if you came to see the sites, take a Sunday drive on the back roads.

That's what I was doing, and doing a great job so far. There were still a lot of independent businesses in these small towns and the people were very friendly. Some of them seemed downright tickled that I was riding through their town on a little red scooter. All of them inquired about gas mileage. Gas was a hot topic in May, 2007. Prices had increased so fast that everyone was reeling a bit.

I was reeling from my life, but I at least had no issue with the current price of gasoline. Five dollars to fill the tank with premium was something of which I could be proud. My environmental footprint was very small. I felt with this scooter in this time, it was a good thing for people to see what was possible in terms of low-impact transportation. Free from the motivations of a crusade, I didn't give any activist lectures to the SUV owner who eyeballed my pump total ($4.69) while his thirsty chunk of metal set him back fifty bucks. No pontification whatsoever. It just wasn't necessary to do anything else but be seen. When people asked questions about the bike, I gave them friendly responses in whatever detail they requested.

Usually it was "Hey how fast does that thing go?" or "Hey how much does that scooter cost?" And the inevitably oft "You must get good gas mileage on that thing." And I did. Even at a constant full throttle, I was getting sixty miles to the gallon.

My Baron 150R cost sixteen hundred dollars. It was made in China, shipped to the United States and assembled at Java Cycle in Athens, Georgia. Top speed was about forty-five miles per hour. These Georgia towns were full of people who hurt for those extra dollars they were spending at the pump. Unless you had a scooter, five bucks didn't buy much anymore.

By the first few gas stops, it was obvious that a bowling ball had begun to roll slowly down the lane of American life toward the pins of prosperity. I had been amazed for many years that gasoline had remained so inexpensive and plentiful. Given the somewhat insane costs of extracting crude, transporting it, refining it, and transporting it again; it was hard to see how the price of gasoline would be anything but astronomical. Sport Utility vehicles and large V-8 engines had made a comeback in the past decade as a symbol of prosperity. That type of symbolism was sour to me. It suggested a cycle of supply and demand which placed personal greed far above common sense.

All this had been true for years. In the time of Tuesday, May 15, 2007 where I rolled along state highways in Georgia, all I could really think about was how good it felt to feel free and alive again. I had a loose plan to ride to Gulf Shores, find a job cooking, and move into a trailer on the beach with a bunch of fun loving people who loved to spend late evenings drinking and playing music by the campfire. Specifically, I had an image of a tan girl in a blue bikini, dancing on the beach in the light of the campfire. We would swim together. She would heal me.

Now in terms of Gulf Shores knowledge, anyone worth their weight in salt, had they known what I was thinking, would have indubitably mentioned how totally impossible this scenario would be.

I had seen this scenario in a movie called Sweet Home Alabama. The white sand beaches struck me as so beautiful; the locale from that movie had become a cosmic thread in the mystical yarn ball of the subconscious. For years, I had yearned to be standing on the very beach where the characters had finally succumbed to their love. I was now following the resulting superstring in earnest. I was being led south by a cosmic thread based on a work of fiction. It was working pretty well too.

Better to have these thoughts than face three things many a responsible adult would cynically observe about my situation. First, I had a mere six hundred dollars in cash and credit. Second, I was riding a one-cylinder scooter with a total output of eight horsepower. Third, as of May, 2007, there did not exist any such scenario (ie: pretty girls living in ocean side trailers who also enjoyed dancing around the campfire on the beach at night) in either Gulf Shores or surrounding area.

A truly intuitive moviegoer might suggest I was subconsciously captivated by Reese Witherspoon's performance in Sweet Home Alabama. I was riding to a movie that had long ago been released on DVD. If there were such a place, it didn't exist anymore.

My sweet mystic thread allowed me to live in my imagination and this allowed me to forget that I had until this morning been living with my parents. I had a badly injured Achilles tendon and was without health insurance. I was looking at the brighter side of scooter travel. If I did end up in an accident, I had motorcycle insurance, which, on a vehicle weighing about two hundred pounds, is basically a big medical policy. If a truck hits me and I don't die, I thought, _the doctors will probably fix it._

It had been about two months since I hit the floor at a basketball game. Shortly afterward I concluded that my theories on self-regeneration would be put to the test. Eleven years ago, a Japanese doctor told me I had torn two shoulder ligaments and there was nothing to do but wait. And wait I did. Then I stretched and worked with light dumbbells regularly. Two years passed before I could again throw a football or baseball without pain. Still, with the correct impetus and a decent diet, my body had self-corrected from an injury. I had forgotten until the fateful basketball moment that my theory of self-regeneration had been based upon my earlier injury. The fact that I did not have health insurance coverage seemed to be a big green light from the universe to consciously test a program of extensive and painful stretching supported by rich nutrition, omni-directional strength training, and of course, beer.

Anyone who tells you beer isn't good for self-rehabilitation obviously has health insurance, and might even be a wine snob.

The odd jobs I had been doing were outdoors. I was most always on uneven ground. The theory was that the different bends, wobbles, and angles would create maximum demand on neuromuscular relations. At the end of a day, a few cold ones would provide complex carbohydrates and a light alcohol buzz to ease the pain. I would sit in a wooden rocking chair on my parent's porch and practice painful toe raises. Beer allowed me to enjoy, or at least tolerate the process somewhat. My shoulder injury in Japan had also led me to drink a lot of beer. In that case it was more severe. My shoulder was heavily swollen for over a month. There was no pharmaceutical relief to be found in Japan from either ibuprofen or steroids. No ice in the apartment either. For about a month, beer helped me enjoy some sleep. This time, the barley pop was helping me through hours and hours on a rocking chair, as I worked life back into my injured leg. I avoided wine and spirits almost completely. The tannins in wine do not promote the growth of complex connective tissue. Spirits meanwhile, suck vitality from a body that is healing. They also dehydrate and create hangovers that would be unpleasant while working or scooting outdoors. I stuck to beer, milk, water, coffee, juice, and tea

I mowed and edged, I cut and composted. My anger channeled itself into landscaping. I battled kudzu along the ground and high into treetops. Briars were cleared. Shrubs were trimmed. Weeds were sprayed. The neurons in my right leg began reproducing to cheer on the muscle and ligament re-growth. I supported them with food, vitamins, and a makeshift cast.

Each day I would rub sports cream into the skin of my lower leg, and wrap my foot and lower leg like a cast with athletic tape. Then I would add an external brace of nylon and steel over my sock, lace up my boots, and head out to mow lawns and clear brush on uneven surfaces. Evening therapy/treatment included ice, ibuprofen, an elastic bandage, and delicious libations.

I felt lucky that my Achilles tendon was only partially torn; but after two months of constant pain, ambulatory disgrace, and constant vigilance, it had also come to piss me off. It was not clear if I would ever walk normally again. Running was out of the question. I was thirty-four years old and a lifetime athlete. The odd jobs had added some ankle strength, but the constant abuse also caused a lot of swelling.

My body needed to rest. True as true can be, riding on my scooter caused me no pain.

That alone is probably why I was not worried about either money or the reliability of my untested machinery. Once I left Atlanta I felt truly relaxed. My mind was free and my leg didn't hurt.

When I arrived in Lake Eufaula, Alabama, I checked out a hotel that had no television and no internet connection. The price was under fifty dollars, but the lack of communications simply would not do. Heading back into town, I found a hotel with a pool called the Jameson Inn. Living in the world of Alpharetta, Georgia suggested that spending seventy dollars on a hotel room was no big deal. There were full amenities and a complimentary hot breakfast. I was easily sold on the prospect. I had enough money for the moment. What was really needed was a vacation.

After buying food at Super Wall-Mart and cheap beer at a Chevron, I changed into a bathing suit and went outside to enjoy the sunny afternoon. I had a courtesy copy of the USA Today, and also cold beers on complimentary ice. I read in the strong sun and swam in the pool, noting that my injured leg did not hurt in the water. Even if I could no longer walk with grace, I could still swim with her.

The afternoon slipped into the evening and as I sat in my very own room that was two hundred miles away from my parent's house, I felt peaceful and calm. I had a bag of ice on my ankle, a sun tan, a beer buzz, and an internet connection. My hotel room smelled like a swimming pool. Alternating between micro waved Hot Pockets and internet news, the evening passed into night. The bed was very comfortable.

Welcome to Alabama, the gods were saying, glad you came to visit.

* * *
CHAPTER 3

Mostly Steady at 45 Miles per Hour

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

Waking up at eight fifteen was a beautiful thing. I was not living with my parents. I was in a hotel room. The room was all mine for a few more hours. I went for a swim, packed, and ate a fantastic complimentary hot breakfast.

White country gravy was keeping warm in a crock pot. There were twin Belgian waffle irons which I filled with batter from the insulated pitcher. I poured thick sausage gravy over my Belgian waffles and slathered them with syrup. My plan was to slightly over eat. That way I could skip lunch and survive until dinner. The last few mouthfuls – while delicious - required steady breathing. Rarely do I eat that much food in a single sitting. Aftereffects of the rich gravy were counteracted by aspirin. I like to keep the blood moving well. Meanwhile, my immune system would handle the road elements better with more energy. Diagnostic data received from the robot confirmed that the food was all going to stay happy in the tummy, and would simply take longer to digest than a normal sized meal with say, a single Belgian waffle.

Really it was more about surviving until dinner. The vacation of yesterday had used ten percent of my money. It had now been twenty four hours since I departed. I was in Alabama and riding the Red Baron. I had many packs of cigarettes, a full tank of gas, and I was wearing sunglasses under my helmet visor.

The Red Baron is what I called my scooter. The model name was Baron. The color was red. It was a natural and uncreative nickname, and it had stuck like chewing gum on hot asphalt.

I was amazed that eight horsepower had carried me all the way to Alabama. I'm sure no one in my family would have been surprised to hear from me regarding a mechanical breakdown. But the Red Baron would not let me down. I could feel it.

The roads headed smoothly south in Georgia. My rationality to straightness led me to cross back over the Georgia state line one more time. When I arrived at the end of the bridge, my instinct chastised me for taking the familiar route. I turned my bike around and went back across the bridge again. This time I stayed in Alabama.

Call it an experiment of instinctual level, but my inner-voice said try something new.

Inner voice was right. I received a slight boost in my faith.

Alabama State Highway 45 is an eminently unpopulated and scootable state highway.

I was experiencing a Walt Whitman epiphany in the twenty first century. Rolling hills, catfish farms, and tiny sleepy towns put me in tune with the animation of life. There was not so much radio interference to distract the mind. Cities have a buzz which will always trace back to a humming grid of electrical supply and consumption. The root of a city is the synthetic buzz of electrons being conducted and meeting resistance. A city is a grid of positive and negative charges. Switches turn on and off. Circuits complete and interrupt. These are the shapes of zero and one. A city is a matrix.

Nature has complexity and flow. The vibrations are subtle and smooth, like music. Even in a time when much of the atmosphere is filled with radio frequencies, I could feel it. The century between my America and Whitman's was obvious, but the euphoric experience of relationships between the creatures and the elements was the same.

The words of nature are twittering songs. Today she was a bird with a million voices singing all at once. Wind to trees, trees to birds, water to air, and earth to all. The song never pauses, only varies. Nature's energy is infinitely conscious. Whitman knew. He celebrated the fact.

I don't think Walt Whitman would like modern cities. I think he, like many indigenous populations of the continents, would have cried to see what had become of their beautiful land. A perfect symphony dismantled with technology and carried away by greed. Alternately, the early nature lovers would have goggled helplessly at the technological wonders being created in 2007.

It was good to be taking the side roads. I was miles from any matrix, and grateful to be wearing a long sleeved hoodie. Logging trucks tended to create airborne articles. Without a windshield, flying wood chips became an airborne flak assault. Small chips of mulch intersecting my visor required concentration; but they lacked the inertia to cause a serious problem. As the trucks passed, I scrunched my chin to my chest so the visor of my helmet would protect my throat. Mentally I prepared to turn a shoulder and absorb a blow from a larger chunk of wood. I steered into the washes of the big trucks. Otherwise the rushing air would have sent me off the road. As it was, a passing truck could set my speedometer back five. A scooter will never win an aerodynamic jousting contest with a logging truck. However, if the truck happens to be traveling in the same direction, things change.

The tractor trailer had been loaded with pine trunks, and must have been coming up pretty fast. I had been zoning out on the road; when the semi trailer appeared alongside me, and then chugged ahead to merge. I dropped in directly behind the truck and the Red Baron's engine started whizzing. An invisible hand was pulling us along into the tachometric red zone. Drafting behind logging trucks adds five to seven miles per hour while it lasts. About fifteen seconds. The thrill beyond the norm is relative to the situation. Any increase in speed is exciting. The invisible hand lets go as the truck pulls ahead, and then it's back to forty-four miles per hour on the flat, forty-seven down the hill; and forty going up. One hundred miles was a long way to ride through these Alabama woods. I saw one motorcycle and no scooters. My butt was sore and the gas tank was getting quite empty.

This was turning out to be a good way to figure out how many miles I can ride on a full tank of gas. The Red Baron had a theoretical range of about one hundred miles. It was an accurate theory. I had ridden one hundred point-seven miles when the engine sputtered and died.

Shit.

At ninety-nine point-seven miles, I had passed a Shell station and chose not to stop. The town of Enterprise was only another mile or so up the road. I had seen the signs. I would arrive there without a problem. My choice in passing the Shell station had been to scientifically determine the precise location of the fuel gauge in the red zone which indicated total emptiness. The Red Baron would easily travel ten thousand more feet. The needle had been holding back the truth as it pointed directly on empty. There was probably enough gas left in the fuel line alone.

Sometimes when you sacrifice your best interests for science, you end up feeling kind of stupid. This was one of those cases.

It wasn't cool to have to walk a long distance at this point. Fifty feet was a painful prospect. Now I would walk five thousand feet and back again, and no one else was to blame but me. The shoulder of the road was grassy, and slick. It was almost noon. Humidity hung in the air like a wet blanket. I was limping along the roadside. There was nothing else to do but walk along this angled path to the gasoline.

This too, was Alabama. I had seen a similar scene many times in film. The slaves had sung to beat the heat and the situation. My memory banks conjured up some old Negro spiritual music to sing slowly with the heat of day. Turn off, tune in, and trudge on.

For the most part it worked. I lost myself in the music and ignored the uncomfortable physicality until a poorly muffled v-8 engine made me look up. It was an old beat up pickup. Mostly blue.

The man inside didn't have to ask me twice if I needed or wanted a lift. His name was Larry. He worked at the peanut processing plant across the street from where I had parked the scooter. He had seen me run out of gas and park near the local beauty salon. He expressed surprise that I hadn't walked across the street and asked for help. I felt kind of embarrassed that I hadn't.

What I told Mr. Larry was that I had eyeballed the plant and seen no equipment that appeared to be gasoline-powered. Everything I could see was diesel or propane.

What I did not tell Mr. Larry was that the Red Baron required premium which I doubted they kept on hand. Most gasoline engines in industrial applications will run on dirty gas without sacrificing performance. I was a heavy load for a single four-stroke cylinder. I needed the full power of all eight horses inside the engine. Maximum wattage was paramount. Questionable fuel could cause a large problem for me. However, I did not wish to appear snotty to someone so kind, and so I kept my mouth shut.

While Larry bought lunch, I filled up a new plastic gas can with a gallon of 93 octane gasoline fresh from the tap. While I was waiting for him, a woman offered me a ride. She had white skin and a newish sport utility vehicle. It was kind of her to offer, I explained; but I had a ride and thank you.

She had not seen me from a distance, gotten in her car, and ridden out to me to offer her assistance. Mr. Larry had done that. I am loyal like that. I didn't care if he drove an old truck. That old truck had just saved me and my ankle a lot of pain and suffering.

I gave Larry the gas can once I had poured the contents into my tank. He had gotten out of his truck and stood with me until the Red Baron was refueled and successfully restarted. He even thanked me for the gas can. We shook hands and I was on my way through dense multi-lane paths of concrete, feeling very hungry.

My memory banks provided an audio clip of a friend named Henry who had the following positive thing to say about McDonald's restaurants.

"McDonalds is good, cheap food."

Henry had been a freshman at the University of Georgia when I knew him. He was also an enthusiastic fan of author Hunter S. Thompson.

If you need good, cheap food, McDonald's has many, many locations to serve you.

I was stuck in thick, smoggy southern beltway traffic. Henry's voice told me exactly what I needed to hear. Good cheap food. Feed the robot. My inner scientist confirmed that elevated fat and sodium content might actually be a good idea in this heat. We agreed that some on-site data collection would be necessary. We shared a similar theory on fried chicken and vowed to verify the congruence as soon as possible.

Two double cheeseburgers and a coke cost three dollars and forty- two cents. I squeezed a lemon wedge into my coke and mowed down. Inner scientist collected nutritional data from the sandwich wrappers. I had consumed a thousand calories. My daily fat and protein requirement was completely fulfilled. And salt! The robot now had a two day supply. Coca cola with lemon juice added caffeine, sugar, and vitamin c. Ice cubes provided both water and thermal reduction. We concurred that on-site data collection was indeed very successful. Also, we should stop soon for a large Gatorade. The Red Baron's single cylinder took us onward.

Except for the immediate hour of extraordinary thirst, I would recommend McDonalds to all long-distance scooter enthusiasts on a budget and with enough physical health to withstand elevated blood pressure and cholesterol levels. This is not a large demographic by any means, but I hope that some of you, somewhere, will try it.

When I arrived in Florala, Alabama; my robot required blood thinner, fluids, and nicotine. I swallowed aspirin, chugged forty-six ounces of Gatorade, and smoked a cigarette. Robot could ride until sunset if it had too.

What was I doing out here in this strange place on a scooter?

I was following my instincts. I had ridden from Georgia to Alabama and now Florida by aiming south. Using highway numbers pilfered from convenience store map displays, I listened to my inner voice while I scribbled a course on a hotel envelope.

This road looks interesting.

And so on.

Somewhere across the Florida border, thunderheads began to dominate the sky. .

Precipitous afternoons in Florida are by no means, an irregular occurrence.

A family member had lent me his rain suit for the summer. It was his idea, not mine. Rain had not been considered in my hasty departure. His Frog Togs were about to save the day. Weather reports had been available on television. I had not been interested. Now I was on the outskirts of a very nasty storm in Freeport. It was time to care. A nearby Chevron had a roof over the refilling area. The rain began, along with scintillating static expressions from the clouds.

I headed inside to locate a plastic garbage bag. My laptop was inside a water-resistant backpack, but the sky was dumping water in buckets. Resistant would have turned to wet in seconds. And wet indeed was the scene I found myself standing over.

The commercial coffee maker at the snack bar had spewed hot water over the warming plates. A worker was mopping at the floor. Another was sopping at the deluge with paper towels. I suggested to her that she turn off the juice to the machine. The warming plates were flooded, and fully warmed, and none of the employees knew how to turn it off. I could see the switch, and was not at all happy about having to stand in a puddle of water to break the circuit. My shoes had thick rubber soles, but fortunately there was no current running through the water. I felt a flash of pride worthy of a bomb-squad detective. Then I remembered that I was just a guy with a bum leg who was about to ride his scooter in the rain. I needed a garbage bag. Fortunately, the employees were happy to oblige.

Freeport had no hotels, they told me. But there were places to stay in Crestview and Niceville.

My plan developed while I put on my rain suit and smoked a cigarette under the awning. Crestview was twenty-two scenic miles away. A comfortable bed was waiting. The rain had eased a bit. I had a rain suit. It was Florida. The rain was warm. What was I going to do, melt? My enthusiasm was amphibious. The ride to Crestview would be like playing in the bathtub. I knew what a bad storm was like. I had experience to draw upon. The difference was that now I had wet weather gear. I was prepared.

July 4, 2006 Tom Schimmel leaves his apartment on Oglethorpe Avenue. He starts the Red Baron and proceeds down the delightfully empty streets of Athens, Georgia. He is heading to the grocery store to buy dinner. Tom takes a scenic route in the sunshine with no heed to the clock. He has the day off and he is alone. Because it is a holiday, Tom rides the extra miles to Whole Foods. It is a slight concession to loneliness that he treats himself to fresh mozzarella cheese and vine-ripened tomatoes. He purchases olive oil and fresh bread to go along. A salty snare of appeal from the olive bar adds a handful of Spanish olives. He then concludes that the oil from the olives will be more than sufficient to butter his bread. Tom puts back the small bottle of olive oil. He has no idea that while he takes his sweet damn time through the aisles of Whole Foods, a storm is brewing above Pulaski Street and beyond.

Finally, Tom has paid for his groceries and left the building. There is a cliché moment where the first raindrop hits the seat of the Red Baron as he approaches it. More drops follow. A female customer looks up at the sky and then at Tom.

She smiles and says,

"Better hurry."

Tom smiles inside his helmet, and nods back to acknowledge. He starts his scooter and heads off into the patter of raindrops. His backpack is full of groceries. He is not wearing sunglasses. This will not be a problem as a warm steady shower refreshes his skin. However the sun is not done yet. It breaks through a thunderhead and creates a prism in every drop of water within its range. Some of that water is on Tom's visor. Visibility is shattered into a kaleidoscopic quasar. Not useful for navigation on a scooter, but beautiful many times over. Fortunately the sunbeam is short-lived and the roads are not crowded. The rain continues and the wind begins. He still has a ways to go, but the rain is warm. What was he going to do, melt?

