I Am A Hobo
I am a rider.
I am not a female rider. My motorcycle does not know my gender, nor does she care. She knows I ride her and I am her partner. I'm not going anywhere without her and she's not going anywhere without me. We are a team and I love her like my best friend. She is my motorcycle. I am her rider.
Together we hope to explore the long forgotten, forlorn, asphalt trails. Trails emblazoned long ago like explorers like ourselves. Trailblazers who set out to see America and all it had to offer, never satisfied to stay in a place for long, always longing for a new land to experience. They laid these paths for folks to follow, set up homes and towns, and places to return to for a visit. But these explorers find their only comfort on the move, unable to soothe the wanderlust in their heart.
I am filled with that wanderlust now. I ache to see new places, new towns, new horizons. I want to hear new voices, learn new stories, sing new songs. Like my father, my dream is to see all I can before I can see no more. To take in all of the tastes, the smells, the feel of the landscapes along the highways. I want to ride them all, in no particular order, with no schedule, time frame or agenda. To follow the wind, float like a leaf on the river and allow the Universe to guide me. To listen to the song in my heart, each whisper in my helmet that says, "Turn left at the next road," even though I have no idea where it leads. I don't need to know, because I'm trusting the Universe, if I dare. What is it to wander, really? Is it to have an itinerary? Is it to set a destination? That is not wandering.
My father has always been my inspiration and my muse. A lifelong rider, he spoke of traveling with reverence and awe. When I was very young, perhaps 7-years-old, my Daddy told me he wanted to be a hobo. I thought he was crazy and he didn't love me anymore. I told him that made me sad, because hobos were lonely and didn't have anyone to take care of them. He smiled with that twinkle of knowing in his eyes, and held me close.
"You don't know that. Maybe hobos like to ride around the country and see new places. They aren't afraid to sleep under the stars, to sit by a fire with their friends, to go without a meal. Life shouldn't be a plan. Life happens the way it happens Baby Girl. So if you can't really plan it, why not give into it? Why not just be free?"
I still thought he was crazy. But as my life has gone on, his words have always stayed with me. Over the course of my life I've found that everything my Daddy ever said was true. He had it all figured out and I just didn't get it. I wish I was able to tell him that I get it now. But he died at the age of 50, shortly after he had sold his last Harley. I thought he was going to buy a new bike. He didn't tell me he was sick and dying. He didn't want to hear me cry. But I wish so badly I could look in his eyes, see that all-knowing smile of his and say, "Daddy, you were right. You were right about all of it. Daddy, I want to be a hobo too."
When I sit on the seat of my Kawasaki Ninja 500, my Katie Scarlet, she wiggles with excitement beneath me. Katie doesn't know she's a Kawasaki, nor does she care. She knows she's a motorcycle. She knows she wants to be ridden, like any Honda or Harley or Triumph. She knows I'm her rider. She knows we're a team. She knows we're going somewhere and we're going together.
I turn the key, press the starter, and she screams with anticipation. Her wanderlust pours from my exhaust as I pull the throttle, working the choke down into position, to warm her engine. She's ready to careen over the hallowed ground of the trailblazers long ago. Trailblazers like my father, who was nothing but a mere rider, a hobo, who knew that wanderlust is never quenched, but only temporarily satisfied. A rider who knows that he's not in control of his machine, his Universe or his own heart. Each morning as the hobo awakens, he finds the desire to travel coursing through his system, whether he wants it to or not. It smells like exhaust, is vibrates between his legs, and it tickles his heart just to think of it. He cannot outrun it, nor find it's conqueror sitting still. Wanderlust has no kickstand, no garage, no home. It will not allow the hobo to retire.
I am a rider. I am a hobo. Let's wander.
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