Moto Mayhem and the Urge to Completely Disappear

Back from Europe and I've decide that that trip is all mine. All three cheesy, winey, rainy, racey, weeks of it. You can't have it. All you get is this fragment of a poem I wrote on a hike up to the Austrian/Italian Border:

From "In the Hohe Tauren:"

...we flee into the mountain's

held breath. To be drawn in, to disappear,

to become ghosts, ourselves wisps of fog,

mountain's breath, remembered in legend

smeared wet onto red-painted waystones, cairns,

in dust under floorboards, peering through cracks

up, up at the promised land marked by a cracked

shrine to Christ.

Now for the good stuff:

The Old BMW is about as tuned as it is going to get for this trip. Valves, points, timing, bearings... Knocking on wood... Thursday is the departure, heading south to Ashland to get a final fix of Matt Sheehy, then pointing east for the duration. I can't say I'm looking forward to the hot march through Nevada and Utah, but with friends on the other side of the desert in Colorado, it gives me something to look forward to. In any case, camping out there should be fantastic with clear air and stars...

I'm also fighting the urge to just drop off the face of the Earth for a little while. The end is so close for classes, but is seems like the least important thing to do right now. Onward, and as it is written somewhere in my genetics, Fortune Assists the Daring... Guess I'll dare a few months longer. I've been pretty fortunate so far.

It is all a bit rambling and there's lots more introspective bullshit on my mind that I won't bore you with. Suffice it to say, if you're reading this, there's a 50/50 chance we'll be having a drink together soon.

Thanks for checking in.

Over and out.