In fact Tom does not melt. The rain responds to his sarcastic question by falling harder. Almost immediately it hurts. Tom no longer grins. The winds are swirling now, and a thunderclap rips open the sky above his head. Tom is wearing shorts and flip flops. He has been divorced for three months and lives alone. He cooks at a small kitchen and plays guitar at night to himself in his apartment. Tom has been riding a scooter since March. His red Baron 150-R cost sixteen hundred dollars.

Tom recently purchased a DOT approved helmet. The first few months of scooter ownership saw Tom riding around Athens wearing a bicycle helmet. One night he read the Georgia helmet law online and came to learn that his helmet was not legal for use. A proper scooter helmet was quickly purchased. As hail begins to fall on his new helmet in loud cracks, Tom is grateful for the recent upgrade to his protective equipment. The direction of the wind keeps his body mostly safe, but he will have a few bruises tomorrow.

Tom is not thinking about tomorrow. He is thinking about getting back to his apartment. It is not far away now. There are only a few blocks of Prince Avenue to cross. However, it seems that the sky is determined to stop him. Time fades to slow motion as the downpour makes vision a watery blur. Cars are pulled over alongside the road. Water is several inches deep. Tom rides slowly as the winds howl. The forward motion of his scooter breaks the water. He cannot stop or the engine will drown. Lighting strikes an oak tree ahead. A limb falls in the roadway. Thunder and wind are deafening.

A small leafy branch falls from a tree and lands on his chest. Tom now thinks the sky is purposefully fucking with him. He is pushed beyond his capacity for fear, and into anger. He begins to yell at the storm as debris and lighting rain down during the final approach to safety.

"Bring it on you bitch" he yells. "Come on you fucker!" And the bitch responds with a lightning strike above his head. Another tree limb crashes to the ground behind him. Anger melts again into fear, but the left turn on Oglethorpe Avenue heads uphill. The Red Baron continues to push until it is safely under the roof of Tom's porch. Outside, lightning, wind, and rain continue to howl like the furies.

Tom is genuinely grateful to be alive and intact. He is shaking slightly while he wipes the water off his scooter, and solemnly vows never to ride in a thunderstorm again. Never again...

Planet Earth had not yet achieved even a single full rotation around the Sun and here I was, about to do it again. The rain eased up long enough for me to start the Red Baron and pull out of the parking spot. Then it was all cats and dogs

I had gone about a quarter mile when I realized that I was heading directly into the storm. There was already an inch of water on the road. I could only see a few feet ahead of me. This was stupid, I thought. The front tire was hydroplaning. There was a police car in the next lane. I could not read the car number or the license plate. Twenty-two miles was no longer a splash in the tub. It was ignorant suicide. I made a repentant U-turn and rode away from the storm. Heading in the opposite direction, the sun was out within 10 minutes. The Frog Togs kept everything but my shoes dry. Quite impressive

Blue Water Bay, Florida was a few miles down the road away from the storm. Located near the town of Niceville, it is much like other developed coastline. Huge swathes of concrete edged up to the water feature. The bay and the cliff side surroundings provided stunning views of large homes overlooking the water. Heading away from the lake, cement dominates over what is essentially a miles-long strip mall. I found a hotel room at the Regency in town for the only price I could find under a hundred dollars. Ouch.

I bought some dinner and beer at the Chevron which seemed like a perfect (and affordable) counter-culture solution. I spent the night typing notes by the air conditioning while listening to movies on the TV. The hotel was hosting a number of soldiers from an international exercise. Each soldier's name and country was marked on their hotel room door. Czech Republic, New Zealand, Austria, and Japan were some countries that I remember. My room was non-smoking, and I was lucky to have a corner room. Hobbling distance from the door to a fire escape was maybe ten feet.

While smoking on the landing of the metal stairs, a guy pulled into the parking lot. He drove a white Dodge pickup with double axels. He wore cowboy boots and jeans and a t-shirt. He had a handlebar moustache. I asked him how he was doing.

"Well", he replied, "I'm doing alright. But we sure could use some rain."

This was strange to me. My shoes were currently propped against the air conditioner in my room. I felt I would be lucky if they were dry by tomorrow morning.

"I saw a pretty good storm about an hour ago."

The man smiled understandingly, and explained that most of Northern Florida was experiencing a severe drought. Rainfall was five percent of where it should be in the month of May.

"I'm a firefighter working the northeast. Everything is burning. The fire keeps jumping roads, ditches, and anything else we throw at it. We need rain."

I mentioned to him that things were very dry up in Georgia too; but you could see it more clearly there. Parched red clay and burnt lawns made it obvious. Florida's sandy soil apparently allowed for a lush feel even in dry times. The land smelled moist and mossy. There were actual flowers and green plants here.

The man nodded and told me that many people were indeed suffering. Hearing from a person was different than watching news reels of smoke and flame. I hadn't seen any smoke or flames so far during my ride. I appreciated being informed. We wished one another well and the man walked around the building to the hotel lobby. Florida was lucky to have this guy. Our conversation never touched on the rising price of gasoline. Wild fires made a mockery of more trivial concerns. Even the hangover of my own problems seemed slight. My life had some difficulties, but at least it was not on fire.

A lot of homes and resorts were for sale along the panhandle. It seemed the drought was delivering a one-two punch. It was creating severe physical and financial consequences. The economy in America has been one of plenty for most everyone's life. Recent years had changed a lot of things. Now the states of Florida and Georgia were on fire.

Here, the escalating intensity of the problems made it seem that America was in fact being punished. Like many people, I wondered too. Since our great nation began occupying other countries, the shit has begun to hit the domestic fan. Hurricanes, wildfires, and drought had created a staggering economic burden. A new version of the Vietnam War was being waged at ridiculous human and financial expense. Were these events the fair and just vengeance of karma? Do not obliterate the offenders. Rather, make things very expensive.

The price of gasoline was playing a major role in America's tribulations. Dick Cheney's Halliburton and its concubine of subsidiaries was profiting handsomely in the process. The president had ignored his own father's book warning against an occupation of Iraq. He wanted to build more refineries and drill through the Alaskan wilderness.

George W. Bush had been born into a wealthy oil family. It wasn't surprising that he thought more oil was the obvious answer. Cheney had a paper trail running all over the world, and regularly scoffed at media questions concerning environmental protection and climate change.

The American military had invaded and was now occupying two countries. The general population of the United States was picking up the tab. Extra dollars spent at the pump kept the army, navy, air force, and marines at work. Oil, weapons, and defense corporations naturally made more money when the nation was at war. The whole think stunk. The powers that be were leading consumers step by step to the edge of a cliff. There was not any hope of Alaska supplying enough oil to save America. World supply of fossil fuels – by conservative estimates – will be nonexistent by 2050.

I was paying about five dollars to gas up my scooter with premium. A one and a half gallon tank needs to make a lot of stops to refill. I consequently had already seen a great many fuel stations in this being the third state. Everyone was thinking about the prices. The speculative hum of patrons collectively engaged in the refueling of their motor vehicles was amazing. A few years prior, I think people would have seen a tall man on a little scooter to be worthy of fun-making.

I was never mocked at fuel stations.

People of all sorts wondered about the Red Baron. Many jokes like "Pretty soon everyone's going to riding one of these!" and "Man I sure wish I had me one of them".

It would be true that roads would be safer with more scooters and less oversize vehicles; but in the very wealthy area that was Bluewater Bay, I could see it didn't make much difference in people's thinking. And how would it when a hundred dollar tank of gas is as much a nondescript dent in your personal wealth as it was when it only cost sixty?

I hit the pillow. It was time to sleep.

Tomorrow afternoon I would be swimming in the ocean.

Thursday, May 17, 2007 began with a complimentary breakfast at the Regency Hotel, where I had spent the night. I munched on the corn flakes, scooped yogurt, and masticated a bagel. The wall facing me held an aerial photograph of Bluewater Bay as it looked thirty years ago. Given all the things I had been thinking about wildfires and drought and the steep price of gasoline, here was an answer to "Why?"

Three decades prior, the land surrounding Bluewater Bay was nearly all trees.

I wondered at the photo. Was this the aerial survey used by those developers?

There were so many beautiful trees. The creation had been Nature's own. The innocent infinity of her design considerations were reflected plainly in this forest along Choctawhatchee Bay. I left the breakfast area feeling pissed off at developers. I tied down my suitcase and clipped in my backpack.

Except for the cliffs and bluffs along the actual water, Bluewater Bay is now full of noise, traffic, concrete, and light smog on windless days. What makes that developing anything? I had serious issues with the term development, as applied to nature.

All residential zoning is developed and traffic during peak drive hours is thick and slow. It was nine AM on a Thursday. The air smelled bad and the sunshine was turning the roads into an aggregate oven. Drivers were compensating by running their air conditioners. The heat which they produced shimmered around me. This was what conventional wisdom called development. It seemed etymologically absurd. What was possibly better about this scenario? It was a beautiful forest, and they cut it all down to make yet another strip mall. Whoever they are, they must hate mother Earth.

I was glad to leave the traffic behind and ride across the Mid Bay Bridge into Destin. It was a very pleasurable experience. There was a light and pleasurable measure of vertigo. I learned quickly to embrace it without resistance. The guardrail was low enough to stop most vehicles; but not a scooter ridden by a tallish guy.

Inner voice told me smile and relax.

If you are going to ride all this way on a scooter, at least enjoy it!

It was a beautiful bridge and a sunny morning. I was in Florida on a scooter. It was mid-May and I was riding the Red Baron. I had multiple packs of cigarettes, most of a tank of gas, and I was wearing sun glasses.

Let freedom ring!

I rode highway 98 along Santa Rosa Island in order to remain close to the water. Eventually I found myself heading into the Pensacola visitor's center. There I found a clean restroom and a cup of complimentary coffee. I headed outside to smoke. That's when I met Bubba.

He asked for a cigarette. I gave him one.

When I asked his name, he said "You can call me Bubba".

Bubba carried his own lighter.

While we smoked, he told me that the area had mostly recovered from Hurricane Ivan in 2004. I had to agree. I could see no signs of damage as a first-time visitor. That must be a good sign. Bubba had been one of those small groups of people who chose to remain in town for the cyclonic event. He was included in a demographic of people who, due to necessity, stubbornness, desperation, or even thrills; choose to hunker down and experience the event.

All Bubba had to say about Ivan was that he was very scary. And also, that he would never again stick around during a hurricane.

We looked across the bay at Destin. From a distance it looks like a giant carnival that fell out of the sky and landed on a sand bar. There literally is nothing left of nature except the beach itself. I would have preferred flora and fauna to amusement parks.

I told Bubba about the photograph at the Regency. He nodded. Parting acknowledgements (Thanks for the smoke man" and "Take Care") soon followed. I almost expected him to head over the guardrail and into the sea. His blue eyes and white beard made me think of Poseidon himself. Bubba was an interesting name to choose.

Highway 98 jogs North across Perdido Bay to conclude the coastal portion of its course. Things here were more peaceful and less developed. I appreciated that most in coastline.

Gulf Shores, Alabama is directly south of a town named Foley. Foley is where most everyone of the service industry has to live. It is the only place they can afford to live. That being said, the commute is a twenty mile drive in each direction. Service industry workers in Foley pay five dollars each day to cross the bridge into Gulf Shores.

These are things which the toll booth attendant told me. Relative to most conversations at toll booths, it was epic in length. Over the course of sixty seconds, the woman was able to communicate the pain of a minimum-wage Gulf Shores' worker, smile, and tell me to enjoy my stay and ride safe.

This was the starting line where my ride really began. I hadn't technically even been to Gulf Shores yet. This woman was a soothsayer of the material world. Like the beginning of a Shakespearian play, her words foreshadowed the events to come. I am sensitive to poetic significance in my own life. Evidence often follows to uphold or deny any thespian premise I might choose to indulge. In this case, the toll-both/soothsayer was totally correct. Rounding the crest of the toll bridge, evidence followed to uphold my hypothesis that Gulf Shores was not at all like I thought it would be and that my entire plan for the summer was kaka.

I truly had expected a somewhat run down seashore with tiny cottages. This was due, almost entirely, to not having researched anything about the area. Not even searching for images online.

It could have been three days of travel on a 150cc motor scooter that hardened me to what was suddenly a whole new set of facts. Inner voice told me to be unconcerned.

You're here. Look around. Take it all in.

Help wanted signs dotted the concrete landscape. Most were advertising for retail stores and fried seafood restaurants. The tollbooth operator had been correct about minimum wage. The road ended at the water. Orange Beach was a left turn. Gulf Shores was to the right. I turned right.

A real estate agency along the road was advertising beach rentals. I chose to stop. My query was innocent. I wanted to see if a cottage was affordable with the money I had. When I walked in the door of the office, the agent at the front desk gasped and immediately told me that I reminded her of an ex-boyfriend.

It is a very strange thing to ride in the heat of day in a strange place and then be told by a woman that you look like her ex-boyfriend. Fortunately, her warmth and enthusiasm to me indicated that she must have liked him a lot. That was a relief. She was very helpful in showing me the files of properties for rent. Indeed, a number of beautiful rentals were available; and they were hundreds of dollars per week. The prices of course, did not include food or beverage.

I was asking in earnest. Nothing at that point would have been sweeter than to rent a house on the water and spend my time writing a book. When I needed a break, I could swim to heal my aching ankle, and also my aching soul.

My personal net worth on that day was about four hundred and fifty dollars. Material assets included a laptop and a Chinese scooter. Barter was an unlikely possibility. I wore a pair of jeans and walked with both an ankle brace and a limp. I could not afford to rent any of their properties. This meeting was no longer an innocent query. It was research. Factual information was paramount. I could learn about the area. I thanked the kind lady and headed on my way.

First stop was premium gas for the Red Baron. There was a lunch kitchen behind the lotto tickets and the cash registers. I ate fried catfish, hushpuppies and coleslaw. I drank sweet tea with lemon. When I was finished, I headed out to explore the area. There was a lingering hope that I would find a shack on the beach somewhere. It was enough to keep me cheerful and without worry. I rode through the concrete towards the seashore and realized that I wouldn't turn around and head back to Georgia. I would see what was available and choose when the time was right.

Meanwhile, there was ocean to be seen.

* * *
CHAPTER 4

Made of Mostly Ocean

Thursday, May 17, 2007 (continued)

It turns out that you can't see much of the water at all along Gulf Shores Drive. Between the houses, a slivery glimpse is often the only one. Built uniformly on stilts in case of a tidal surge, homes are on both sides of the road and packed in four-deep in a few places.

Every once in awhile along the water there is a bare patch of sand with a six-figure price tag. Then the skyline faded around a tiny beachside restaurant named Bahama Bob's Beachside Café. Because of the small profile of this establishment, I could see the ocean and know that I wanted to be in the water soon. The Gulf of Mexico was very beautiful.

There was a hotel across the street from Bahama Bob's. Inner-voice said GO.

Stupidly, I ignored inner-voice for awhile so as to research the area. I could have already been swimming; but I had instead continued riding a loop along Gulf Shore Drive. A second chance to heed inner voice came when I passed the hotel again. This time it was on the left. I thought about my money situation, concluding instead that it would best to know right away if I could find a job.

The Chamber of Commerce was the recommendation of the rental agent who thought I looked like her ex-boyfriend. I was quickly introduced to a woman named Rikki who was very helpful in suggestions for employment and accommodations. She interviewed me with experienced charm. I told her that I had cooked professionally for a number of years. I was looking to find suitable employment and spend the summer near the ocean.

Rikki told me that living situations were not exactly opportune for someone like me. She explained that there were a lot of Eastern Europeans who worked in the restaurants. Someone would rent a large house or property and rent it to them.

In other words, there was an established farm of cheap labor from overseas.

Not really a surprise in 2007. This importation has been standard practice in agriculture, landscaping, and professional cooking. Workers come from Mexico, South America, and the less affluent European countries. They make more money, and send a lot of it back home. I had worked with many of these men, and even shared in the expatriate experience. My first job after college had been in a different country. Teaching English in Japan had paid well. It had been a very interesting place to live. I sent a lot of money home. With the situation reversed though, how could I compete with the bottom line?

However, I was a very good cook. Less than a month before had been my mother and father's fiftieth anniversary party. I explained that I had cooked for over one hundred party guests by myself and from scratch. The menu had been a buffet of grilled vegetables, teriyaki chicken wings, roast beef crusted with herbes du Provence, chili rubbed pork tenderloin with cilantro cream, tiger shrimp and king crab bites on ice, Japanese _oshitashi_ , fried tofu with sweet soy sauce, Tuscan bread salad with Romano cheese, garlic olive oil croutons, and Balsamic vinaigrette. I had tossed penne pasta salad with pistachio and basil pesto, grilled an appetizer of ginger-glazed short ribs, and topped endive leaves with balsamic-glazed _proscuitto_ , blue cheese, and muskmelon.

By the time I was finished, Rikki seemed to be getting hungry.

"Very good cooks", she told me enthusiastically, "were always in demand."

Cooking professionally could make me twelve or thirteen dollars an hour at the best restaurants. Rikki highlighted the names of the places on a local map and in the regional Yellow Pages book that was now mine to keep.

We mutually concluded that if I stayed awhile, I could accommodate myself at an extended stay hotel. The closest one was located under a highway bridge, and far enough away from the water to make for a truly awful feng-shui experience. I'm not such an idealist that I absolutely must have aesthetic beauty where I sleep; but the very same type of hotel was located all around the country in dismal places. I had stayed in them before. They were fine accommodations for ugly places which had no Gulf of Mexico nearby. I was riding a red scooter and the ocean was indeed, very close.

"What about a hotel for tonight?" I asked her.

Rikki also recommended the hotel which inner voice had suggested earlier. The Beachside Resort Hotel had recently come under new ownership and so the price was likely to be reasonable. It was located directly across the street from Bahama Bob's Beachside Café. Not on the water, but close enough. We concluded a roommate situation was most likely in Foley. Rikki spoke concisely and candidly. I trusted her words.

The woman knew. It was her job to know.

A man walked in the office. He wore khaki shorts, a floral patterned broad shirt, and beach thongs. Rikki explained that it was Bahama Bob himself. What a coincidence. She and I looked at each other, eyebrows raised and with curious smiles. Rikki introduced me right away and mentioned that I cooked. I explained my catering background. Bob was friendly enough; but made no move to bolster up his restaurant. It was burgers and fries plain and simple.

I told Bahama Bob that I could fry and grill very well. Especially seafood. I was here for the summer. Maybe longer if things worked out.

During this brief self-promotional monologue, I suddenly felt like SpongeBob Squarepants interviewing for work at the Krusty Krab. I impulsively wanted to tell him I lived in a pineapple under the sea. I told him instead, that I had ridden to Gulf Shores on a scooter with an engine displacement of one hundred fifty cubic centimeters. It was my ride. He may as well know now.

Bahama Bob reinforced that the kitchen at his beachside burger joint was very small. It's a sign of a secure business owner who will downplay the workplace during an interview.

I made a joke about cooking in submarines, even though I have never cooked in a submarine. The joke gave off pink energy. He smiled, but his eyes narrowed. He wasn't sold on me. Then he gave me his cell phone number. He told me to stop in at the restaurant and talk to a manager about working there as a cook.

"Get back to me after that", he added as he headed out the door.

I thanked him and told him I would.

Rikki made a point to note the good omen of meeting Bahama Bob. I agreed and, with a emphatic thank you for her help, headed out myself with a backpack stuffed full of phone books, local magazines, and anything else that the staff and I had talked about. Fate seemed to be arranging things.

I could work a simple job in a shack along the beach. Maybe a living arrangement would appear as magically as had Bahama Bob.

I was warm and thirsty by now. Inner-voice capitalized on the opportunity.

This trip was supposed to be a vacation. All you have wanted to do for years is swim in this water and now you are here mucking about at the Chamber of Commerce?

Let's go swimming!

Inner-voice was again briefly ignored while I rode from the Chamber of Commerce to the extended stay. Room charges were three hundred dollars for one week. In other words, it was not an option without a job. I was back on the road within minutes, apologizing to inner-voice and heading for the Beachside Resort Hotel. In the lobby, a youngish Asian American man named Arthur assisted me. During the check-in process, he told me about how he lives with his mom because he can't afford to live alone. He was decidedly not enthusiastic about Gulf Shores living.

I bargained the room down twenty dollars. Still, the price was indicative of the inn's proximity to the ocean. . During the ride to the hotel, I had worked out the math of my funds, and determined that I would be completely broke after a week at the extended stay. My ankle ached. I was hot. This type of hopeless thinking was something I had left to avoid.

If you're going to avoid it then, said inner-voice, go enjoy this place!

First, I had to limp there. I had to cross the street and then cover a hundred yards of sand. And so I did, with towel and Gatorade in hand. The sand was very soft and walking hurt my ankle a lot as it moved and shifted. This was a lot of overall effort required in order to swim in the Gulf of Mexico. I didn't wear a brace and I was trying not to limp as I walked by Bahama Bob's. I didn't want to have to explain being injured on top of the obvious question of why does a dude with almost no money ride a scooter from Atlanta? That was a difficult answer with a lot of complicated and potentially misleading tangents.

