Book Description

In the hot 'Summer of 88', the author packed up his motorcycle and pulled out of the garage with no destination or return date in mind. Rain was coming down, and every omen said "Wait"; but waiting had no place in what little plan there was. That trip would consume the better part of the summer; logging over twelve thousand miles from sea to sea and back. Yellowstone would burn, Reagan would threaten the 'Evil empire', and the author was oblivious to it all. The 'Drought of 88' was one of the hottest seasons on record, straining mind and machine. As resolve faltered, 'bloody mindedness' prevailed. "Alone In The Wind" is the account of that trip, with pictures, maps, travel thoughts, and rolling narrative. A few selected excerpts:The Interstates, when I use them, are viewed as something akin to "Worm Holes". They transport me at high speed from one wilderness portal on to the next; the bike appearing suddenly out of the grasslands, then once again vanishing into an empty canyon. The early evening sun is bright red and except for wind slapping the tents, all is quiet. Other campers are talking in subdued tones. The scene has a timeless quality I can't explain. Maybe it's how I'd picture an Oregon Trail camp. Everybody too exhausted to do more than whisper; anticipating the day ahead; trying to forget the ones behind.Kurt Vonnegut might have written that the Custer annihilation occurred solely to provide me with a ranger to give advice on the coming storms. That irony rattled around in my helmet for the next forty miles.Chewing mindlessly I stare at passing trucks with red eyes. This has been an endless, grueling day. A far cry from the mystical experience that other writers claim. The bone numbing reality of motorcycle touring is exhaustion, dehydration, disorientation. Vacant eyes seem to be nothing more than rubber stoppers that keep my liquefied brains from spilling out over my face.Carved out by the tides, the cave is probably underwater for most of the day. At the entrance is a rock with a well-formed depression at the top. Without thinking I dump both bottles of Atlantic Ocean into that shallow basin, move deeper into the cave and sit. There's a lot on my mind, and it all seems to be demanding immediate attention. The mission will be accomplished. The oceans will unite. It will take a few hours, and I won't be here to see it, but this is a better way. Letting the sea take it on its own terms seems more fitting.Heat was the real problem. Both the heat of a western summer day and the heat thrown off an air-cooled engine that's being pushed to its limits. While it was never transcendental, the passage was always very real, very immediate, and unforgettable. Thinking back to the other riders that I met, it seemed the same for them as well. They were all worn down with fatigue and loneliness; while at the same time brimming over with confidence and satisfaction. I won't forget them.