April 27, 2017
The Road
We've done so much freeway driving over the past three days that the last stretch to Yorktown feels robotic, routine, job-like: not much conversation, regular stops for gas and coffee and tea, finishing the audio book that we started so many miles back to the west that I can't remember what state we were in.
Thinking about what's coming doesn't feel that way at all. My body has the anxious buzz of excitement, the low hum of possibility. As we spend the afternoon and evening cleaning gear and packing bags and loading bikes, my head fills only with good thoughts. We're headed back to the road.
The road.
We were married on the road. We lost our dog on the road. So much of the fabric that together forms our collective memory was weaved into life on the road. It's where we spend every minute of every day together; where we crank out bad jokes and good effort and do a better job of paying attention to the details; where we marvel at the beauty of the world around us and then despair at what its continued destruction will mean.
For the next twelve or thirteen weeks, it's home.
The sound of snarling, angry traffic speeding past on U.S. 17 drowns out all other sound whenever I open the door to our motel room. Tomorrow morning we drop ourselves into a world where, for the next three months, all of that commotion and haste and racing toward some unseen and nonexistent finish line will disappear into some universe parallel to ours.
We can't wait.
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6 years ago