All I had cared about on Tuesday morning was swimming in the Gulf of Mexico. This must have largely the reason for my complete lack of situational planning and area research. My mother had said a few words that set me off and within forty-eight hours I was packed and on my way. I hadn't done anything wrong. It was just the right combination of words to trigger the flee-or-die mechanism that suddenly presented itself in my head. It was a method of dealing with some of the immense frustrations I had accrued.

By the time I left Alpharetta on Tuesday morning, my mother and I had made amends and expressed mutual love. It wasn't about what she said or how I took it. It was about my need for personal expression. I had been grateful to have a roof over my head; but it was so difficult to contain my energies in a small home where I was a guest. Going into more detail would undermine the truly uninformed departure that was the case. I truly only knew that I needed to leave. I had no idea what would happen and I really didn't care. Just give me some open road. My life had been challenging me recently and it was time to challenge back. I really didn't care what transpired; just that it finally did.

Today was my third day of riding the Red Baron. I had eaten breakfast in Florida.

The only accurate pre-trip assumption I made was that the Gulf of Mexico is beautiful. For all of my lamentation of property "development"; it is here at least obvious why everyone in the world might like to also enjoy this same strip of brilliant blue saline-soft water and this beach of fine white sand.

The water, as it turned out, was wonderful. It was warm, salty, and brilliant blue. Memorial Day was still a few weeks off. The beach was not crowded. The water allowed me to become graceful again for awhile. I swam about fifty yards out, and then fast along the shoreline, kicking and pulling hard. My physical and mental frustration passed back into the ocean to settle into the depths. This osmotic passage of pent-up anger then gave way to a peaceful harmony. I felt the excitement and sheer conscious pleasure of the Earth's own swimming pool. I concentrated on steady rhythmic breathing and on feeling the joy of swimming, easing myself into the dolphin mind for a spot of time. Let thoughts push deep

Ancient memory lies deep in brain. When we return to the sea, the ocean remembers us.

Pull and kick. Breathe.

Finally a good workout that doesn't hurt!

Pull and kick. Breathe.

Think about a dolphin working out on a treadmill and watching CNN. Then think about the same dolphin swimming five hundred yards along the Gulf of Mexico. And back again.

Pull. Kick. Breathe.

Feel the consciousness of the water.

Feel the neurons in my leg sparking. Feel the muscle discover new power.

Swim underwater. Close your eyes.

Pull. Kick. Don't Breathe.

And up again into the sunshine of the afternoon.

CNN to me is a fear projector. I jokingly refer to it as the Central Neural Network. Meanwhile the airport terminals around the country are now full of screens that project the Central Neural Network's programming. I don't recall people asking those screens to be installed, but there they are. You can turn away from the screen, but you need headphones if you want the sound to go away. Most people, for this reason or that reason, do not wear headphones.

Swimming in the Gulf of Mexico with a head full of spontaneous poetry does something CNN could never do. It heals the body and the soul.

I was in the ocean nearly an hour when the Sun's reflection on the water changed. It was late in the afternoon, a time when the sharks like to feed. Like you, I am scared of sharks trying to eat me. I have never seen a shark in person either while swimming or scuba diving. I hope I never do. Meanwhile it would help a lot if people merely abided by not swimming in their territory when they are on food patrol.

I was hungry too. It hurt to limp back to my room; but I had another good look at Bahama Bob's Beachside Café as I hobbled past. The kitchen profile was indeed tiny. I could see the exhaust fan from the range hood in the back and concluded that my joke about cooking in a submarine may have been very accurate. The wait staff had to squeeze everywhere just to fit between the deck tables. Maybe it would just be better to eat there and check it out as a customer.

I took a shower in the room and decided not to dine along the water. Being alone can lessen the enjoyment of al fresco dining. I took the Red Baron up Beach Drive to Bruno's Supermarket. My plan was to allocate the same money that would be spent eating and drinking beer at a restaurant. Instead of an oyster Po'boy sandwich and overpriced Budweiser longnecks; I bought steamed shrimp, guacamole, tortilla chips, and a six pack of Blue Moon Ale. It wasn't spend-thrifty exactly like a bag of Taco Bell is; but I had listened to inner-voice telling me to hang up my socks and enjoy where I was now.

You are here. It is now. This is why you came. Enjoy this day.

And also...

This food is much better than Taco Bell.

Meanwhile, the laptop I had carried to Gulf Shores, Alabama was beginning to identify itself as a sort of data bodyguard for a story that began to unfold itself today. The original plan as of Tuesday morning had been to ride to Gulf Shores on the Red Baron. There I would find a job, find a shack on the beach, and swim to heal my torn Achilles tendon. There had been promise of playing guitar by a beachside campfire to a pretty girl in a blue bikini. I carried enough money to begin this new chapter of life. Family agreed to send my guitar once I was settled. It had all been smoothly worked out in my head. The water would heal my wounded leg. The atmosphere of the place would heal my soul.

Two months had passed since my tendon had unraveled. There was still a telltale ring below my calf muscle, which didn't work. I couldn't flex it at all. I flexed the other one. It moved very well. Hobbling to and from the ice machine, I used the plastic bags from Bruno's Supermarket to pack my ankle in ice. I turned on the monospeaker clock radio to classic rock and propped up on the sofa with my laptop. I had beers nearby. It was a smoking room. Life was about as good as it could be.

Every evening since I hit the floor at that basketball game, I would ice my lower right leg. I kept an elastic bandage on at all times. When it was required of me to do much of anything besides swim or ride an automatic scooter, I would tape my ankle. I shaved the hair on my leg so I could skip pre-wrap. The routine was familiar. Rub in the sports cream, apply a wet washcloth to degrease the area, and then tape it. I had learned the technique in high school from a trainer who had EMT certification. The key is to run a few strips parallel to the lower leg and over the ankle bones. Then you tear off pieces and wrap tight across. You can create an amazingly stable foot with good technique.

The ice had come to feel so good. Every evening I looked forward to the refrigeration of my swollen leg. The swelling would reduce and with it, the pain.

Writing about the day was an act of relaxation and respite from the looming future.

The Red Baron, with its single cylinder, had traveled about six hundred fifty miles by this point. It had gotten me where I wanted to go without complaint.

Before I went to sleep, I organized my thoughts; and also the massive stash of local leaflets, brochures, and telephone directories. I had no idea what to do.

* * *
CHAPTER 5

I Paid Cash for My Ride

Friday, May 18, 2007

Dreams can be powerful in a person's life. They have always been so for me. Sometimes I fly. Sometimes I can't move. Some are scary. Some are erotic.

The first dream I remember was a nightmare. Bats came out of my bedroom closet. I ran into the bathroom and screamed. I can still remember this moment of early childhood like I was three years old again. Fortunately I have many wonderful dreams as well. Flying dreams are my favorite.

Deep sleep can be very engrossing. Delta and theta waves are often separated from the possibility of conscious description. The Land of Nod is not a land but for our minds to touch. Should the waking of the robot necessitate an immediate return from the vast regions of the dream world, the robot may find itself annoyed and/or confused. Nod will wrinkle itself, if a sudden departure is necessary. During this accelerated process of mind rejoining robot, some of Nod itself travels into this world. Here it lacks equilibrium, and quickly vanishes. You can call the remnants names like superstrings, fairy dust, delta memory, theta collective, clods of Nod, and even sentinels of sleep. You can call them whatever you want to call them. Their imprint is evident. Waking up quickly from a dream can be rude.

My surroundings were pleasant enough. A bed with pillows, and air conditioning were among the best parts. Still, there is not a lot one can do about outside noise. The room was insulated to a point; but hideously clanking and rattling created sonic waves which surpassed all defenses of walls and ears alike. Sounds of chains and moving hydraulics filled the pre-dawn morning. The hydraulics were powered by a diesel engine. Nod wrinkled and the robot was awake. Dream fabric faded into machination of the body. In a flash, or rather a clank, the wormhole began to destabilize. The robot climbed out of bed. Walking to the window, it pulled back the curtain. Outside, there was Bahama Bob's Beachside Café. There were flashing memories of the day before. The mind rejoined the robot in full. Beyond the restaurant and into the shadow of early dawn was the beautiful Gulf of Mexico. The clock on the nightstand said 6:02AM.

I laid back down in bed. My brain felt soggy. I closed my eyes and listened. These sound bytes were familiar to my memory banks. These were the sounds of a vehicle being repossessed. I don't consider myself a fortunate person for knowing that sound. I had lived in some interesting Minneapolis neighborhoods for almost ten years. Watching the process a few times proved enough for the robot to recall the associated audio content. I stood up again and went to the window. Sure enough, a BMW convertible was being loaded onto a flat bed tow truck. The car's alarm was wailing like a baby.

The operating plan for the day had been to ride to Mobile, Alabama and find work cooking on a barge. Now I was watching a tow truck swoop in and reclaim a luxury sport coupe. It was six in the morning, and still dark outside. Everything I had planned or considered kind of melted away. My mind was a cold grey burbling froth of muddled annotations.

No doubt the U.S. economy was suffering. Fuel prices had shot up, home sales were slumping; and effects of Adjustable Rate Mortgages were just beginning to be felt. A lot of money had fallen into the hands of a few. More than a few had lost a lot of money. There was a new type of ARMs race, chock full of foreclosures, bad mortgage debt, sell-offs, write-offs, layoffs, and a whole lot of other unsavory financial terminology.

I remember New Year's 1984. Whatever Times Square coverage I was watching displayed the numbers in gold, three-dimensional letters. There they were on the TV. I was young then; but I already knew about Orwell's book. My parent's had sent me to a very small school with an accelerated pace on reading classic fiction of great significance. I watched Ronald Reagan on TV whenever he spoke. He was amicable in expression. Sometimes he could even make a person smile. He was, by trade, an actor.

A few years later, I would watch "Wall Street" by Oliver Stone. The ruthless arbitrage investor Gordon Gecko seduced his shareholders into believing that greed is in fact good.

Reaganomics in a movie monologue were made more popular than ever. Wall Street snorted coke, tapped the Japanese market, and financed the American facade of owning a home. Now in 2007, enough time had passed. The effects of self-interest, trickle-down, laissez-fair were now being felt even by the nouveau riche.

Gulf Shores, in what I had seen of it, was going strong in comparison to what I had heard about the surrounding areas of the coast. There was supporting literature from the Chamber of Commerce with neat pie charts and bar graphs showing a steady rise in growth and profitability. From what I had heard about the rest of the Gulf Coast, these graphs indicated above all, that the residents had successfully avoided all major hurricanes since Ivan in 2004. Orange Beach took the brunt of Ivan's fly-over; but from the literature in my room, it also seemed to be flourishing.

The flatbed pulled out of the parking lot. The BMW security system continued to flash the car's lights, but at least it had stopped crying.

Everyone in Gulf Shores seemed to be doing a fine job of not drawing attention to their good fortune. No lamentations of economic woes were to be found in the local papers. No angered op-ed columns on post-Katrina cleanup efforts.

I looked across the street at Bahama Bob's Beachside Cafe. My fantasy of working and living by the beach was over. Bahama Bob could take his time hiring me. Even if he started me working in a day or two, I would run out of money waiting. The extended stay hotel for one week would have left me completely broke and homeless. I decided not to call him. I doubted he would understand my situation. There was nowhere to camp on the beach. Where there was sand, there was property. Fifty percent or more of the American population lives on or near the coastline. The water is a big draw.

I had seen hundreds of luxury properties in the past few days of travel. Luxury homes, prime lots, and fancy boats were very expensive to own. Luxury items were creating a glut of supply as well as a barometer for economic prosperity.

Pressure was dropping fast.

2005 had been a banner year for woe in the United States. The city of New Orleans was mostly flooded for a number of weeks. Sludge and oil and chemicals and human waste floated to the top of the puddle. The best solution the Army Corps of Engineers could come up with is to pump the toxic sludge back into the lake and let the lake deal with the toxins. Unfortunately, their assessment seems to have been the only possible solution. The Army Corps of Engineers did the only thing that could have been done.

Like many people around the United States, I had watched the TV for hours in August, 2005 as two major hurricanes pummeled the Gulf Coast. Then the levee gave way and the nation was collectively jaw-agape for the next day or two. That was eighteen months ago, and there were still some big problems in New Orleans, especially for the poor. The nation's collective downturn since then was more obvious than ever. It was now the fourth day of my ride. I had thought truly that Gulf Shores was my destination. I had been ready to settle.

Now, I couldn't afford to stay. And my wakeup call had reminded me that for all the opulence in this community of matchstick houses; there were in fact a lot of people just getting by. I had seen and spoken with them in the small towns through Georgia and Alabama. Now I wondered about New Orleans and realized that this might be my only chance to see the place as it really was in May, 2007.

Inner-voice was proving very helpful. It cheerfully supported my decision to visit New Orleans. There was no mention of my scooter. There was only a poignant personal question. Inner-voice asked plainly,

Would you really be happy sweating your balls off in a tiny kitchen with the beach at your back and just close enough to torture you?

Inner-voice was correct again. I had many times before broken a full body sweat while cooking furiously in tiny kitchens. Now inner voice used a few choice words which confronted my willingness to stay. Busting hump was not the reason why I had chosen to ride the Red Baron on Tuesday. I had already been busting hump and had not found that it was making me free. I had ultimately, been looking to spend the summer in the South I had never seen. I had been looking for escape. There was none to be had.

My utopist vision of Gulf Shores had proven to be neither financially feasible, nor logistically possible. Thanks to a flatbed tow truck and a blast of conscience, the cold grey burble in my brain clarified into a single bright light of inspiration. Instead of a casual life beachside existence, I would ride further, and see a part of my country I had never seen before. Living in the comfort of an Atlanta suburb had made it entirely possible to forget that there were poor people in the world. It had been easier to remember in Athens. There were parts of town which demonstrated the problem every day. The suburban isolation is simply not there. I had learned about hurricane Katrina only from media sources. I was drawn as a person to the firsthand experience.

The Red Baron's small engine would now be entering exploratory performance territory. One cylinder had handled 682 miles and was running very well. I checked the oil regularly.

Fuel would be affordable. Seeing firsthand what had transpired in New Orleans and Gulfport and Biloxi would be priceless. Eighteen months had passed since Hurricane Katrina came to town. The rich had their insurance checks quickly. The poor received a $2000 gift card from FEMA, whose administration was totally unprepared. There had been embarrassing rumors of an email from the director's desk which suggested that he had considered initial reports coming out of New Orleans to be a joke. Millions had headed to Houston, and to join family scattered around the Midwest. The United States had absorbed the exodus of a major city. What had transpired since then? I would find out myself.

It was 6:45AM and my brain was whirring. I picked up Gulf Shores Magazine. Not a mention of poor people. This magazine lifestyle was purely for those who could afford it. Or pretend they could. The repossessed BMW convertible suggested that the appearance of opulence could also be created on credit. I had splurged eighty dollars on this hotel room to be near the water for one night. From here on it would be food from gas stations and Wall Mart only. I set a food budget for ten dollars per day. Inventory of gear included half a bottle of ibuprofen tablets, a working ankle brace, and about three hundred dollars.

A detailed analysis of accrued stuff followed. I left most everything I had collected the day before. It was heavy and bulky and there was no point in busting the zippers on my baggage and reducing my top speed to haul around things like a Gulf Shores phone book. Literature about the area that seemed so essential yesterday would now be left to the disposition of housekeeping. Space was an important consideration. I rode with a tiny suitcase on the rack and a backpack on my pack. Non-essentials (what could be stolen without a crippling effect to my situation) were placed in the suitcase. My laptop, wallet, phone, shaving bag, cigarettes, and all the rest rode on my shoulders. The Red Baron had a small luggage rack. I used two bungee cords and two tie-downs every morning to secure the tiny suitcase. Tie-down ropes were then secured using electrical tape so they would not wander into the wheels or the engine. This was the fourth morning of my journey. I had the routine down.

It was seven-thirty in the morning. A continental breakfast was served in the hotel lobby for two more hours. The beach however, was too far to hobble this morning. Also I feared that if I did swim again, I would want to stay another night. An afternoon in the sun would grow lazy and I would book another night. Then I would wake up and be in money trouble. The better option was an outdoor pool on the third floor. It comes highly recommended. It was a good way of enjoying the remaining hours of my stay at the Beachside Resort Hotel. The morning wind was chilly. The water was cool. I swam and kicked and kicked and kicked. I sent mental messages to my calf area to repair and reconstruct. This was something I began to do since the injury occurred. Many terminally ill patients in the world have used focused positive thinking to win the war against their affliction. I saw no reason not to utilize the technique. I had nothing to lose, and everything to gain.

My goal of healing did not shun modern medicine. I could not afford modern medicine. The point was to heal myself without surgery. I wanted to be able to walk normally again. Kicking in the pool made me feel like running again someday could even be possible. I dried off and hobbled to the elevator. Morning swims are to me one of the most perfect ways to enjoy the experience of life. They are healing to the soul and body.

Back in the hotel room, a large bathroom mirror confirmed that my Achilles tendon was healing; but it had been a very nasty tear. My gastrocnemius and flexor hallucis longus muscles still would not move. The connections had torn. Muscle atrophy was brought to light in that mirror. I could see the comparison between my healthy leg and the injured one. One had a robust muscle. The other was a skinny twig. My positive thoughts deflated into an acceptance that I might never walk normally again. I finished packing. The fact that I could at least limp was good.

That acceptance fueled my urge to ride. False hope was stifling; but anger was at least energy. Inner voice had taught me a lot yesterday. Today it was giving me encouragement to move beyond my plans.

The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off.

I was an outcast with purpose.

Continental breakfast in the lobby was accompanied by the sounds of the hotel owner talking information technology with a traveling sales representative. Then I simply started the Red Baron and was riding again. Leaving the parking lot, I was at peace. The struggles of the day before were over. I had finally swum in the Gulf of Mexico. My "vacation" had been very short, but I did in fact, enjoy an entire afternoon – something that hadn't happened in a long time. The struggles of yesterday had given me the resolve and emotional fuel to head again, into the unknown.

I rode my scooter north through Fairhope and the coastal town of Mary Esther. The latter has narrow roads and steep, curving hills. Mary Esther somewhat resembles the streets of Carmel, California with its intimate hillsides and tasteful vegetation. Like Cape Cod had taken a California vacation and then decided to change its image and move to Alabama. Highway 90 changes to 98 at the westerly side of Meather State park. The road is the same, yet the name changes to honor naval victories and losses.

Properly named and in order from East to West they are:

Spanish Fort Boulevard

Cochrane Bridge

Battleship Parkway

Battleship Parkway leads those so inclined to the USS Alabama Memorial park.

Had I been so inclined, I might have learned that throughout history, there have been six different watercraft operated as the USS Alabama. The first few were paddleboats. A battleship under the same name has been a museum in Mobile for almost half a century. The active member of the USS Alabama club is a ballistic missile submarine.

A ballistic missile submarine is, in the most literal sense, a serious can of whupass.

The scenery changed to big industry. Landmarks were now made of steel and concrete. Road signs indicated the truck entrance to the Port of Mobile. Very gothic, even at eleven AM. The roads became hispidious and bumpy like a toad's back. Boorish gaps in the concrete bridges made comfortable cruising impossible. On the other hand, I was seeing Mobile, Alabama from the vantage point of a scooter with one cylinder. Paying attention to mind the many gaps along the bridges, I scooted along.

The outskirts of the city were poor and urban and mostly black. I have seen it before in other American cities; but Mobile had a deeper bass thump. Subwoofers in automobiles were common in every city. This had nothing to do with car stereos. This brazen energy was the silent pulse of a culture. It was a deep, steady throb. It carried in it a history of slow, steady existence in brutal heat and humidity. Much had changed since the people of Africa were sold to the free world. Much had changed for them in Alabama. And they survived now, as they always had. Slow and steady. Hear the music in your soul.

I was headed for the Chamber of Commerce. I wanted to see if it were possible to find employment on a barge as a cook. I could make money, have food and sleep, and maybe even have time to write.

The center of town lacked pulse of its extremities. The wind whispered through ancient oak trees. What had they seen in their lives? What did they know? Southern grandeur was captured in an instant. The air in the parking lot was fresh with flowers. The building however, looked more intimidating than what I had seen at Gulf Shores. I walked in through a side door and found a restroom. I refilled my water bottle and rinsed my face. The usual things to do at a rest stop.

The surroundings were not tourist friendly. This building was filled with meeting rooms for heavy hitters. This would make sense. The Port of Mobile is likely to be a place where big money deals go down. I had seen the heavy industry around the port. This structure was a place where the money was made and lost.

The receptionist at the desk told me that she had never heard of anyone working on a barge as a cook. She was extraordinarily talented at not answering my questions in a way that almost made me appreciate her for not doing so. I asked some other questions and requested any available literature. No I had not considered how slow a barge travels. She laughed and waited for me to futilely ask another question.

In the end I had no literature or actual information, but I felt great. Here were business people requiring deep water port access, large freighters, and serious amounts of expensive transport equipment to conduct their business. People like that did not hire people they did not trust. Closed doors were closed doors. Outsiders were clearly to be kept outside. The woman was making me believe she did not know any answers. She had skill of evasion beyond the scope of my questions. I thanked her and exited the lobby. Her act was good enough for me. Beyond me really.

