UPDATE, SHORT FORM
In a few weeks I’ll be leaving on a three- or four-week long motorcycle tour of the Southeast United States. Much of what I’m doing these days consists of obsessing over the details of trip, wondering aloud what on earth I’ve gotten myself into, and working my way through a pile of books (previously photographed) that have at least tangential relation to the upcoming journey.
Nearly every night I lay awake thinking up various disaster scenarios — flat tire, robbed, wrecked, disappointed, writer’s block — only to alternate them with fantastic epic-adventure montages set to 70s Brit rock. The Kinks’ “Powerman” playing in my head as I fantasize about thrilling twisty roads, fantastic chance encounters in dark bars, and stunning red-and-gold sunsets captured by me, on film, as I cruise along the coast.
Then I wake up in the morning and look at my chalkboard, where I’ve scrawled three categories of trip-preparation issues: BIKE, GEAR, ROUTE. The bike part is easy: a 1995 BMW R1100R, outfitted with fairing, tall windscreen, two hard cases, a tank bag, and a waterproof duffel (still need to pick that duffel up, actually). The gear list is more complex, and mirrors my annoyingly persistent internal monologue: “Bring: Water bottle. Cell phone. Ipod. How do I get headphones in my helmet? Sunglasses. Extra visor. Camping gear? Do I want to camp? Tools. Rain gear, check. Coffee? Wait, why worry about coffee? Fuel canisters of extra gas, that’s practical. Clothes. Duh, clothes. Which clothes? Leather jacket. Two pairs of jeans. Underwear. Socks. Boots. Three t-shirts. Two long-sleeved shirts. Sweater. Scarf? Hat. Do I need one of those balaclava things? Armored zip-on/off pants? Ugh. Expensive, but probably worth it if I wipe out. GPS thing. Tire pressure gauge. Wait, does mine work? See if it works. Money. Extra keys. AAA card. Knife. Flashlight. Dad says bring the weird East German police thing, or mace. Doubt I’ll need that. Overprotective parent. What else, what else, what else?”
It’s nearly impossible to feel ready for this. For one, it’ll be my first long distance trip on a motorcycle. For two, my Master’s degree hinges on its success. Several months ago I excitedly proposed that in lieu of a traditional scholarly thesis, I would hop on a motorcycle and explore a patch of grass in an effort to address vague concepts of “place” “identity” “displacement” etcetera. I wrote up a proposal, with an extensive works cited list, and tried my best to keep a straight face as the university signed off on it. “Go forth on your little adventure, graduate student. Bring us back a book.”
That’s it. That’s the plan. The short version, at least. And no matter how complete I think my lists are, no matter how firm I think I am on a route (Austin – New Orleans – Biloxi – Stuart – Savannah – Aiken – Atlanta – Austin. No wait… Austin – New Orleans – Biloxi – Montgomery – Atlanta – Aiken. No wait… Austin — …) I feel as though I’m straining to see land from open sea. There’s no way to know what land will look like – what the project will look like — until it actually happens. I will be packing and repacking and planning and replanning until the moment I set off, I’m quite certain, and probably after that, too. The uncertainty is incredibly frustrating. Yet exhilarating.
Anyway, yeah. That’s the short version.
As an aside, please enjoy this review (not by me) of a recently published book on the history of Chicago, here. The title of the review is “Why Cities Matter,” and that’s exactly the kind of phrase I’m repeating to myself as I prepare to leave.
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