Originally published in “On the Level,” the official magazine of the BMW Riders Association.
This afternoon, I went to the gym, just six miles away. Naturally, this was via Alice’s Restaurant, a two-hour ride each direction on relentlessly twisty roads with broken pavement. And yesterday, I had a special mission: the post office. This took the better part of four hours. It’s three blocks away.
My infantile brain simply does not comprehend the whole shtick about the shortest line and the two points. You wouldn’t want to send me on an errand, especially for perishable goods. The bananas would be brown and bruised, the baked goods long gone stale. If Uber allowed motorcycle drivers, my passengers would be yelling from the pillion seat, wondering why the signs say San Francisco when they just wanted to go to local pub. Oops!
GPS tracks of my rides look like the result of a child who has been handed an Etch A Sketch for the first time. Madness. On one ride, I went to a friend’s house 30 miles inland—and ended up sending my wife a photo from the beach. Once again, a cold dinner and equally cold reception.
One friend keeps his expresso machine ready for my serendipitous arrivals. He sees the headlights of the GS in the drive and flicks the thing on with an air of resignation. I worry that I might wear out my welcome. Soon he’ll see me approaching, turn off the lights, and pretend not to be home, whispering to his wife, “How can I miss this guy if he won’t go away?”
You’d think that I’d possess the efficiency, frugality, and good sense that comes with age. Yet, I understand none of these things. I go where I please. I eat what I want. Sometimes, I even bathe. I am only loosely moored to sanity.
Just ask my wife, whom I have noticed has begun researching how to file a missing person report. So far she’s glad to see me. I dread the time she is not. It could be coming, if this trend continues. And I wouldn’t blame her. For her sake, I have considered some type of tracking device, like SPOT or inReach, that would send my coordinates every hour. Probably a good idea, but the result would look like an abstract painting, full of crazy dots that form no coherent picture or destination. And, worst of all, none of them would include the grocery store.
I was a motorcycle commuter for many years, which imparted an air of sanity, practicality, and usefulness to my life. That was then. This is now. My motorcycle still takes me places that I should go. But it also takes me places that have no other redeeming value than to activate the small, quivering pleasure center in my meager brain. It’s gotten worse since I retired. There used to be rough boundaries to my perambulations and bad behavior. Now it’s Geoff unplugged and occasionally unhinged. Watch out.
If you draw a circumference around the places I frequently go, it covers a distance of about 10 miles. If you draw a circumference around the distances I travel to get there, it covers about 100 miles. Logic, and economy, were never my strong points.
“Service Engine” lights come, and go, and come, and go. My GPS hollers at me relentlessly. “Go left.” I go right. “Go right.” I go left. “Take the first available U Turn.” I go straight. Every intersection is an act of defiance. I am limited only by gas and the oceans that lap inexorably on either side of the continent, like giant brackets enclosing errant motorcyclists. Curse them!
I love going to the café for a socially distant coffee, which is just down the street. I also love Stage Road, which is halfway to San Francisco. So why not combine the two? Blame the motorcycle. Blame the weather. Blame the roads. Blame Covid, for encouraging such anti-social behavior. Most of all, blame my twisted little heart. Send me to confession for my manifold sins, or to counseling. Just don’t send me to the corner store.
There is only this in my favor: I always get where I’m going. It just takes a while. By the way, what’s your address? I need to go out for some milk. Maybe I’ll stop by. Don’t worry, I’ll only be mildly annoying. By the way, I like my coffee black.