Just a few blocks away from the leather and mahogany concubines of fortune, was a neighborhood that ran on something decidedly more human. A few blocks away from the boys club was an electric energy of soul. My 150cc single cylinder scooter remained parked at the Mobile Chamber of Commerce for a few more minutes while I smoked a cigarette. Looking again into the branches of the ancestral oak tree, I thought about how the rich white man was the one who brought that soul energy to North America. The pulse of Africa had been captured and brought across the oceans. Ideologies were reformed to support the greedy habit of cheap labor. Those who dealt with the dollars would never feel it; but the culture of the continents would transform forever.

I started the Red Baron with a click of my thumb and was on my way to Mississippi.

Eventually I reached the Mississippi border.

Travel can be strange. I found myself physically present in a place where I had imagined being for a long time. I was riding the Red Baron into the state of Mississippi. It was, almost immediately, a more hostile environment. The highway was wide, divided and free of vegetation. No trees, shrubs, or grass to clean the air. Just a fat strip of concrete that was hot, windy, and seemingly dangerous on a scooter. People drove differently. I wondered if I was the first scooter rider on highway 90. Were there any scooters in the Deep South? I had seen none.

The border of Mississippi brought with its bland roads, an almost immediate assault of large black insects. The locals call them mosquitoes. They look nothing like skeeters up North. I had my doubts, and also my encounters. When your helmet and torso is your windshield, you learn quickly to keep your head down and mouth closed. A barrage of black winged creatures command some respect at fifty miles per hour. I wonder if the motorists around me noticed that my head would weave and bob as I dodged incoming aircraft and occasionally took a direct hit on the visor. Mississippi was different. My scooter was riding in an untamed environment.

A gas station restroom in Grand Bay found me picking the indigenous mosquitoes off my body. Some were still alive and squirming. Their crushed legs were entangled in the cotton fibers of my hoodie. My helmet looked like it had been cluster-bombed with medical waste. Some scrubbing was required, and it was notably difficult to scrub helmet visor than it is to scrub an automobile windshield. One wrong squeeze of the squeegee sponge and my helmet would have quickly been full of dirty window solution. I was very careful, and when my visor was again clear, the robot announced with an abdominal growl, that it was hungry. I needed lunch. Good, cheap food.

The pit stop to refuel the robot totaled four dollars and thirty-two cents including tax. Robot consumed a double cheeseburger, a spicy chicken sandwich, a small order of fries, and a medium coke. While the robot chewed and swallowed, inner scientist again capitalized on the opportunity to collect supporting data. I was consuming one thousand two hundred fifty calories. These calories were attached to three thousand milligrams of sodium. Delicious Coca-Cola soft drink provided fructose and caffeine. Inner scientist again affirmed that McDonalds is a perfect food for low budget long-distance scooter travel. It is an affordable meal that tastes better than a foot long microwave burrito.

But you will be thirsty for about an hour. Oh yes. Very, very thirsty. I popped a few aspirin in the parking lot to cool the body and counteract the saturated fats which were entering my bloodstream. The sun-baked asphalt smelt of bubble gum and fryer oil. I smoked an unpleasant cigarette and headed back out into the very warm mid-day sun. My black hoodie was my friend from this moment forward. It had kept the sun, wind, sand, gravel, road dust, and now mosquitoes off of my skin. While black was warm in the sun, it also concealed smudges, stains, and of course, insect parts.

Ocean Springs, Mississippi is where the eastern side of Katrina struck. I didn't know that, and so I certainly did not expect the road to simply end. Highway 90 came to an abrupt point of non-existence. No detour signs had been present. There was simply a "road closed ahead" sign, posted a thousand feet of where the bridge was undergoing a massive structural repair. Large parts were missing. I rode towards the project and was met by a construction worker. He was friendly to a tallish guy on a red scooter. He explained that this repair was to correct hurricane damage. This was May, 2007. Eighteen months had passed.

I looked across the water at the giant structure and whistled. The bridge looked too big and heavy to be damaged by a hurricane. But here it was in limbo. The worker nodded in agreement. I asked him where I should detour. He suggested Interstate 10, pointing at another bridge off in the distance. I explained that my scooter would be unsafe on an interstate freeway. He was extremely polite. Shrugging his shoulders and smiling, he had no other suggestions. I thanked him and turned around.

There is nothing to fear being lost and without a map when you are following your instincts. Eventually, Zen tells, you will arrive. And in the process, Zen refrains from telling you, you will spend a lot of time spent idling at stoplights. There is better living through simple chemistry. The robot can remedy the heat and boredom. Use water, Gatorade, iced tea, and ibuprofen. It will still be hot outside, but with these benefits, the robot will achieve a satisfactory level of self-management.

I was rapidly approaching the entrance ramp for within Interstate 10. To my right was a large sign for a tobacco store. It was death or cigarettes, so I turned right. A sign in the window confirmed that they carried my brand. It was a happy surprise, and a temporary stall to buy time before I rode to my death on Interstate 10. I purchased multiple packs and smoked one and then another in the parking lot. While I smoked, I thought about the last moments of my life. The prospects were strongly in favor of my death if I used this high speed roadway. If this was it, I was glad to have been able to enjoy two cigarettes. I smoked in the hot sun and watched the 18 wheelers. Chief among concerns was my top end. I would be riding at around forty miles per hour. If a semi going sixty-five took awhile in noticing my scooter, would the driver even notice the small thump that signified our vehicular commune? And if the driver saw me, would his airbrakes have any chance of dropping his rigs' speed twenty miles per hour before we tapped fenders?

I watched more tractor trailers whoosh through the overpass and determined that there was no way they would be able to slow down in time.

Interstate highways have a minimum speed of forty or forty-five miles per hour. Technically, it was not illegal for me to ride on them. It was simply suicidal.

There is no point in going into how a semi would have transformed the physicality of both the Red Baron and its rider. Suffice to say we would have been difficult to identify.

I headed out of the parking lot and into the surrounding area. Re-routing took me east then north then west then north again. My circumnavigation of Big Lake took over two hours in sun and traffic. There was a late afternoon rush hour and the kind of heat that I had always believed existed in Mississippi. I was lucky it was only spring. Pulling over for a Gatorade seemed like a good idea. I needed fluid and also a map to make sure I was in fact, heading towards Biloxi.

Inner voice had deferred to the needs of the robot, remaining silent for the afternoon. The swirl of heat and exhaust made my body prioritize. No deep thoughts for the brain. Just endure the elements.

I pulled the door of the gas station open. My bladder was uncomfortably full. I was hot, thirsty, hungry, and possibly very lost. The cool air greeted me, as did a voice from another conversation. A young woman, very pregnant was speaking to a customer while she ran the cash register and the pumps. I had intersected with the exchange as I entered the building. The voice I heard said,

"Ain't no good in complaining. It don't change nothing."

I smiled and followed the universal signs for restroom. Old restaurant equipment was strewn along the narrow hallway. I had never seen such a welcome oasis. The young woman's words to another person had instantly and completely disarmed my self-pity. After I returned to the front of the store, she also let me borrow a map. While I located my position, I listened to her talk about her baby. She was a little skittish about motherhood, but she was pleased that her man was both proud and happy.

"He's been wantin a child for so long", is how she put it.

I studied the map without success. Her love for her man was clear. She was a first-time mom and understandably nervous. She also had a loving relationship. People can endure a lot in the presence of genuine love. This was not a new theme in the world, but she was the muse of the moment. She worked the cash register and the gas pumps while talking to others and helping them smile. She didn't complain. She smiled.

Her man was a lucky one.

The map did not help me figure out where I was. Finally I handed the map back to the mother-to-be and asked her if I was near Highway 90.

She said, "Oh yeah. It's just a few blocks down the road."

There were a few more minutes of heat and traffic. Then I saw the Gulf of Mexico again.

Traffic thinned out. The road was right along the ocean. There was a breeze that finally didn't smell like exhaust.

The thought in my head then was along the lines of "Thank you sweet pregnant angel!"

Inner voice was silent; but I swear I heard it smile.

I cranked the throttle on Highway 90. Riding forty-five felt like all the speed in the world after sweaty hours of gridlock. The asphalt grew treacherous, but speed and wind were leading the way. So enjoyable was the breeze that I simply stood up on the foot rails. Keeping my butt off the seat was the key. The bouncing was such that a correct combination of potholes and subsequent caroms could easily buck me off the Red Baron. The physics of the seat currently threatened to make me airborne. I didn't want to fly, but rather cruise along the ocean. Inner-voice again deferred to the robot. My thoughts were a simple loop of instructions. Keep the Red Baron on the road. Remember what you see. Keep the Red Baron on the road. Remember what you see,

I slowed down a little. To my left was the Gulf of Mexico, and to my right was the aftermath of what I had seen only through my TV in 2005. Just outside Biloxi, the coast was indeed clear. To the left and to the right was an absence of anything besides sand. Mother Nature's hand cleaned the slate along an appreciable measure of coastline in a matter of days. Eighteen months later, a stretch of the truth remained. I was looking at it.

Nothing was spared from the winds and the waves. Torn apart in kind were piers, marinas, houses, and businesses. Debris had been removed, for the great part; but I saw a garbage pile teeming with stumps of broken concrete and mangled steel. They had been a foundation for a building that once stood where this heap of industrial waste now rested. Bulldozer tracks served as evidence that most of the razing had already occurred. The present moment found the shores of Biloxi and Gulfport to be sparsely populated. A few families swam in the water. A few couples walked in the sand. Other than that, only a Waffle House on a lonely corner. It was open for business, but no where near complete. Mother Nature had redecorated, returning the beach to her original design. Buildings had previously existed. The long wooden piers had once allowed visitors to walk a hundred feet over the water. Now they had become maritime driftwood.

I had heard that Biloxi and Gulfport were pounded by Hurricane Katrina. I also knew that Hurricane Rita had done a number on Beaumont, Texas; and the surrounding oil infrastructure. Rita suggested a clear and direct karmic circle. Beaumont had been the source of the first American gusher. Texas had grown very rich in the twentieth century from the black gold. Perhaps a Texan president starting an oil war was the last straw for Mother Nature. The price of gasoline began to rise after Rita. I felt that if Mother Nature was indeed being wrathful, we were all lucky she was selective in her discipline. Americas needed to clean up her act. A resource war was not progress.

Further down the line, there were a few large homes being attended to by contractors. The stories had traveled the whole United States. The thirty –two mile eye of Katrina had missed the coastal beach towns. The winds surrounding the eye had, meanwhile, obliterated them. Her path still left a vacant scar. I felt fortunate that there was any road at all. Where I was riding had been ten feet underwater. Maybe more. I was amazed that anyone would rebuild. Riding further still, the flat clearings and bulldozer tracks cleared out. Homes and vegetation began to look intact. Was this where she headed back out to sea?

River people of the world live in huts because they wash away every year.

It is implicitly more complicated to replace a five thousand square-foot beach house.

Hurricane Elena created a reported eight foot storm surge in 1985. From what I saw from the road, the very highway I was riding would have been six feet under water. The slope of the sand was minimal for many feet past the roads. Katrina had been estimated to have upped the ocean level fifteen feet across the entire Mississippi coastline.

I could picture this from where I rode. Sandcastles at the beach were a perfect example. The waves would lap gently higher and higher as the tide rose. Soon a very slightly larger wave would wash it all away. You can build walls and a moat, but the ocean will win. This time it is understood that there may be no point in rebuilding; although money and commerce have a fabulous persistence of afflicting common sense. A large billboard informed me that the Gulfport Casino would be re-opening soon.

Gambling must be inherent to the thought process involved on re-opening anything here. There is almost no grade to the coastline. Reconstructing the casino was fitting to the situation. Place your bets and roll the dice. Maybe the storm will come next year or maybe not for two. Maybe it won't come here again.

A thin stretch of white sand went on for miles, ending at Henderson Point.

Here began another bridge that would pass me over Bay Saint Louis.

Right?

I hadn't consulted the road atlases in various gas stations looking for bridge closures.

The Red Baron buzzed towards the paved steel monstrosity. There were crane barges in place but no workers. Checking in advance for closed bridges was beyond my navigational insight. Fortunately, this two-mile bridge was open for scooting. I entered the left lane and began the passage over water.

Inner-voice spoke for the first time during the day's ride.

_Move over in your lane_ it said.

I was so surprised to hear inner-voice that I moved over without thinking.

A few seconds later, the truck in front of me swerved, and I found myself riding past a yellow garden hose. It was sitting precisely in the middle of my lane. Twenty or thirty feet of it, neatly coiled like a snake. I had observed it sluggishly, and in passing.

My conscious brain said "garden hose?" like a sleep-deprived bull.

The small tires of the Red Baron would never have made it over. I would have flown over the handlebars and then possibly been run over. I had just been saved from a very serious road obstacle.

Major boost to faith. Thank you inner voice.

On the other side of the bridge, I was relieved to see signs for New Orleans (51 miles then 47 miles...), and I was also aware again of my sore butt and my sun stroked brain. Fortunately, I had enough of my mind with me to remember watching Rachael Ray in New Orleans on "$40 A Day". Memory banks recalled that the city was unaffordable.

Rachael Ray had eaten a pastry with coffee, drank a local microbrew, and enjoyed a generous fixed-price menu for around forty dollars. The presumably she went back to a hotel room that was not included in the forty dollars. Rachael Ray had the Food Network and a production budget which compared in to my own, was enough to afford a hotel room in New Orleans.

I had ridden over eight hundred miles in four days. I was exhausted. There was a sign for a Budget Motel in the distance. The proprietor was Indian. He lived behind the lobby. I had caught him during dinner. There was incense burning in the lobby and the smell of yellow curry and steamed basmati rice. I was unsuccessful in bargaining down from sixty dollars; but his room rate was still less expensive than previous nights. And I could rest. The hotel room was slightly larger than the bed; but it had a TV, an outlet for my laptop, and cold air conditioning. The refrigerator was also very helpful. I bought dinner at Super Wall Mart and beer at a convenience store. Returning, I dazed out with refrigeration and the Sci-Fi channel. I called and texted friends and family to let them know I was alive and heading to New Orleans the next day. They seemed to understand why my plans had changed. They seemed happy I was still alive. Then there was sleep. I was out before my head hit the pillow.

* * *
CHAPTER 6

New Orleans

Saturday, May 19, 2007

I woke up in a very dark hotel room with the air conditioner blasting frigid air into my face. The overnight refrigeration had done well to counteract yesterday's heat stroke, but I was still fuzzy in the brain as I crossed over the Mississippi border and entered the state of Louisiana. The big highway quickly faded into semi-rural bayou. Around Pearlington, Louisiana, the water and the land began to maintain a fifty-fifty existence. Bridges were frequent, and frequently short. A peninsula is as common in these parts as a flying insect. I rode with my head down, my mouth closed, and my eyes alert. The Red Baron's lone piston pumped out the wattage while I dodged potholes and airborne incomings. Smooth linear stretches of Highway 90 were few and far between, but there were enough of these to allow glimpses into the lush natural settings. I could picture just how pleasurable it would be to float along the backwater with a cooler and a fishing pole. There was a rich sauce of life here. Existence was shared by intense populations of creatures in water, on land, and in the air. For the few moments that were my window into this place, I could feel the seductive pull of nature.

Saturday morning in the small Louisiana townships were extraordinarily devoid of both people and traffic. I could ride more slowly and look around. That was at least a little strange. Outside of towns named White Kitchen, Chef Menteur, and Greens Ditch, there was always at least one gravel parking lot loaded with pickup trucks and boat trailers. There were no boats to be seen. The boats were out on the water, helping anglers and alcoholics alike achieve their dream of a perfect Saturday.

That being said, the cost of fuel and the amazing consumption of fuel were on my brain. Each of those trailers in the parking lot presumably transported a boat which presumably had an internal-combustion engine.

The upright piston design of my scooter engine was very similar to that of a small outboard motor. It takes awhile for an eight horsepower Evinrude at full throttle to drink even five gallons of gasoline. The same was true for my scoot. But the trucks in the parking lot were uniformly of twenty-first century design. There were no old clunkers, so to speak. These shiny new pickup trucks suggested that the owners preferred horsepower to fuel economy. More horsepower meant more thirsty cylinders. The rising price of gasoline guaranteed that a day in the bayou had gotten more expensive.

The United States uses a lot of gasoline. The numbers are staggeringly near one billion gallons per year. These boat launch parking lots were a clear model for how. All anyone really needed was a small engine; but America was currently all about the speed and the power. And most anyone, including myself, agreed that fast boats are a lot of fun. As a nation, we were indeed realizing dreams of power sport pleasure; but at a huge price.

Gas up the boat. Gas up the truck. Gas up the lawn mower and the weed whacker, and don't forget the four-wheelers and the dirt bikes. A twenty-eight foot runabout could gulp a hundred gallons in a single day at the lake. And truly large boat required hundreds, if not thousands of gallons of fuel for daily cruising.

During her time of operation, the RMS Queen Mary was reported to have consumed a gallon of diesel fuel for every thirteen feet of distance achieved. I walked her decks during my adolescence and boggled both at the size and the lack of fuel economy. Her successor, the Royal Majesty Ship Queen Mary II, gains nearly fifty feet on the same gallon of diesel; but still requires over a million gallons of dinosaur juice for a ten day cruise. Assuming a full house of passengers and crew, each person on board is good for fifty gallons per day.

The United States is not alone in its thirst. Even the tiny Netherlands uses nearly two hundred million gallons of diesel fuel each year. The international military forces in Iraq and Afghanistan require a huge fuel allotment to continue their work. There are hundreds of cruise liners now around the world, and also thousands of thirsty commercial jetliners.

The Queen Mary 2 cruise liner is an extreme example. The true problem is the sprawl of consumption. Here in the Louisiana bayou, I could understand how the vast nationwide ownership of so many internal combustion engines dependent on gasoline is a suicidal run towards a cliff from which there is no return. The pleasure seekers drive the economy. The economy creates more pleasurable things to do with engines. The engines require gasoline.

Nearly everything that moves on wheels in America requires oil and either gasoline or diesel. Given that these combustible substances are created from dead dinosaurs, I will now begin referring to oil, gasoline, and diesel as "dinosaur juice". Presumably, oil contains dinosaurs; but it's the irony of the term which endears me. As if the ancient reptiles vowed their revenge on the planet which extinguished them.

I wondered, as I rode on, how America has managed to afford low-cost gasoline for so long. I lived in both Europe and Asia in the mid-nineteen nineties. Dinosaur juice then was selling at about a dollar fifty per liter. You need almost four liters to equal one gallon. This is why you will not see so many four-wheelers and weed whackers and sport boats in Europe or Asia. This is also why the cars are smaller and electric trains, widespread. There is more space in America to cover with trains; but there was a document signed by an ailing president in 1956 which took America away from the rails. Sixty years later, there is smog, gridlock, and abundant wealth. All of it requiring dinosaur juice.

To add to the irony of our addiction to ancient reptiles, a human war is being fought to maintain control of dinosaur juice supplies. The war takes place in a desert that lies geographically between the United States and China. The war's impetus is denied and disavowed. Publicly, the hunt for dinosaur juice has proved a disaster both for the invading forces; and also for the locals who were unfortunately born on top of huge amounts of dead dinosaur juice.

My fill-up price with the Red Baron was about five dollars. The numbers left on the pumps by previous customers were often impressive; and quite sad in poor areas. When you are a poor black person in the Deep South working for minimum wage, your gas budget for the week is ten bucks. I watched a man in his fifties adding less than five gallons of dinosaur juice into his old grey van. With an old V-8 engine like that, I hoped his job was nearby. Four gallons was barely enough to get to the next stop.

A lot of the folks at that fuel station would have been interested in my ride; had it not been for the immense olfactory disturbance in the local area. A seafood truck was parked nearby in the sunshine. The tailgate was closed and the refrigeration unit was turned off.

It had been there awhile in the sun. A few people, including myself, retched a little when the breeze shifted. The driver was going to have a mighty task on his hands to scrub and sanitize his truck. It made me think about the old days in Cape Cod back when they carved up whales on the docks. I'm sure that rotting blubber in August probably stunk worse. One whale was larger than this truck. I held my breath as I left the parking lot, afraid to breathe until the air was clear.

The Red Baron allowed me to take this trip. I had two hundred sixty dollars remaining and I was headed to New Orleans. Scooter travel has the downsides of wind and sun and bugs; but when you need to go a long way on a little money, it can be a fantastic form of alternative transportation.

The bayou and the barrier islands were beautiful, although I had no idea how anyone navigated when they were out of sight of the large bays. I would have been the guy who packs bug spray, a cooler, and a fishing pole, only to emerge years later with a wild beard and an outlandish combination of tan lines and insect bites. The shoreline was everywhere, and it was surprisingly undeveloped.

Gradually, I began to understand what I was seeing.

Telltale concrete footings and piles of rubble began to make me aware.

This area had been fully developed along nearly every inch of where I was riding. The only stilt houses appeared to be new or recently rebuilt. Piles of wood and sections of broken pier dotted the landscape and the water. Katrina's storm surge had washed away nearly everything.

Rebuilding did not seem like a good idea to me. Global weather patterns were becoming more extreme. Dinosaur juice emissions were helping to melt the icecaps and warm the atmosphere. The water was rising.

Existing stilt homes were new construction, and raised a good eight to ten feet above their concrete footings. Apparently the nine feet of ocean that pummeled the area was enough to wash away all of the prior development. These low-lying areas might all be underwater soon. It was surprising that anyone had rebuilt. It seemed too risky.

Highway 90 was a memorable ride which I would recommend to anyone wanting to scoot into the Big Easy. The urban area of New Orleans meanwhile, presented itself in a fashion I had expected. I knew the city overall was a poor one. Dilapidated neighborhoods only added to its dirty charm. But that was before a Category Five hurricane had come to town eighteen months ago.

Every block held condemned properties. Evidence of wind damage was still existent in the form of boarded-up windows and mangled billboards. The downtown was missing a large stretch of sidewalk. Even the high end shopping area was in disrepair. I watched the construction workers and remembered that many people had left. This accounted for the sluggish rebound. The Superdome, I was glad to see, was fully operational again. Hurricane Katrina had tested its capacities as a refuge. Unsavory news reports had prompted cleanup and repair. The Saints would again come marching in for the 2007 NFL season. Meanwhile buildings on many streets had been razed and burnt. Some were condemned, some merely deserted.

Shortly after arriving in New Orleans proper, I had a very strong urge to leave. This was largely due to the awful quality of the roads and also, the slow pace of stoplights and traffic. Scooter travel in the heat of day is much more pleasant at some steady speed. But I knew I had come to see what had transpired here. My physical discomfort was short-lived compared to those who had suffered through the near-annihilation of their beloved city. The firsthand experience was unfolding before my eyes. I just had to take a little pain. And so did my ride.

Few college-educated Caucasians have visited New Orleans without at least peeking in on the French Quarter. I had learned from the television that this essential tourist area had been one of the first to reopen following the great storm. Additionally, Rachael Ray's Food Network show "$40 A Day" had been instrumental in warning me how much a beer cost on Bourbon Street; or even a generous fixed price menu at a neighborhood eatery. I was not a tourist here. This was not a time to party. My money was spent only on iced tea and gasoline. The plan was to circle around back to Atlanta by way of Memphis, Murfreesboro, and Chattanooga. Meanwhile, I would spend a few more hours riding around the city and take in everything I could.

Where there were thick healthy oak trees, the homes remained. Down this street and that street, there were no trees. Lines of homes were packed in like sardines there. Deep scars of property damage were interspersed without any telltale symmetry, and the roads were dilapidated. I just kept riding, letting my instinct tell me where to turn. This technique took me miles around the city in loops. My Google map lists a few turn backs; but there is honestly no possible way to mentally recollect the path I rode to include street names. The Mississippi River slithers north and south as it snakes east to west. It was impossible to maintain any navigational heading. Simply put, I just kept riding.

Midday took me past the Sheraton, the Hilton, and again the Superdome. I inspected the front entrance of Harrah's Casino. Five minutes later I was again in front of Harrah's Casino, and knew I needed a cold drink of ice tea.

Neither my third or fourth loop around Harrah's Casino were intentional. I had considered waving the third time at the doormen. Passing once more, I was glad I hadn't.

When I saw the Superdome for the third time, I folded. A group of policeman had watched me pass twice. This time I stopped to ask for help. I must have been struggling from the heat and the dehydration. The Red Baron had likewise taken a beating on the roads, bottoming out regularly.

I pulled over and inquired of New Orleans' finest how I might properly find my way north to the town of Covington. The officer provided me with detailed instructions. After thanking him and heading onward, I promptly forgot everything he had said.

I kept riding, too embarrassed to go back and ask again; and also unsure if I could find my way back through the broken grids of one way streets. So I rode somewhere. Due to the river, there was little point in trying to map my way. I was fatigued and worried about my scooter. Bumping and scraping is not beneficial to a tiny motorcycle. My instincts in this city were not powerful. Perception was preferred over intuition.

Inner –voice provided reassurance.

The Red Baron was built in China as a commuter vehicle. The streets in Chinese cities are rough. There is often gravel and large potholes. It will be ok.

Ok was good enough for me. I ended up in Uptown, an artsy post-modern bohemia that appeared to be heavily consumer driven. It is located South and East of Lake Pontchartrain and appeared to have survived the wrath of Katrina. Structurally intact, Uptown was hopping with soccer families. I found a convenience store and chugged an ice tea. I smoked a cigarette and then bought a sport drink. While the cashier was ringing up the sale, I asked her if she had a road map I could consult. Ten minutes of trying to figure out where I was led to nothing. I truly had no idea where I was in this large city. A young black man approached me and asked if I needed help.

"Can you show me where I am?" I asked.

"Yeah", he said, "You're in Uptown."

"Can you show me where that is on this map?"

"Yeah sure. Where are you riding from anyway?"

"Atlanta."

"Atlanta?"

"I started on Tuesday".

He shook his head and smiled. I grinned. He had spotted my ride. We chuckled.

This man found the spot on the map where we were. I plotted a route that included a bridge heading due North across Lake Pontchartrain. My necessary avoidance of interstate highway, I explained, led this to be my only direct option north. The other option was a very long ride to Baton Rouge and then north and east to travel around the lake. Stamina for such a long detour was irrelevant. It was already about two in the afternoon. There simply wasn't enough daylight left to make it that way.

A compelling consideration of long-distance scooter travel is the need to travel during daylight hours. The Red Baron had a retro-style headlamp. It looked sharp, but it was not bright enough to illuminate potholes at night. My running light was a pathetic excuse for servable illumination. It was less useful than an erasable pen. I had a ways to go before the sun went down. I would need every bit of it. Across the lake I would go.

The Man of the map was not so sure.

"Man are you sure you want to do that?"

"Yeah – it's not the interstate."

"It's a long-ass causeway."

"As long as it's not the interstate, I'm fine."

"Ok. Good luck."

"Thanks again for your help."

I left the convenience store and found freedom to ride forty five miles per hour. Map man's comment regarding the horizontal length of this particular overpass prompted me to top off the gas tank before merging onto the span. His was a very useful observation.

Still, there was no way for me to have known that "Long-Ass Causeway" actually meant "The Longest Bridge in the World to Sit Entirely on Water".

And it did.

The longest bridge in the world to sit entirely on water is a joint effort of a North bound Bridge, a South bound bridge, and a total of seven crossover points in case you need to turn around. The speed limit was sixty-five miles per hour. The headwind reduced my top cruising speed a few units and the speedometer settled on forty-two at full throttle. Eight horsepower, a single piston, and a lone rider are a delicate proposition even when the road is not located over a very large body of water.

Mile two began. So far the surrounding drivers were noticing me well in advance and passing on the left. I hoped the trend would continue for the next twenty miles. There was no point in being more than slightly scared. A headwind was better than a side wind. The guardrails were enough to stop most all four-wheeled traffic; but a rider of say a scooterbike with a high center of gravity could easily have the opportunity to be unguarded by the guardrail and heading down to swim with the fishes.

My knuckles were of course, white. Riding gloves would have been useful.

I held on tight and kept my mouth shut until I reached the other side of the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway over thirty minutes later. The boggling size of the project was enough to keep my mind occupied. I tried genuinely to comprehend the vast amount of concrete and steel required. What makes people think they can build things like this?

Two thoughts kept my attention:

How does the Earth provide all this raw material?

The alternative trip around the lake would take four hours.

I reached Mandeville safe and mostly sound, thinking it was fortunate that Lake Pontchartrain did not drown everyone and everything when the levee failed. The domestication of the Gulf Coast has created a fragile ecosystem. Amazing homes have been built; but the water can destroy them in a matter of days. Lowland dwelling near copious bodies of water is no longer an indisputably good idea. The matchstick development of Gulf Shores stilt living could have been wiped away in the same manner as I had seen here. Was it the lack of recent hurricane experience that fed the arrogant home prices there? They at least had a barrier island in Gulf Shores.

I was free of New Orleans, and pleased to know that the waters of Lake Pontchartrain again seemed reasonably healthy. That water was not bright blue, but it was not the brackish cesspool of toxic sludge that I had expected to see. Now it was time to ride north, heading back into Mississippi for the second time in the same day. My head reeled a bit from the fact that I had just spent hours in New Orleans beating the crap out of my small motorcycle. Smooth road was a blessing now. Breakdowns were never considered. There was no advantage in thinking about the possibility. Listening to my inner-voice had convinced me further of this fact. An exercise of faith was unfolding. Small moments of listening to inner-voice had replenished my faith. I had just ridden across a long ass causeway.

The beautiful countryside of Louisiana unfolded. There was a comfortable acceptance of human dwelling into the surrounding nature. Habitats complimented the surroundings without being up to a standard that requires a design team and ten million dollars. Magazines like Architectural Digest frequently publish photographs of what the über rich can create. I think I will always favor the comfortable home built into the beauty around it. Assimilation into a greater power (nature) is a more fulfilling existence. The area resembled more the Shire of the hobbits than a series of four-story stucco castles. Director Peter Jackson's landscapes in the Lord of the Rings are a fine fictitious example. The fantastic castles rang of their own kind of majesty. They were also priority targets which ended up mostly destroyed by war and time. The natural landscapes the hobbits maintained while living in the Shire proved to be far more enduring and much less of an eyesore. Here there was no predominance of taupe stucco. I could smile.

I filled my water bottle from the tap when I stopped to refuel. Two dollars for a small bottle of Dasani was really a stretch on funds. Considering that I drank sixty ounces of water before I even made it to Highway 27, I would have spent ten dollars on drinking water in a mere five hours. The day had already been a long one. I would have reflected more on the carbon footprint of bottled water production, distribution, and consumption and how it potentially reflects a larger nature-hating alien conspiracy; but the sun was hot and I was tired. The ride today began in Bay St. Louis, Mississippi. It would end, over two hundred miles later, in Vicksburg, Mississippi. Check the map. It's interesting.

My hotel room was more spacious that evening. It was also, at a mere forty-four dollars, the least expensive room so far. Interesting that as my budget dwindled, the room prices dropped. I was a man without a plan, riding from town to town. The ride had been a conscious choice to trust my instincts. The evidence was growing that I was indeed being guided. My Catholic upbringing provided many stories of God guiding those who allowed themselves to be guided. The paths were often, if not always, difficult; and the reward was always supreme.

Fiction can be useful in guiding one over unpleasant realities. The mind rallies over the body. Is this an experience of the soul elevating the body?

I have felt God enough in my life to perceive natural creation as an active force that will participate positively in our lives if we are available and willing to practice. Beyond that, I have no idea. It doesn't matter to me that I don't understand. I have no conflict with any religion which teaches peace and respect; but I think all religion should be regarded with some skepticism, and also some humor.

God created the giraffe, the walrus, and the armadillo. Obviously a divine funny bone exists. Creative flair is also a given.

I preferred the term "free-thinker". I was allowing myself to think outside of even my own non-conventional boundaries. And as it usually did, this type of thought had the effect of making me very hungry. The front desk had recommended the Beachwood Café. Located across the parking lot, the establishment had a supper-club/diner feel to it. There was a bar and a large dining room. While I was feeling an urge to be social, I knew that if being social ran longer than one beer, I would be foolishly damaging my remaining funds. Take out was the way to go.

The grill cook at the café was set up indoors and behind picture windows near the entrance. A tall black man in his forties was carefully seasoning and rotating a medley of filet mignon and New York steaks. He rotated each one ninety degrees to create perpendicular grill marks. Medium and medium rare orders followed the uneven thermal signature of the charcoal grill. There was a dignity in the chef's hands. The late French sculptor Rodin would have been fascinated with the sight of these hands. He may have sculpted them with attention to the nicks and scars and burns that characterize the hands of any experienced grill cook.

Rodin would also have been hungry. I picked up my patty melt and headed back across the parking lot to my hotel room. On my way I noticed that a small puddle of oil had formed below the engine of the Red Baron.

My brain very simply chose a patty melt and cable television over thoughts of mechanical disaster. When I was done eating, I typed notes on my laptop in the air conditioning until my eyes would no longer stay open.

* * *
CHAPTER 7

Going To Graceland

Sunday, May 20, 2007

There is a comical appearance to a man who wakes up and can't remember where he is. It takes awhile for his senses to recalibrate to the new day and place. As his memory banks replay recent memories, the man recollects that he is in a hotel room in Vicksburg, Mississippi. He has a total of $120 in cash and credit. He is riding a single-cylinder scooter which he has unoriginally nicknamed the Red Baron.

The Red Baron was leaking oil last night. That might be a problem.

The man with the red scooter takes a hot shower, then a cold shower. There is half of a delicious patty melt in the small refrigerator. He eats it. Then he calls a friend back in Georgia and sings happy birthday. They talk for awhile. The man says he is going to Graceland. His friend is worried about him and also a bit amazed at how far he has ridden on his little scooter. The man does not mention the oil leak. They express mutual affections and hang up. The man gathers his belongings, straps them to the Red Baron, and heads to Graceland.

He gets as far as the end of the parking lot. Then the bike stalls. He is not totally surprised. There was after all, a pool of oil underneath the bike when he started it a minute ago. The man mutters the obligatory "Oh Shit" and gives the appropriate sigh of frustration. Then he uses his feet like Fred Flintstone to push the Red Baron across the street to a Kangaroo Brand convenience store. There, he purchases one quart of 10W-30 motor oil and receives a complimentary paper funnel. To compensate for his worry, man adopts a Zen-like assurance that things will be ok. He recalls a book called Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance which he read in college. He understands now that patience (in this case) is Zen, and Zen (in this case) is patience.

The crankcase is full of oil. The oil did not leak out of the crankcase. Consulting the owner's manual for the Baron 150-cc retro motorcycle, the man discovers that there is also gear oil. It should have been changed five hundred miles ago. The man concludes that the gear oil must have been the leaking point.

Owner's manuals that have been translated into English from Chinese by Chinese people and/or software tend to be a bit vague. Fortunately there is a diagram of the gear oil nut and its surroundings. Unfortunately, the diagram suffers from incorrect perspective. That is to say that even though there is a bullet which says "gear oil", and a line drawn from the bullet to the corresponding nut; it is still impossible to tell which nut.

Ancient Chinese philosophy: Wait and see.

The man adopts this ancient philosophy into something effective in the present moment:

Figure it out for yourself.

The man does correctly identify the nut which gives access to the gear oil. He also remembers that he has no tools except needle nose pliers, a screwdriver, and an assortment of metric Allen wrenches. He needs a socket set. He owns one too, but it is sitting in a garage about six hundred miles away.

Inside the Kangaroo convenience store, there are tools for sale. The most compatible tool is a crescent wrench. The man does not want to buy the seven dollar Chinese-made crescent wrench because he knows it's not the right tool for the job. However his situation has decreed it to be the only available tool for the job. A handful of paper towels and a waxed paper cup are graciously donated by a customer service representative.

The crescent wrench turns out to be a threat to the integrity of the gear oil nut.

It threatens to strip the nut and render it non-nut like; so the man waits, eyeing the clock. It's nine o'clock on a Sunday morning. A down day due to mechanical or any other failure is not an option. There is an auto parts store within sight. The painful walking distance is irrelevant to the man with the injured leg. A Kangaroo Customer Service Specialist has already informed him that the auto parts store is closed on Sunday. The hardware store in town is also closed.

Many trucks pull up to the Kangaroo convenience store. Most of the trucks have a toolbox and most toolboxes carry a socket set. Here, the man stoically observes, is a slice of life passing the morning hours with simple trips to the local Kangaroo. Men and their wives are enjoying a morning without work. Entire families are spending the day together. A Harley rider is headed wherever he is headed. The patrons fill up. They buy coffee and sports drinks and maybe a newspaper. When their visit to this marsupial-branded oasis of convenience has reached its conclusion, they head back home or maybe to the lake. Today is their day off. The man respects this day off and inquires only upon the Harley rider about a socket wrench. The man is alone and shows strong potential for making the two wheel connection shared among motorcyclists. The Harley rider is a friendly guy, but he does not have this tool in his possession.

Wait and see. Call family. Call a scooter shop in Atlanta that's not open yet.

Wait some more. Snap back to first-person.

One of the customer service representatives of the Kangaroo came outside for a smoke break and asked me about the Red Baron. I explained what happened. She said to wait until JR showed up. He would be able to help me.

"He'll show up. He always does." She told me.

Bingo!

She introduced herself as Constance. We smoked and talked. She was originally from Chicago, and she was heading back soon. She told me that as soon as she saw me ride up on a scooter, she could tell I was a man on the road to clear his mind. I laughed, amazed that someone noticed so well. Constance advised me not to stay in Mississippi. She said the only way to live beautiful in Mississippi is to be retired and (financially) set. There were people here working for five dollars an hour. Public transportation was mostly non-existent. The price of gas had them crushed.

Constance had been a nurse for over a decade of her life. She told me that she left the profession because of its inhumanity. Her problem, specifically, was that medicine had transformed in her time from a healing art into a cold-hearted business. I told her about my trip so far and we found that for a few minutes, we were kindred souls who shared compassion for what was going on with the poor in this country. Constance was leaving soon and she advised me not to stay.

"There's JR now," she said as she snubbed out her cigarette. "It was nice to meet you".

"It was a pleasure meeting you too. Good luck in Chicago."

"Be safe out there."

"Thanks. You take care."

JR had showed up in the late morning alone and dressed for work. I watched him accompany a baby boomer white man and his wife to the door of the Kangaroo. After the couple went inside, I approached him and asked if he had a socket wrench. JR replied that he did, and to give him a minute. Baby boomer white man and his wife were visiting the ATM. When they were finished exchanging money and gratitude, JR kept his word and pulled his truck alongside the Red Baron. I knew I could not afford to pay a mechanic, and it seemed the mechanic understood this. Maybe it was the nature of my ride or maybe it was my own subtle excretions of relief and angst that made it obvious.

Irregardless of his reasons, JR helped me lay my scooter on its side and add gear oil. The portal into the gear box was so narrow that the natural viscosity of the oil caused it to clog. The tiny chamber filled in slow, overflowing dribbles. The process took a good ten minutes. The gear oil nut was ratcheted back in place and we stood the Red Baron up on its stand. After a few presses of the starter button, the engine revved to life. And then it stalled. It started again, running a little longer, and stalled again. Really, it sounded fine except for the stalling.

JR and I stopped to smoke a cigarette. He asked where I was riding. I explained my plan to ride Highway 61 due north for two hundred fifty miles into Memphis. JR looked me in the eye and advised me to go for it.

"If it runs when you're moving, maybe that's ok. Use some carburetor cleaner. Things might clear themselves out as you ride."

I thanked JR. I reluctantly asked him if he would accept a copy of my music CD in lieu of payment. He asked about the kind of music (rock) and then kindly said no thank you. You would think that he would then have walked away pissed off. He did not. Instead, he gave me his business card and told me to call him when I arrived in Memphis.

JR's advice was in the spirit of the adventure. Just go for it.

This is why I pray to God every day. Even though I claim no understanding of God, a daily thank you seems warranted. In this case, I said a lot of thank you as I rode north.

Two hundred fifty miles in a mostly straight line is a long way to go on a wide-divided highway if you are on a scooter. Note to anyone who might think about it: do not scoot on Highway 61. While the roadway is safe and open, it is not pleasurable in any way. The vast space illuminates just how small and slow a scooter can be. Watching the odometer on a long straightaway is not recommended either.

During the time it would take to ride past one of the many farms, I observed the difference between these farms and the ones that some family members had operated in Wisconsin during my childhood. There was no comforting red barn and crisply painted silo. There were instead, huge pole barns and corrugated sheds which could easily have functioned as a hangar for small to medium sized aircraft. Not one silo, but three and four silos. Each large enough to swallow the operations I had seen in the Midwest.

The corn here was shoulder-high in the middle of May. A healthy guideline for corn in the Midwest is knee-high by the fourth of July. The heat and humidity of Mississippi allowed the corn to be harvested before summer. Then the fields could be replanted and harvested again before winter.

There were corporate logos on some of the massive sheds. Frito Lay was one I recognized. It must take a lot of corn to make Fritos and Doritos and Cheetos available across an entire continent. Here I was able to see just how much corn was involved, and why the family farm could never have fed all the people in the world today.

Unfortunately, planting so much corn in such tight spaces requires that the soil be "enhanced" using synthetic fertilizer. Gone are the days of using the manure from the cow to feed the plant. Cities are hungry. They require more and more food while producing none. Fertilizer was necessary to keep the hungry plants from stripping the soil of its nutrients. This stretch of lonely windy highway showed me to scale what food production requirements currently exist. Over one hundred miles of corn and soybeans was an ecological footprint of Bunyanesque proportions.

When the field crops shifted from corn to soybeans, the immense flatness of the delta became all the more painful. I stopped to refuel at an automated fuel specialty store. There was any type of combustible fuel available during the week. Propane, airplane fuel, bio-diesel, and anything else requiring a combustible material permit were housed here. Since today was Sunday, gasoline was the only offering. Had it been a weekday, I might have considered trying their high-octane airplane fuel. As it were, I topped off the tank using only a computer interface to debit my bank card for two dollars and fifteen cents' worth of premium grade unleaded gasoline. There was an emergency shutoff button, but not a person on the premises besides myself. The future friends, is indeed happening today.

Now there was serious sensory-deprivation to deal with. Moving at forty-five miles per hour along a wide flat open space is so boring that at one point I tried closing my eyes and counting. First I counted to three. Then, I counted to five. Both times I opened my lids and was still in my lane. A voice in my head suggested I tried counting to ten; but the voice was not inner voice. It is a bad voice that tells you to close your eyes and count to ten while riding a scooter at forty-five miles per hour on a highway.

Tempting somehow, but I would have nothing of it. Ten seconds is far too long to ride without sight. I repented thereon and left my eyes open save for blinking, which is classified as involuntary.

Signs for Graceland began appearing along the road. My butt was sore. It felt like some kind of religious pilgrimage twisted with capitalism. I was suffering a long painful journey for the privilege of visiting the former home of the king of Rock n' Roll. Graceland was a Mecca alright. The area had transformed over the years into a huge strip mall with thick traffic and a low skyline. It reeked of exhaust, asphalt, bubble gum, sweat, and garbage. It was no uglier than a low-grade amusement park, and it is certainly no longer a retreat for an exhausted world famous musician. Elvis was taking a big nap now. Hopefully, the extended nap would utilize all his excess body fat so that if he reemerged, he would look like he did before World War II.

Elvis was a genuine threat to the objectives of the New World Order. His rockabilly hip shaking violated a standard of decency that had been imposed by the governors of television, film, and printed media. Those standards of decency maintained a firm grip over the populous in the same way that the Puritan ethic had sternly kept people in line a century before. The powers that be apparently didn't know how to dance.

He was just a kid from the poor side of the tracks, who was encouraging the young to step out of line. This was the view of the system. For Elvis, he just loved playing music and making people happy. The powers that be were quick to undermine Mr. Presley's fabulous rise by reminding him and the world that even the King of Rock and Roll was subject to its authority. A draft card arrived by mail and Elvis Aaron Presley was never again the same man.

Pricilla's private travel jet – what looked like a DC-9 -was displayed near the parking lot. The afternoon was sunny and hot. The black asphalt did an excellent job of intensifying the heat. I limped across the parking lot and into the visitor center. A speaker system in the restrooms provided audio footage of a recording session with Elvis where he talked a bit and relayed the fantastic energy of his voice. The air-conditioning felt good.

I was thirty minutes late for the last tour of Graceland itself. It's located across the street from the visitor center. Those who pay the forty dollar admission fee board a tram and are then shuttled off to the large circular driveway. That was okay. I had about a hundred dollars left in cash and available credit to see me home. I would not have given up forty dollars in that situation for a guided tour. My survival instinct was too strong to play that way. After filling my water bottle at the fountain, I limped back to the Red Baron. A security guard had told me that I could visit the grave of Elvis at 8:30 the next morning. There was no charge to visit his burial site. I had a copy of "Life to Life" that I could leave by his gravestone as a way of paying respects and asking for help. The CD was my first full-length release as a vocalist and the poetic significance seemed great in the land where a magnificent vocalist had once resided and was still praised. So I checked the area for hotels. The Best Western Graceland was $79.99 + tax. Not an option. No splurge allowed. I would have to ride on to the country where the prices went down. Backtracking in the morning was out of the question.

I caught a last glimpse of Graceland from the street. The tram was unloading the last group at the top of the horseshoe driveway. I wondered what Elvis would have thought about it all. Would he have been upset at the strip malls built around his home? Or had he become influenced enough by Las Vegas that he would just shake his head and laugh?

Most all accounts of Elvis mention that he was drawn to the enthusiastic spirit of worship and music. He loved the rhythm and self-expression of the Negro churches. He was colorblind when it came to people; and a devoted listener of music decidedly not white. Somewhere along the way, white men who were fearful and hateful of dark skin called him a nigger-lover.

Whatever happened to just being friendly?

Elvis was a professional singer and actor. He was isolated from the world almost instantly by ridiculous fame. He lived and expressed intensely. That didn't always fit inside the box. Bouts with insecurity were common with Elvis. He couldn't leave his home without being mobbed. His level of fame had him known all around the world. There was nowhere to hide and nowhere to go back to being normal.

A lot of famous people understand this feeling and go through a lot of trouble to avoid it. Elvis was a pioneer with a high school education. The Colonel was there to help him make money, but there was no one to understand him or to coach him emotionally.

The Colonel coached Elvis, but always in the interest of money. Together, they made a fortune. There was no one like Elvis. He invented rock and roll.

When I traveled the world, I didn't have an entourage or a lot of money or even a car or motorcycle. Beyond trains and the occasional bus, I walked almost everywhere.

A scooter is more similar to walking than driving. Meanwhile, a limousine keeps you out of touch with where you are. You can drink, talk, type, relax, and stare at passing shadows; but your chin will be low against the window so that all of it...the world outside...looks like a child's daydream. You can look but you can't touch. Isolation is a by-product of fame. Elvis wanted to be the greatest at what he did. Post-achievement blues dragged him down. It was lonely at the top. There was no one else like him. Who could have related?

I remembered a neighbor I once had named Peggy. Peggy was in her sixties. Most of what she did consisted of sitting in front of the TV smoking menthol cigarettes and sipping off-brand returnable longnecks that she had delivered each week. She was an anemic skeleton, who sustenance came from cheap beer and cheaper cigarettes. Peggy's apartment was always dark. She never opened her windows. No visitors, except for, once in a while, me.

If there was a person that Peggy truly loved in this world, it was Elvis Aaron Presley. The smoky walls of her apartment were covered with him. His images rang in all directions: tapestries, beach towels, posters, headshots, and even a flag. She lived for him.

It was 1997 and I had been getting ready to move. My new crib was the upper floor of a duplex. Peggy and I would no longer be neighbors. The afternoon I stopped in to say goodbye, she was a little drunk. She had tears in her eyes. She began talking about Elvis and his beautiful smile. The way he could light people up. She told me, like she did every time I stopped by, how much she loved Elvis; and also, how much she missed her cat, whose ashes were kept in an urn by the window. She would cry every time she brought it up. I thought again - as I did every time she brought it up – that the cat must have died from lung or throat cancer. I never suggested to her that she adopt another feline because the poor newcomer would have an awful time of it. There was no ventilation and no moving air. The smoke just settled slowly into the ground. The place stunk. A ten minute visit with Peggy would make my clothes and hair smell like a wet ashtray.

As I said goodbye, Peggy looked down at the floor and mumbled something.

"What?" I had to ask her to repeat what she had said.

She squirmed a little and spoke more clearly.

"If Elvis were here, I don't even think he'd spit on me."

How do you reply to that?

I didn't know, so just I did what I thought Elvis would have done. I played "Are You Lonesome Tonight" on her tape player and slow danced with her. The weight of my hands seemed like they would snap her body. She was quite enchanted in the reverie of her alcohol.

Elvis would probably have hired a limousine and had Peggy driven out to Vegas with a bushel basket of quarters for the slots. My budget was not his. I gave her a kiss on the cheek and told her that Elvis loved her very much. Then I said goodbye and left. I never saw Peggy again.

Leaving Graceland, I stopped at a gas station to plot a course from a map. I wrote down directions and kept them in my pocket. I called my mom (like Elvis would have) and told her where I was and when I thought I would be home. There were towns to the east of Memphis where I could find a less-expensive place to stay. It was about 5:50PM. I had a few hours of daylight left to ride there.

Mr. Presley was accurate I think in appreciating the soul and the spirit of people whose skin was darker than his. Even though I spent many years in schools with large populations of white kids, I could care less what color someone's skin or income is. What is important to me is the quality of a person's character. I have a strong distaste for racism; and I am not afraid of black people, poor people, or homeless people.

My father once was approached by a street corner drunk asking for change on the streets of Milwaukee. He took the time to hear everything the man said to him, and allowed the drunken man to hold his hands and thank him. My dad didn't preach tolerance to me; he just treated people with respect. When I was ten years old, he suggested that we dress up as hobos for a night and wander the streets of Milwaukee. I liked the idea and for a few hours one night, my father and I had been street people. Enough to teach me about the cold, and also what being truly down and out meant.

Now I was in my thirties. It was 2007. This was my sixth day of riding. I was now in Tennessee, having already passed through Mississippi, Louisiana, Alabama, Florida, and Georgia. During this time I had been helped numerous times by people with skin darker than mine. One man gave me a lift to a gas station. A woman bought me a corn dog when she saw I was hungry and trying to pay with coins. Another woman helped me understand the economics of Mississippi. And then JR who just this morning helped me along my way with a socket wrench and pep talk.

Speaking of socket-wrenches, keep one with you if you travel long distances on a scooter. I had left my entire set at home because it was too heavy to carry the entire set. The smart thing to do would be to carry only the sizes you need for your ride. My socket set was in Atlanta. Two days away at best.

I stopped at an auto-parts store and bought a cheap set of Chinese-made wrenches. Hindsight was suggesting that it would have been best to have carried only the specific sockets, wrenches, and adaptors which my ride required. I had chosen to leave my socket set behind because it was heavy. There turned out to be a third option, which is what I advise now. It is the same advice that Lone Star gave to Princess Vespa in the movie Spaceballs as they headed out into the desert.

"Take only what you need", is what he told her.

The wrenches were charged to my credit card. I was dangerously low on available credit and was happy it was a Sunday. I had only forty dollars remaining in my bank account. My tiny sliver of available credit was more flexible on a day when there were no banking hours.

Out of Memphis, I was again faced with the unknown and ready for the challenge. On the United States interstate system, gas and food and lodging can truly be taken for granted. They will be there. There will be road markers at the exits, so you can find them even if you miss the thirty foot sign in the parking lot.

In my case I had gained everything so far by riding a motorcycle too small for the interstate travel. I had seen the beauty of nature. There were small towns which reflected America more accurately than any media network. The impact of gas prices mingled in with a trust in God and a sense of confidence, amidst what was in many ways, a reckless and ignorant adventure.

Could God be checking out the American South through my eyes? Does God play like that? It would make sense that God would ride a scooter through the side roads of America. The mode is eco-conscious, low profile, and somewhat humorous.

You would probably never see God in a Chevy Tahoe. Not in 2007 anyway.

My own imaginings were merely curious. Perhaps we all are eyeballs and ears and noses and bodies for God. That being said, is it possible that God would be entertained by something so very odd as having ridden a thousand miles so far on a single-cylinder engine with a total horsepower output of eight? Would Jesus dig? Would the Buddha smile? Would Mohammed chuckle?

East out of Memphis took me through the suburban nouveau riche that is commonplace outside of every major city I have visited in the United States.

Eventually, the rolling hills of Tennessee unfolded along Highway 45. The natural beauty allowed positive thought to continue. I had the sunshine at my back and lighting my way as the Red Baron drifted seamlessly through the ups and the downs of the local terrain. I was tired, but I was smiling.

LaGrange, Tennessee was where I made my stop for the night. My room was thirty-five dollars, and I used the Sunday advantage to charge my room to a credit card. The charge would never have been authorized during the business week; however the computer had the day off. I knew I would face repercussions in the form of over limit fees; but they would be small compared to a night in the uncertain woods without shelter or even a sleeping bag. Survival instinct was in charge. There was a shop across the street where I bought two meatball sandwiches made by the proprietor's mother. I also bought a bag of ice for my ankle, cold sweet tea, and another bottle of carburetor cleaner. Mom even came out to say hello, indicative of the humanity which exists outside of cities.

Back in the room, I typed the notes which fed this story. The tiny motel had no wireless internet connection available, so I could not use my laptop to plot a course. I had however, committed some of the route for tomorrow to memory while scanning a road atlas in Memphis. There was the Pickwick dam to be seen and traversed. I was about four hundred fifty miles away from my starting point. It was possible I could reach Georgia tomorrow. That would mean I would have money to eat more than one meal along the way. There might even be enough for a Gatorade or an iced tea.

Before I left, my mom had given me fifteen dollars cash "for gas money to get home". It was still in my wallet and to be used only for fuel. I had thought she was being silly when she explained. I could tell now that I would need it. Amazing.

Cable access was limited to a handful of channels. It being the backwoods of Tennessee, most were news or religion-based. There was a show about a Burmese girl with two faces. The child was having one of her faces removed. My laptop screen hid the television from my view; but I could hear the sounds of the surgical documentary. The narrator's British accent was weighty to the point where I wondered if the man had ever smiled in his life. Was serious journalism only intended to be practiced by serious people? Either way there is nothing funny about having one of your two faces surgically removed.

I flipped around through the channels and found a reenactment of the life of Jesus. The actor was Caucasian and very good looking. I thought briefly of Charlton Heston as Moses and then resumed typing. The soundtrack to the show was designed to maximize sincerity and emotional effect, and it did just that. The words of Jesus found me at some point with a cigarette, a beer, and a face full of tears from the sheer beauty of the words.

Whoever says whatever about the Bible, it will remain that the book contains in its "New" Testament, some of the most beautiful and compelling words about living that exist in print. Jesus had a lot of good points about treating people well and other things that often disrupt the money making process.

Elvis may have had to deal with fame and fortune and may have died from bodily failure; but Jesus took the big hit for everyone. It is reported in the Bible that Jesus of Nazareth also died of bodily failure; but it was not the type of the puffy rock star. The system came down on Jesus a lot harder than it did on Elvis. Jesus was a more extreme rebel in more extreme times. He talked about love of people, not money. Elvis, on the other hand, sold out. I think that's where the comparison ends.

Tomorrow, on the heels of a failure to stand inside Graceland, I would ride to Murfreesboro, Tennessee and look for an office that represented the foundation to which I was making donations through the sales of my CD "Life to Life". I was already aware that there might not be anyone available to see me, and maybe even no office to visit. I was prepared for that possibility. I would also have to tip my scooter on its side again and add oil to the gear box. A puddle had again formed under the Red Baron shortly after I had parked for the night. I had ridden two hundred fifty miles today. Tomorrow, I would go for three hundred.

Things were getting interesting. I felt ready for anything.

* * *
CHAPTER 8

Pinnacle

Monday, May 21, 2007

I woke up remembering the plan. I ate the other meatball sandwich, drank an iced tea, and opened the room door to tilt the Red Baron. It weighed a little over two hundred pounds. Yesterday I had the help of JR from Shorty's Wrecker Service in Vicksburg, Mississippi. Today I was alone in LaGrange, Tennessee and it was not nearly as graceful a process. There was some more cracking along the fiberglass body since there was no one to ease the weight of the bike on its side. The dinosaur juice again clotted the gear oil port and overflowed. I had put down a piece of cardboard to catch the spill. I was in a tiny town in Tennessee. It was around eight AM. The morning was beautiful. Sun shimmered through the trees and the mist. Birds sang and insects hummed. Eventually the gear box was full of oil.

The single cylinder came to life with the fresh juice. I rode onward to the East and to the large left turn that awaited me there. Highway 45 is an absolutely perfect roadway for a scooter. Rolling hills and only a little traffic make the ride fun and fast.

When it was time to make the giant left turn, the bridge across Pickwick Dam had me smiling for a good five minutes as I passed over blue water which is shared between Tennessee, Mississippi, and Alabama. From a map, the Pickwick Lake looks like a dragon with a long tail. From a red scooter on a bridge, it looks refreshing.

Next there was farmland; and then a slope than began to build as the roads wound.

I had been riding twenty and thirty miles at a time without seeing a car, a house or a person. The roadways twisted like a Formula One racecourse. The ride was completely fun and completely dangerous. A fence at the bank of a U-turn helped me realize that if I were to wipe out into the tall grass, no one would even know I had been there. This was indeed funny, because the ride itself was so fun. I was developing a certain type of long-distance scooter riding comedic psychosis known as scoot head.

Having scoot head is funny. Funny is good. Scoot head allows the scooter rider to relax and allow the imagination to find humorous, the simple truths of how totally screwed the rider would be if the rider broke down or ran out of gas. The fuel gauge had started to nudge the red zone without a single sign to indicate an upcoming town. Scoot head is a survival mechanism that kicks in only after the rider has been pushing his bike and himself to the point of exhaustion.

Faith-based comedy is better than fear-based despair.

Comedy pleases. Despair seizes.

Scoot head is out of cell phone range. And scoot head don't care.

Inner voice spoke up on that:

Keep the rubber side down.

Word-up inner-voice.

It was almost was time to climb North on Highway 128. There the road makes a right turn and heads into Savannah, Tennessee. I made a pit stop. After refueling bike and body with 93 octane dinosaur juice and iced tea, I smoked and talked with the ladies who worked at the gas station. They said they liked my scooter. They were amazed at the gas mileage and each said they wanted one. Call it scoot head, but it was good to hear. They told me temperatures will sit in the 100's for weeks during the summer. They told me I was lucky it was only May. Already, the thickness of the air threatened to best anything I had seen in the bayou. This was a place that would torture the sinuses with pollen and heat. I could see why many preferred the cool dry air in Tennessee mountains over the atmospheric iridescence of Tennessee valleys.

Murfreesboro, Tennessee is the mailing address for the Maue Kay Foundation. It is a non-profit organization which funds charitable efforts like Medicines sans Frontieres (in English: Doctors without Borders) and the National Conservation Society. The foundation was begun in 2003 by musician John Kay and his wife, Jutta Maue-Kay. Their reasons for creating the foundation were to help preserve nature and basic human rights. John Kay has been a very successful singer and can often be found talking, during recent interviews, about the importance of giving back.

The title song especially, seemed in tune with the mission of the Maue Kay Foundation.

LIFE TO LIFE, by Mark Lord

Verse 1) The time that's yet to come will come here to stay

When all you'll have will be all you've given away

If God is your father then your mother is the land

And you'll give the best of you with an open hand

Chorus) Who should receive your time and talent?

Who has that right?

Anyone and everyone,

For Life gives to Life

Then you'll become one in the circle

And you'll claim that right

Before you go to the other side

Life gives to life

Verse 2) Go down to the ocean as a part of the sea

If that's life, then you're only a stream

Each one needs the other, all things come around

So if greed is your burden

Come on lay it down

Bridge) What do you owe the taker?

What does the taker owe you?

What does it matter if you want to be free

From things you only thought you might need?

Everything, everyone that you cling to builds a cage

Don't you want to be free?

"Life to Life" copyright 2003 by Mark Lord

The CD had been noted in Flagpole Magazine in Athens, and I had spent thirty minutes on air at WUOG 90.5FM to promote the music and the Maue Kay Foundation. Mark and I were the only ones I knew who were recording without selling ourselves and with the barest minimum of equipment. The music was unique and straight to the point on things like generosity, material stuff, and the paradoxes of existence. "Life to Life" was an honest recording project. No bling, just home-recorded music.

Scoot head was surprisingly not in conflict with inner-voice. Both encouraged the effort. So I headed further north and back into thick traffic and hot hot heat. Fat some point I made another stop, where I purchased a cheeseburger (extra cheese and toppings included at no extra charge), a phone book with a map, and a thank you from a man who had just won a hundred dollars on a scratch game. Apparently he thought I was good luck!

The man behind the register told me no one knows where the Maue Kay foundation is, but people have been asking about it recently.

I had considered that when a rock musician of forty years goes home, he may be subject to heavy stalking by people just like me. However, Mark and I may have helped pique interest with our efforts on the internet. The extra cheese was a kind gesture by the grill cook. I really appreciated her kindness.

As I ate the cheeseburger with extra cheese, lettuce, tomato, jalapenos, and black olives, I realized I could certainly look like a stalker. However the Red Baron probably played me out to be more odd than dangerous. The guy behind the counter was military and could have thrown me through the window, if necessary. He was polite and friendly when I told him about "Life to Life". I even showed him a copy so he would consider me sincere. I was hoping he would want to buy a copy to benefit the Maue Kay Foundation. He didn't offer, and I didn't try to sell. I was pleased he told me of recent inquiries about the foundation.

This was May, 2007. He was heading back to Iraq again in August. I wished him well and headed out the door, realizing that "Life to Life" would not be useful to soldiering. Heavy metal would be a better choice to motivate oneself for armed combat. Listening to gentle music before war is likely to put yourself and you company in danger.

I listened to hard rock in the bus before football games in high school. My cheap cassette walkman played a mix tape of Def Leppard, Guns n Roses, The Cult, Metallica, and other bands which helped me raise a suitable mindset for tackling and being tackled. Football is a violent sport. Being aggressive is preferable to achieve that goal.

Football is also a game. Armed combat however, is dead serious. I remember once, watching an Army soldier in the Atlanta airport. He sat in desert fatigues with his eyes closed, death metal screaming through the ear buds of his iPod. I couldn't make out the words, but it sounded to me like the band Slipknot. This brave young man was listening to his chaotic music as a way to survive chaos.

For two guys recording in a living room, "Life to Life" was a very solid achievement. Our recording had been about as low budget as you can imagine. I liked the words Mark had written. Some of his lyrics were probably too honest for commercial radio; but there was a radio station in Athens which gave them a chance. It was good to hear our work played on the radio at least once. Somewhere, someone heard them.

The Maue Kay Foundation had no listing in either White or Yellow Pages of Murfreesboro, Tennessee. While this meant that Mr. Kay and Mrs. Maue-Kay were not wasting money on office space, it also meant that I had taken a long detour into a town that was its own decent sized dot on the map. Now it was time to ride on Highway 41 all the way out of town. My "pilgrimage", like the one to Graceland, lasted all of about two hours. I would have called ahead; but I had no idea even a few days ago that I would end up in Murfreesboro, or any part of Tennessee.

Back on the road, the Red Baron was not happy about idling at many stoplights. Eventually we passed through the local patch of McMansions and back into the hills. Fuel stops were spaced far enough apart to make me pray. I had been riding, not walking. I couldn't walk. Not far anyway. I had cell coverage in Murfreesboro.

But now?

Ha!

Better to have scoot head and laugh at phone than to have coverage, but no head.

I was not out of range; I was ahead of the coverage.

I was born a rambling man.

I was rolling down Highway 41 and quite often rolling up.

Ahead was a long, steep curve that continued past my line of vision. This was not just an ordinary hill. This was a mountain. I was climbing a mountain on eight horsepower and my speed was dropping steadily. Automatic scooters are remarkably convenient, but they don't develop the torque of a geared system. At twenty-five miles per hour, I wondered why the owner manual for the Baron 150-R said the engine needed gear oil. I had thought there was only a drive belt. Should it not be drive belt oil? I held on and thought good thoughts. Regardless of the owner manual's many shortcomings, the engineering and performance of this engine were solid.

The Red Baron was designed as a commuter vehicle in China. The four-stroke engine would struggle with the thin air and steep slope, but it would not fail. In other words, I was holding the throttle at full and praying that me and my injured leg would not have to do any pushing in the mountains. Finally the road began to flatten out and the speedometer crept to twenty-seven miles per hour, then thirty, thirty-two, thirty three and finally holding at thirty-seven. A town appeared. A welcome sign informed me I was in Monteagle, Tennessee, and four figures higher than the ocean. The Red Baron had made quite an amazing climb. I stopped for gas at a Shell station and did the customary drill of taking a whiz, chugging an ice tea, and smoking a cigarette. I consulted with the clerk about travel time to Atlanta. She said about two hour's tops. It was a little after five in the afternoon. I had about two hours of reliable daylight left to ride. Once twilight hit I was poorly visible and also not able to see well.

I went outside to smoke another cigarette. While I did, it occurred to me that the trip was two hours by interstate. If I were a normal person, I would hop back into my car, set the cruise at seventy-two, and relax to the music in air-conditioned comfort.

The Red Baron did not ever reach a speed of seventy-two miles per hour. Its performance specifications stated a top speed of fifty-five. That was often difficult to achieve. In the year I had owned my scooter, only once had once had the speedometer approached the fifty-five miles-per-hour. I had been traveling down a big hill on Broad Street in Athens with a mile long head start. Broad Street had been empty.

The crowded interstate however, was suicide. I would need to stay the night somewhere. From the road atlas in the store rack, it seemed Chattanooga would be the best stopping point. Here in Monteagle, as with most all scenic mountain towns, the beautiful surrounding tended to nudge up the hotel prices. Chattanooga would be better.

I had sixty dollars left. Meanwhile, I was on top of a mountain on a scooter.

Scoot head likes to go fast. Scoot head likes adrenaline.

Ancient law of Chinese Scoot-Head Physics:

What rolls up Highway 41 also rolls down Highway 41.

The Red Baron had gotten Michelin tires in 2006. I was glad to have them for the entire ride, and especially now. The four hundred pounds of man and machine that had hindered the climb was now making up for it big time in the descent. I was glad I had added oil and carburetor cleaner. If there was gunk in the jets, a ride down a mountain would do the trick. The Baron 150-R handled superbly well in the first turns. Scoot head started to wind up. The speedometer needle passed fifty miles per hour and showed no sign of stopping. This gave scoot head an idea.

Somehow...someway...scoot head has superseded the space time continuum. Scoot head has put the robot on autopilot while it calculates that this little jaunt down the mountain is the perfect track for a road test. Scoot head would determine the indisputable top speed of the Red Baron. I embraced all my frustration in my life and finally held the throttle wide open, taking the turns without brakes.

Scoot head also acknowledges that the continuously variable transmission (CVT) does not have a neutral position unless the throttle is at idle. Otherwise it is always connected. The faster the wheels spin, the faster the single piston moves up and down inside the cylinder. The engine sounded like a lawnmower powered by rocket fuel. Like a bumblebee running nitrous oxide. Like a tachometric disaster waiting to happen. Still the engine block held. The seals, rod, and single piston (all made in China) remained intact as the Red Baron briefly achieved seventy miles per hour. Then the sharp curves showed up and it was time to brake or die.

Scoot head likes going down mountain. Adrenaline makes body and mind not so tired.

I had traveled over three hundred miles today. The last stretch would prove to be the fastest the Red Baron would ever ride. I figured the Chinese designers would be pleased. I pictured them standing around me in white lab coats. They would be smiling and nodding and shaking my hand.

I pulled off the road not fifty feet from the Chattanooga City Limits. I smoked a cigarette next to a vacated and run down fireworks stand. A dog barked at me as I walked behind the bushes and took a piss on a rusty oil drum. The sun was beginning to set and there was a hotel on a hill in the distance.

* * *
CHAPTER 9

Smoke Equals Fire

Monday, May 21, 2007 (continued)

Having scoot head makes things funny. I rounded a corner in Chattanooga proper and saw the Kings Inn. Scoot head is not an ego trip; but rather a poetically competent sense of humor that kicks in when all seems lost.

There was maybe an hour of sunset left. The hotel's single-occupancy rate had to be less than sixty dollars because that was all I had left. My room charge was forty-four dollars plus tax. My room faced the mountains. I cranked the A/C and headed back out on the Red Baron to a gas station I had seen a few blocks away. The hotel parking lot was filled with a group of construction workers. Presumably they were the migrant type, and traveling distance between jobs was formidable enough to require a hotel stay. They would be mostly gone before sunrise. Meanwhile they were drinking beer and barbequing in the parking lot. While no one said a word about my ride, I was a little worried that some drunk and sexually frustrated man would do harm to my ride during the night simply because it was nearby and stuck out like a sore thumb amidst the pickup trucks.

My hustle to the gas station was out of a desire to enjoy the sunset. I purchased a quart of 10W-30 motor oil, a can of Chef Boyardee Beef Ravioli, a can of Canadian sardines in spring water, and a six pack of Natural Light. Total price around twelve dollars. The charge to my debit card stood a strong chance of overdrawing my account. However it was after banking hours and so the charge went through. The present was all I cared about. It seemed better to pay a penalty later, than to skip food and beverage after such a long day. The sardines would provide protein and calcium while Chef Boyardee masked any fishiness with sodium and tomato sauce. The beer would help wash it down.

Twenty minutes later, I was sitting on the balcony in shorts, with a beer, a cigarette, and sunshine on my face. It was one of the most beautiful sunsets I had ever seen and enhanced further by a case of scoot head. For half an hour that day, I felt indeed like a king. The mountains silhouetted in the last rays of sunlight. Clear sky. No sounds of cars. The beautiful show by the sun and rocks capped off a memorable day.

After the dusk settled in, I moved back inside and began typing notes on my laptop. While I was working, I glanced up from time to time at the mountains outside my window. The moon had picked up where the sun had left off. The mountains were more detailed in its light.

And then they weren't.

Inner-voice spoke up.

Where did the mountains go?

I stood and hobbled to the balcony. Sure enough, the large rock formations which had recently been the horizon were no longer there.

A storm front?

The sky directly above my room was clear. There were stars.

This dark grey cloud rolling in did not look like a storm cloud. It was dark and dirty.

I suddenly wonder if something bad had happened in Atlanta, 120 miles to the south. Were they being nuked? Was there an act of terrorism occurring?

A siren began to wail in the distance. The cloud was getting closer. I shut the sliding door to the balcony and turned on the TV. There was lots of news; but no mention of anything extraordinary.

I tried the internet. Neither Reuters nor the Associated Press had posted any breaking news. I thought about checking on family; but a dark cloud that size would have been noticed long ago. And as it turned out, it certainly had. While I had been riding through other states, smoke from the largest wildfire in Georgia history had shut down schools in Atlanta. Visibility throughout the metro area had been reduced to about fifty yards.

There I sat in front of the TV watching news footage of Atlanta a few days earlier. The smoke was as thick as fog and twice as nasty. I was glad I had left. While I do smoke cigarettes, I will bet my health that the smoke I voluntarily inhale is less harmful than that which is part of human events. We do not breathe the air through a fiberglass filter.

The dark cloud of smoke still hid the mountains, but it was moving along the range now. Having breathed a lot of exhaust and road dust in my recent journey, I was happy to be out of the path. The fires had been burning for over a month, but this was the first time I had seen the smoke. The route through Alabama to Gulf Shores steered me wide of the smoke. Florida was the same. Not a puff of smoke or a flame to be seen even though much of the state was on fire. Such are the ways of the wind.

Again I wondered at the massive scale of natural disasters that have occurred in the United States since our army went overseas to invade and occupy. Most everyone in the world and even half of the United States itself thought that was a bad idea. Here again was still more proof of what a poor choice it continued to be.

Still, in the face of economics, Americans won't protest too long. And we are not alone in the world with that either. It is understandable. As long as the economy is good, life is good. Most people want to be left alone. Most soldiers just want to collect their salaries and stay in one piece. Money allows that to happen. It also allows those privileged with material comfort to ignore the rest of the people that don't. People don't talk much about the war. The ones that did were usually pissed off. As long as the economy kept its head above water, the current climate would likely continue. Still, wants and needs were being prioritized and reshuffled at many levels.

The biggest problem with success turning a blind eye to oppression is that you karmically position yourself in the path of some really bad shit.

Dead dinosaur juice allowed the American lifestyle to continue. Recently it had created a war. More and more dinosaur juice was being consumed to fight that war. The war was taking place in a foreign country. Our military had invaded and was now occupying. Many murders on both sides had already occurred. Aircraft and ships and trucks were very thirsty machines. Many more were wounded. Prices were going up.

Large wildfires meanwhile were brought on by drought. Drought had been brought on in 2007 by the over-consumption of water. As the lake levels around Georgia dropped, it was impossible not to notice the plethora of very large homes which had been constructed in the twenty-first century. No longer in the United States is it uncommon find homes with seven toilets, four showers, a Jacuzzi bath tub, and a swimming pool. These features will vary somewhat from home to home. Features that will probably always be included are dishwasher, clothes washer, icemaker, or irrigation system. These devices are wonderful conveniences. They also use a lot of water.

It was very interesting that in this glut of unnecessarily huge homes, the land was burning. The lake levels in Georgia had been dropping too. Rainfall was down but water consumption was up. The weather was unleashing itself all over our country and most other places in the world. Still it seemed that most people were content to ignore the problem. The rising price of gasoline may even have required it.

Our country is so large that the regional geographies seem like foreign countries. What I saw in Gulfport and New Orleans would have never been possible through a camera lens or a TV. Still, in so many surrounding areas who had escaped disaster, there was a gluttonous scattering of what has been cynically tagged as the McMansion.

A McMansion built in the twenty-first century can easily be identified by its enormous size, its plywood construction, and sometimes even a lack of aesthetic taste. McMansions used a disproportionate amount of natural gas, electricity, and water.

Bigger is better?

I burped sardines and Chef Boyardee. It was a healthy burp. My stomach was working on the strange combination without comment. I had fifteen dollars in cash to ride home. I also had a handful of loose change, and hoped I wouldn't need it.

These were ominous times on all levels. It was dark in Chattanooga as I smoked the day's last cigarette and drifted off to the Land of Nod.

* * *
CHAPTER 10

Zen and the Art of Scoot Head

Tuesday May 22, 2007

A man with scoot head wakes up and launches into a well-practiced set of movements. He packs his clothes and his tools and his laptop. He gently tips his scooter on its side in the parking lot outside his hotel room door. The fiberglass body cracks and shifts even with the kindness that the man is showing it. He adds gear oil. Some dinosaur juice drips onto paper towels. It is gasoline leaking from the carburetor. He wipes that off too. Checkout is 11AM. He is two hours ahead of schedule. The fiberglass body of the scooter cracked again and a plastic tab snapped, but he was able to remove some of the pressure using a towel from the hotel room. Otherwise the body is not too much worse for wear. His belongings are secured to the scooter using tie-downs, electrical tape, and bungee cords.

The man with scoot head mounts his ride and presses the start button. The engine turns and keeps turning without ignition.

The man twists one quarter turn on the throttle and gives it another try.

The engine gives no sign that it is even remotely interested in firing up, but it does appear to be more than willing to go through the motions as long as the battery is willing and able to push. The volt meter confirms the steadily slower turning of the engine. The battery is running out of juice.

The man does not know why his scooter won't start; but he knows it will be getting hot outside soon. He has been smart enough at least, to have kept the keycard to his room and not checked out yet. He calculates correctly that he will have enough time to change the engine oil – which has lubricated the single piston for 1350 miles of riding - and still check out honorably from the hotel.

Using the cardboard from the empty six pack of Natural Light, scoot head makes a funnel. Scoot head drains the old oil into his plastic water bottle. He is quick. The job is done with time to spare.

This time, as he is futilely cranking the engine, the man wonders if the engine is simply ignoring him. Has it had enough? It had carried him all this way. Was it now doomed to die a mere one hundred twenty miles from home?

The man thinks again of Charlton Heston playing Moses, and laments the role. Moses led the journey to the Promised Land but never gained entrance. He died at the outskirts. The writing heads back into the first person...

I knew the air filter was also a possible source of problem. The previous month in Georgia had seen me riding through a week of incredibly thick pollen. The intake of the engine was sucking in a lot of dirt. In my haste to get out of Dodge last Tuesday, I had not changed the oil or the air filter before I set out to ride to Gulf Shores. Now I was in the parking lot of the King's Inn in Chattanooga, Tennessee with fifteen dollars in cash and over one hundred miles to make it home. The bike wouldn't run.

A maintenance supervisor rode past and offered me a screwdriver. I thanked him and unscrewed the five screws holding the unit in place. I checked the air filter. It looked a little yellow but functional. The supervisor man mentioned it could be a spark plug. He had once ridden motorcycles. He had worked on them himself. After looking more closely at the seat compartment, he advised me to remove the seat and showed which bolts would probably do the trick.

"How many cylinders does the engine have?"

"One"

"Well, that makes it easier. Anyway you'll need some sandpaper."

"Do you have a piece I could use?"

"No. Sorry. I don't carry it with me in the truck."

"Alright...well thanks for the tools and the tips. I really appreciate your help."

"Good luck with that."

"Thanks."

The sun was getting hotter by the minute and management finally phoned and told me to vacate the room. I pulled my belongings and the Red Baron around the corner and into the shade.

I should have been home already. A hundred miles was nothing after the three hundred I had ridden yesterday. Yet this smallish distance was stretched considerably with a bum leg, a thin wallet, and an unresponsive horse.

The seat unit was disassembled using the borrowed screwdriver and the Chinese-built wrenches. Eventually I had pulled off the seat, disconnected the battery wires, and located the sparkplug. I had brought along the spark plug wrench included with the bike. The wrench also fit the tire nuts. Meanwhile, the sparkplug was dirty. The electrodes could easily not be making clear electrical contact.

Cleaning electrically baked residue off a sparkplug requires some grit. Sand paper is the best because it will fit between side and center electrode. I had no sandpaper. I dipped into the gas tank with a cotton swab from my shaving bag. I tried to use the dinosaur juice as a solvent to dissolve the blackness that was keeping a shiny happy electrical connection from occurring. That didn't work.

There were however, a truck and few men working on the stucco of the entryway to the King's Inn Motor Lodge. I approached them and asked for help. They didn't have any sandpaper; but their boss did.

Of course I asked where the boss was and should not have been at all surprised to hear that their boss was suffering from a case of non-presence.

"He's not here right now", one of the workers told me, "but he'll be back soon."

I was very pleased to hear that the man with the hopeful bit of sandpaper would be returning. I sat down and had a cigarette with one of the stucco guys and a woman from the hotel cleaning service. The woman said little. The man however, was more than happy to explain to me exactly how stucco is processed and that it used to build a great deal of homes.

"This stuff is flimsy man. Would you want your home built like this?"

"You mean the stucco they put on homes is just like what you're doing?" I asked him when he was finished explaining.

"Yep." He replied. "I won't work on 'em. Made like shit."

That was when his boss drove up in a big white pickup. I stepped back to give them a moment.

Murfreesboro, Tennessee – a place I had visited only yesterday – was home to the largest McMansion I had ever seen. Four stories of plywood, Styrofoam, fiberglass screen; and of course, stucco. This modern castle sported multiple chimneys more in the fashion of a cruise liner than a sanely crafted domicile. It was the RMS Queen Mary of all McMansions, and it rested on a large, flat lot without trees. The absurd girth of the home suggested that an alien spaceship, cloaked as an enormous house, had landed in a soccer field. Anyone nearby when it happened was now undergoing a battery of uncomfortable tests in the third floor library.

Cruise liners are, at least, sea worthy. Meanwhile someone had expressed their personal desire for attention by erecting a cookie-cutter home with more square footage than the country of Lichtenstein. I wondered what sort of psychotic complex a person must have to think that he or she needed such a large box. It would probably go back into childhood and even then, reflect back early years of aesthetic deprivation which led to the big-not-beautiful mentality. Could it be a Napoleon syndrome?

The eyesore of that home yesterday transformed into episodic humor.

Now I was aware that it was built – in order of inside to outside - of plywood, Styrofoam, fiberglass screen, and stucco. The interior of the home was likely to have all the grand accessories like vaulted ceilings, spiral staircases, and thousands of feet of crown molding. It was also likely that the owner had invested heavily in the interior gingerbread without even a consideration of the long-term structural effects.

The Queen Mary, even with her advanced age, would likely outlive this cyclopean domicile.

Then the episode ended.

I was nearly broke, broken down, and still needing sandpaper.

Boss man was very nice guy. Stucco guy explained to him what I was looking for. Boss man began checking his gang box. The gang box was deep, large, and exceptionally unorganized.

It was no different than most any other toolbox which mounts in the bed of a pickup truck. Things are cleaned up at the end of the day, not while you're working. During a busy week, the organizing might have to wait until Friday afternoon. During a really busy week it might not be cleaned at all.

The boss man was short and wide and friendly. The lid of the tool box was level with his head and he was not physically designed for things like submarine duty, cave diving, or any other hobbies and/or occupations which require a slim figure and complete range of motion. Boss man balanced his abdomen on the truck rail and still achieved only slightly more altitude. Eventually he actually let me look inside.

"Here you're tall. You look."

I could reach down into the box without having to play penguin on the truck bed rail. I saw a roll of light blue emery paper next to a pneumatic drill and a Skil-Saw. The man tore off a decent-sized piece and I thanked him very much. They wished me luck and I headed back across the parking lot.

It couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes until I had the spark plug installed. The battery cables were reattached and the seat unit was replaced. I packed up all my gear and secured my blue suitcase on the luggage rack. Then, I used electrical tape to secure the loose ends of rope that could get stuck in the wheel.

I turned the key and watched as the voltmeter, headlights, and running lights all did precisely what they had never done before. Absolutely nothing.

Not a budge to indicate that I had even the slightest bit of a complete electrical circuit.

Nip. Zip. Nada. And I also knew that the wiring diagram in the owner manual was written entirely in Chinese kanji. Although the manual was refreshingly precise about the electrical systems of the Baron 150-R, I could not read Chinese.

It was not going to be of any help

I had made it a point to fasten all of the nuts and bolts on the seat, so sure had I been that cleaning the sparkplug would solve the problem. The Red Baron had oil in both the gearbox and the crankcase; and the gas tank was nearly full of dead dinosaur juice. There is not that much that can go wrong with such a simple engine. The spark plug sparks, the dinosaur juice explodes, the piston goes down and up, and we all go jiggety-hah down the forking road.

I was starting to get pissed off.

Off again come the screws and bolts. Off comes the seat.

The battery connections are fine. There is a fuse box leading from the distributor and the cover is half-open. The fuses themselves are intact, but in their current proximity to their leads, there is about as much likelihood of them completing their circuit as there would be that the next president of Zambia would be the love child of a parakeet and a largemouth bass.

Electrical tape is your friend if you ride a scooter for long distance. Keep a roll at all times. You can re-tape your tie-downs, luggage straps, and even fix your faulty fuse box.

When I was finished, the fuse box was more secure than when it had rolled off the line at the factory.

My ignorance was fortunate. I was about to put all the screws back into the seat unit, reconnect the battery, and proceed to watch all the gauges wake up and resume their proper places. Volt meter a little in the red; but to be expected with all the cranking. Fuel at three-quarter's full. Running lights operational. It was good that I didn't know that while my electrical repair was good, the Red Baron was still not going to start.

At least, in my unawareness, I experienced brief hope and a flash of success before finding myself again disconnecting the battery and removing the seat. This time I would look deeper than ever before into the guts of the Red Baron. There I would discover that the air intake had been blown off of the manifold. This had likely happened while coming down the mountain with the tachometer deep into the red zone. My small motorcycle could not suck enough air to start.

A stream of obscenities spewed from my mouth and blended like a strawberry smoothie into repetitive recapitulations of the same five swear words everybody knows. I felt a little better.

I sat down on the curb. I was already full of grease. The Red Baron's problems – which were also mine – seemed to be defying the logic of positive thinking. I continued to believe it would work out. And I kept discovering more problems.

Pushing my scooter anywhere was not an option. It was hard enough to push before my Achilles tendon was torn. Now it was simply impossible for me to generate enough push power to make it over steep hills in either direction of the hotel. A tow truck was also not an option because I couldn't pay for one. I had fifteen dollars in cash and a handful of loose change. That was it.

Baron 150R motorcycles are not designed for large hands. In order to squeeze my hand behind the air intake, I had to remove the rear splash guard. Then I could push the intake back onto the manifold. There was a circular clamp which tightened down by a screw. The screwdriver was of course too long to fit, and I didn't have a stubby. The maintenance foreman had already gotten sick of waiting and finally donated an old screwdriver and a pair of channel locks. Fortunately at this point, I already expected everything to go wrong. It was simply a matter of finding a solution. I had a pair of steel tweezers in my shaving kit which I could use to twist the screw. A quarter turn at a time, until it was as tight as it was going to be.

Learning from my mistakes, I chose not to re-fasten the splashguard. I skipped the nuts and screws on the seat unit and simply dropped everything where it belonged.

I turned the key and the gauges moved. There was no longer enough battery however, to crank the engine. That must be why the Red Baron also had a kick start.

I kicked. The engine started and ran for an encouraging few seconds.

I kicked again. The Red Baron came to life again. This time it was me who turned it off as I now had to pack up everything strewn around the parking space and sidewalk. I replaced the nuts and bolts, except for the splashguard which I would take care of when I arrived again at my mother and father's house, seven days after I had left for the summer.

I had performed MacGyver-like tasks with success that I felt could have brought critical acclaim as an understudy of Richard Dean Anderson. I thanked God for grace. I felt both humbled and confident.

Seven days on a scooter will clear your mind.

Scoot head mechanical repair left me looking like a crossbreed of a Green Beret and a Geek Squad technician. I was dressed in the same jeans and the same black hoodie. My face and hands were covered in war paint made of dinosaur juice. I was sweaty. I was greasy. I was riding a bright red Chinese-built 150cc scooter that was running poorly. It was 12:52PM. Heat, smog, and noise assaulted my senses.

No. Geek Squad would ride a shiny new Vespa.

Green Beret would apply grease more precisely to their face and hands.

Either way, I didn't care much at that point about what I looked like. A shower, and a shave, and clean clothes would improve everything. They were waiting for me. All I had to do was ride there.

It actually felt good to be going home.

* * *
CHAPTER 11

The End Is the Beginning

Tuesday May 22, 2007 (continued)

The Red Baron would run in traffic, but it required a lot of wrist with the throttle. We made about four miles before running into the gridlock. I was navigating by instinct. My instinct had been drawn to a truck route through Chattanooga proper. The small city blocks, controlled intersections, and twenty-five mile an hour speed limit made for a long backup of tractor trailers. The gridlock was several miles long. I would figure that out later.

Mechanically, I was destroying the Red Baron. Temps were in the nineties. There was a hot road full of engine exhaust and wildfire smoke. The torque-based CVT transmission was leaking oil. It could only take so much of engaging and disengaging. We had gotten to know each other. I could feel through the handlebar vibrations that my engine was struggling to breathe. I could also empathize. A bridge slowly approached where there would be no emergency lane to pull over and kick start if I stalled. Also slowly approaching was a large sign representing the Sonic Burger on the left. The sign advertised a BLT and mango iced tea for $2.99. I could swing that and still have almost twelve dollars left after tax.

Last night's Chef Boyardee and sardines had been used up by the robot during Scoot Head MacGyver's engine repair clinic. I was glad to be free of the hotel parking lot. Maybe the traffic would thin out while I ate. There was a shaded picnic table with an umbrella. I ate and drank and watched the trucks stop and go and stop and go. I was grateful the diesel exhaust was heading away in the wind. I smoked a few cigarettes and watched the minutes tick by without any disruption in the crawling line of semis. I finished the peach mango iced tea, swallowed all the ice, gulped four Advil, and headed back into the mess.

Red Baron stalled once on the bridge, and I was lucky. The engine had recharged the battery enough. I clicked the thumb button and we kept moving. The bridge was too narrow to prop my scoot on the stand and kick start. I would have held up traffic, assuming traffic would have stopped.

The bridge was crossed and led into a downtown with angle parking along the traffic lanes. It was here that I was able to buzz my way around the line of semis. There was no way around for a car, but a scooter could fit. Now the legalities of some of the maneuvers I performed along the outskirts of the traffic lanes were indeed suspect; but I was truly at a point where I would have been happy to tell the local police exactly how my day was going and why I was choosing such an interesting path. Getting arrested at least meant air conditioning. But I did no harm as I used the full benefits of a scooter in traffic, which includes getting around it. My path was as wobbly as the wave form of a Pete Townsend power chord with full whammy bar. It mimicked the illogical grace of a Laotian bicycle courier. It also saved thirty minutes in traffic and heat. I rode the shoulder, the parking lot, the sidewalk, and even a bicycle lane. Dubious at best. Again, no harm was done or dangerous situations created among pedestrians, pets, pedal pushers, landscapes, or other motor vehicles. There was a strong impetus on my part to keep moving.

Eighteen wheelers were stacked a mile deep because they were waiting to turn left along their special truck route. I dodged a sign post and understood the delay. Straight was the way to go. The speed limit picked up to fifty. Finally there was again open road and the smoke did not impede or even impair my vision. However I had no windshield. It was hot, windy, and dusty. Passing dump trucks from a nearby quarry were foul combinations of black diesel smoke, mud, dust, sand, and wind. They would appear in the horizon like a crossbreed of Pig Pen and Optimus Prime. When they drew closer, I would hold my breath for twenty and thirty seconds, until I was past the dust cloud.

Dump trucks are notorious for spewing thick black smoke as they accelerate. Some of this is poor quality of the diesel fuel itself. While that is understandable, the really important part is that they spew thick black smoke into the air. America burns through some one hundred fifty million gallons of diesel fuel every day. The consumer is not all at fault, although there are more consumers on the planet than ever before. China and India together have a combined population of two point five billion people. The United States has often been faulted for consuming twenty five percent of the world's energy to support its population of three hundred million.

America may have been leading the world, but energy consumption was not a good category. The Kyoto Protocol had been signed by 178 countries. President Bush chose not to ratify the protocol in 2005 because he felt it would have damaged the economy. President Bush comes from an oil family. China followed the U.S. move and also declined to ratify. Because China is growing quickly, so is its thirst for dinosaur juice. China has three times the population of the United States. There is acid rain around coal plants and smog so thick that many citizens wear dust masks to walk outside.

Finally there is a nation that consumes and pollutes more than we do?

These are not good categories for leadership.

Meanwhile, I was pleased that I had three days worth of stubble on my face to protect it. Riding along local Tennessee highways that followed the path of Interstate 75, I was treated to an experience of air pollution on a scale previously unknown to me in America. Dust and gravel from dump trucks and loaders crept under my visor. I stopped for fuel in Cartersville and picked up Highway 293. Lake Altoona was a welcome crossing. The water cooled the air and the thick pine trees gobbled up much of the smoke. There was an actual fresh evergreen smell for at least half an hour.

Marietta was a different story though. I was treated to another lesson about America's ridiculous dependence on dinosaur juice. Three lanes of southbound traffic clustered in tight. I was part of it. It was disturbing.

When a stoplight turned green, my helmet allowed me to hear the engines collectively consume gasoline and diesel in an effort to reach forty or fifty miles per hour. This they do over the next half mile, or about 2500 feet. All of the engines are doing it. Then the cluster of vehicles meets the next red light. They collectively de-accelerate and idle for a minute or two while waiting for other vehicles traveling perpendicular to do exactly the same thing. Air conditioners are running. Inside their vehicles, people are oblivious to what is going on around them. On a scooter, I was able to see, feel, hear, smell, taste, and breathe the intense heat and pollution that even a single stretch of cars can create.

Stop and go went on for an hour. It was, I reminded myself, only one stretch of highway in the state of Georgia. There were a lot of states, highways, and cars all doing the same thing. American vehicles were drinking three hundred fifty million gallons of dinosaur juice every day.

How can there possibly be enough dinosaur juice under ground?

Aren't the drilling sites going to turn into unstable caves?

What were we all thinking with all these cars?

Did President Eisenhower ever consider life in 2007 when he signed the U.S. Highway Act? Was there a knife at his back? Was he coherent? Was he tricked? Would he ever have guessed the environmental impact of that one signature?

It was said he was in poor health.

Not entirely surprising is that a Texas businessman named Prescott Bush had championed the project. His grandson George was now calling for more drilling and refineries to solve the dependency on foreign oil. Both the grandfather and the grandson were members of a secret society known as Skull and Bones.

During the 2004 U.S. Presidential election, both the Democratic and Republican candidates were members of Skull and Bones. There was of course the suggestion that this secret society, carried across the ocean by European occultists, was firmly in control of American politics. Many reporters, including Tim Russert, attempted to extract and/or coax an explanation from Senator John Kerry and/or President George W. Bush. They were not successful in revealing what lay behind the dark curtain. They were however, able to prove the existence of the curtain and the fact that things were moving behind it.

Oz is not a valid comparison. The Wizard of the Emerald Kingdom did not bring the circumstances of his rule so heavily among the people. He did not hold court in a building called The Tomb. He did not participate in the occult practice of Freemasonry, nor did he maintain an association of rule.

Beyond the dark suggestions of a cabal lies the fact that the Wizard of Oz neither encouraged nor helped create pollution for his own economic gain. He was actually a pretty normal and nice guy acting alone.

Building more refineries is not the answer to appeasing the American hunger for energy. Nuclear-fission power plants are not the answer either. The fission process consumes huge amounts of water. It also produces toxic radioactive waste. Some of that waste is contained in the Yucca Mountain Repository in Nevada. One of the key problems in the development of that site was that the repository would be full immediately after completion. The proposed nuclear dump is located in the crater of an extinct volcano. The idea was to see if it the area would work as a mega landfill for depleted uranium sludge. That way more nuclear reactors could be built.

Yucca Mountain is claimed to be safe and also secure. There is nothing safe about depleted uranium sludge, even when the site is rigged with protection from future archeologists and excavators. Make no mistake about it. The stuff is to the modern world what a Petri dish of bubonic plague was to the Dark Ages. Perhaps much worse. Bubonic plague did not have a thousand-year half life and it did not kill everything around it. Large scale natural disasters do not discriminate; and fission reactors are highly vulnerable to earthquakes, meteor showers, and solar storms.

Nuclear fusion is the opposite process of nuclear fission. Fusion is brighter, cleaner, and more powerful. It uses significantly less water and produces waste that is radioactive only for a generation or two. Fusion is the energy of the stars. Particles merge, rather than splitting apart. We are kept alive by a nuclear fusion machine. Our Sun is the perfect model. Superconductor technology and magnetic technologies allow the research. Mass produced fusion reactors are entirely possible within ten years; but the speed of the technology is largely dependent upon the amount of available scientists to address its development. Some decades ago, before superconductors were invented, a world war was going on. Scientists were looking to make a big boom to stop the war.

The Manhattan Project began by exploring both methods of nuclear reaction. In the end, they went with splitting-apart. They chose fission. It split apart neighborhoods, families, and even two entire Japanese cities. It stopped the war.

Nuclear fission destroyed sixty square miles in Russia when the reactor melted. The Russian name Chernobyl is chilling in its own implications; but the name was not the problem. Many of the men who cleaned it up died shortly after. Health complications among the surviving population had been evident.

I had witnessed this mutation thing at a truck stop outside Geneva, Switzerland. I was with a group of American college students on their way to tour the United Nations. Our coach bus needed dead dinosaur juice. We stepped onto the grass at the edge of the parking lot and played hackey sack. There was a nuclear reactor in the distance, and the view was so beautiful with rolling hills and green grass that for a few minutes I was really a fan of "clean" nuclear power.

Then I had stooped to pick up the hackey sack and noticed four very odd looking dandelion flowers growing out of the same stem. I stopped the game for a second and showed one of the other students. The dandelions were bright and yellow, while their stems were chaotically distorted and uncharacteristically thick. They were babies with ten heads. The others started looking at them too. We learned more there than we did during our entire tour of the United Nations.

"Eeew! Mutants!" one of the young women had said.

Nuclear fission is not a good solution.

Magnetism is a clean answer, and part of a more distant future. Currently available are wind turbines and ocean wave generators. Efficient desalination of ocean water is also part of our future. Preferably the breakthrough process will also produce electricity. Hydrogen cars and electric cars may very well be good interim solutions for a decade or two; but the dead dinosaur juice will run out before that. That will be a bad thing for the world economies but a good thing for a lot of obese people who will then have to walk or ride a bicycle. Already, according to reports, it was having an impact.

More geologists are turning away from fat oil salaries and exploring geothermal energy solutions. Methane hydrate in the oceans is being explored because it burns. However it also keeps the ocean cool. If we take it out of the deep oceans, the oceans will warm and storms will intensify. More research is required.

These were the things I was thinking about until I finally came across a road name I recognized. I didn't know much about Alpharetta, so I felt my way home by turning at familiar roads. It was shortly after seven when I arrived at the driveway where I had departed seven days ago. The Red Baron's odometer pegged the total distance at one thousand five hundred and thirty-four miles.

The last leg was the shortest. Yet it had required eleven hours of repair and travel. I was very happy to be home. I turned off the bike, sat down right there on the curb, and smoked a cigarette, thinking about how amazing it was that I had been able to actually arrive home.

I said a thank you to God and went inside for a shower. My hands were black from the morning repair clinic with Scoot Head MacGyver. The rest of me was covered with sweat, wildfire smoke, and the disgusting emissions of hundreds of gasoline and diesel powered engines. I had an injured horse, and injured leg, a pocketful of spare change, and an interesting story. .

I had learned to trust that I would receive what I need when I needed it.

Some will call it trust in God. I will also call it trust in God.

I had no understanding of the nature of God, the universe, or anything else you might call the hands that guide. My understanding did not predicate the existence of this energy. It didn't matter if I didn't understand what it was. I knew this force existed because I had been feeling it recently in very profound ways. Maybe God is drawn to thinking that supports God's existence.

Agnostics and atheists alike should at least be able to accept that calling the energy of the universe by the name God is, for a writer, the road of least resistance.

God is a very easy word to type.

My mother and father offered me a meal and conversation while I ate. I told them some details from the experience and they were quite amazed. I also told them I had developed a newfound respect both for them and God. They told me they loved me too. It was good to hear. They gave me a meal and a bed and they certainly weren't required to let me come back home. They had also drafted an outline of expectations for my residence at their household. It was waiting on the dresser. I read it, agreed with most of it, and lay down in bed to close my eyes. My mind was still racing

It was good to trust in God. There was little left of anything else to trust. The dependence on dinosaur juice was so enormous that there seemed no way to avoid being screwed by the addiction. Recently the Halliburton Corporation had announced it was moving its headquarters to Dubai to avoid U.S. corporate income tax. The company had already made over ten billion dollars in various subsidiary ventures which were awarded troop support contracts. Halliburton started in Texas and was heading to the United Arab Emirates.

As corporate moves go, this one was a rape and run. I was deeply concerned at what Vice President Cheney had been doing behind closed doors for all these years. Were he and the president going to make a fortune off of dinosaur juice and then run away? This action of the Halliburton Corporation suggested that neither Bush nor Cheney would make them selves personally available when the juice runs out. Since they know who controls the oil, they probably had good idea when that will happen. The plan is apparently was to leave office and skip town before there was no dinosaur juice left to move really important things like food trucks.

America required a major redesign to avoid the problems that had been created, "solved", and then ignored by a very select group. The urgency of creating that blueprint seemed to be mocked by CNN and the rest of the major media in America. Media was mostly owned by a grand total of five corporations. It was the fear of Orwell and Huxley combined. News screens in the airports were projecting equal amounts of angst and apathy. Sobering figures on climate change and stock markets minced with advertising for over-packaged and over-processed snack foods. Military deaths are up. Here's a new kind of bathroom cleaner. The dollar is weak. Haven't you always wanted to take a cruise? Look at the cute zoo animal. Look at the weather in Cleveland. An accident could happen. Are you insured?

Tomorrow, I would begin unpacking and unraveling my life. There was collateral damage to my scooter and my bank account. There was also a very interesting story that would provide hope over the coming weeks that things would work out.

There seemed to be a scale of justice in the way things were working out for the global economy. America was a seriously wasteful country. Luxury and convenience had created huge gluts of consumption and pollution. Plastic water bottles alone were a prime example. There was both ignorance and mockery of conservation by those who could afford to do as they pleased. There was also a persistent bombardment of consumer propaganda which fanned the flame to burn the fire that tells of the lingering material wantonness which dead dinosaur juice [by creating access through transportation] had protracted. If there was a universal scale of guilt perceivable by all who live on Earth, then surely the wasteful greed of consumption and pollution has contributed more to the current state of our planet than war, torture, incarceration, foreign occupation, lobbyists, insider trading, CEO salaries, and the general willingness of people to do whatever it takes to make a lot of money. We needed to clean up our shit and fast.

Plastic water bottles walk hand-in-hand with sprawling landfills, synthetic fertilizer runoff, toxic waste, factory farms; and all the other garbage that people just chuck along roadways, forests, and seashores. Dead dinosaur juice had proven that the collective greed of a country can completely bypass any reasonable environmental or moral decency. Karmic suffrage might indeed nominate this very thing as the universal criteria.

The scales were being balanced for the individual and the collective. After riding over 1500 miles on a scooter in seven days, it seemed like a very good idea to consider, above all, the preservation of planet Earth.

Then my mind rested and let me sleep.

All said and done, I was really tired.

* * *
CHAPTER 12

Hello, Hello, Goodbye, Hello

The Red Baron spent the spring and early summer of 2007 in a dubiously operational state. It required more and more kicks on the starter to run. When it ran, the depleted power of the engine was evident. I did not have enough money to consult a mechanic; but I had learned to be positive, patient, and to trust that things will work out.

It was another month after my ride until I found employment at a nearby veterinary clinic. The day I dropped off my application, I was almost rear-ended by a black SUV. The driver stopped in time, but her tires were screaming. She had been talking on her cell phone and not paying attention. A woman in the parking lot watched and waited as I parked and dismounted.

"That was lucky", she said.

I agreed and then said a silent thank you to God.

Working as a veterinary technician was an amazing experience with animals. It also allowed me to deal with the financial repercussions of my trip. It even allowed me to ride the Red Baron to ATL Scooters in Atlanta for repair. Their mechanics ran a compression test and found that power output was only thirty percent of what it should have been. While their staff was very helpful in describing to me exactly how dirty the single cylinder was; the labor-intensive cleaning of the engine would cost almost as much as replacing the engine entirely.

I didn't want a new engine. I had performed the ultimate road test on the Red Baron and determined that I wanted a ride that would go a little faster and not bottom out from my weight. I weighed one hundred eighty-five pounds. It wasn't too much to ask.

So one day in summer, my new girlfriend drove me down to ATL Scooters where I took a picture in the parking lot on the Red Baron; and then proceeded to trade it in for a larger automatic motorcycle with over double the horsepower. The new ride would not be named, but it was fuel efficient to the tune of sixty miles to the gallon.

Shortly after, I passed the Georgia state road test and was awarded a full motorcycle endorsement on my license. I could now ride at night and also see at night. My new ride had a decent headlamp. It was a good step forward. The Red Baron had carried me for seventeen months until it was retired for parts. There were no accidents, wipeouts, or even minor spills during four thousand miles of ownership. Eight horsepower had carried me safely through the first months of my life after divorce and relocation. It had gotten me around Athens and Alpharetta with very little expense; and during our fifteen hundred mile road trip, it had shown me so many things that you just can't find along an interstate highway.

Things will work out if you can allow yourself to trust. By the end of the summer I had a new automatic motorcycle. I had a sweet girlfriend who also lived with her parents. In October of 2007, she and I said goodbye to our respective bedrooms and began a life together in our very own apartment. We had a collection of mismatched furniture, a pet cat, a fireplace, and a lot of music and love. I felt complete for perhaps the first time ever in my life.

Long distance scooter travel can change everything!

* * *

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tom Schimmel is a writer living in the South. Imaginative and feisty, his panoramic style and subject matters are always engaged in human growth and awareness. Tom publishes his own books without the assistance of editors, designers, or publishers. "1500 Miles on a Scooter" is his second ebook published at Smashwords.com.

Many readers of his work are also fans of his music, which is written and recorded at home.

"What I do is different from what you will find at the bookstore or on the radio."

Tom blogs regularly about current events, clean power, and the oddities of existence at http://blogs.myspace.com/tomschimmel

"My ebooks are paperless, but they can be printed in PDF format. Please use recycled paper in your printer; and thank you very much for reading my work. I hope you enjoy my other books as well.

Links below!"

FICTION BY TOM SCHIMMEL

"Quirks and Charms"

Science fiction fused with humor to provide a most unlikely history of Earth.

The Big Hug

December 21, 2012 11:11AM...make a wish

NONFICTION BY TOM SCHIMMEL

"The Clean Energy Revolution"

Sustainable solutions for climate change.

"1500 Miles on a Scooter"

A true story about a week that changed my life.

Please help America convert to clean power.

Send this e-Book link to a friend who cares.

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