A Sailor on the Asphalt Seas
am from the Sea.
My family is a tribe of sailors. As far back as
anyone has been able to trace, the men of my family have gone to sea. My
father in the Coast Guard. My Uncle racing sail. My Grand father and
Granduncle were Navy. My Great Grandfather sailed with the White Fleet.
Our family came to the Americas early. Long before the States were
formed. Some have even been pirates and pirate hunters. Men in my family
have sailed to distant ports and wedded exotic women, mingling our Celt
blood with dark greek and italian beauties, gentle asian goddesses,
graceful indian queens. Our claim to the celt lands is only honorary,
for we are true american mutts and we are proud.
I can remember, though I was very young, my father whispering the tales
of sea lore. The myths. The classics. Cup of Gold. Treasure Island. The
Sea Wolf. Moby Dick. Telling me of cold grey seas and long nights on
watch. I went to sleep with the salt tang in my lungs and the whispered
call of the sea in my ears.
I am the first son in a long line who did not go to sea as a profession.
My interests were elsewhere. But it has always echoed in my heart.
As I grew I tried to do the right things. School. College. Jobs. But I
soon shrugged those things off. Bored. Restless. I was attracted to
motion. Movement. The sea. But I wanted to be no hired hand. I wanted to
go solo.
Riding motorcycles was a perfect choice. Riding is exactly like sailing.
I did not realize this until I saw a quote in a book. A man who had
ridden an old raggedy Harley up into the interior of Alaska and back
with little more than an oilskin coat and a frying pan said "The only
things a rider needs is common sense and an eye for the weather" echoing
almost exactly the same thoughts of my seafaring kin.
As with bikes. Folks with boats range and vary. Some sit in port with
all the doodads and trappings of voyage. Others track across the deep
blue for lands unknown.
I have come to dislike the term "biker" I prefer "rider" for it is what
I do. I ride.
I spend the warm season voyaging as far as my ties will allow. It may
only be weekends of exploring the local dirt coves and pavement fjords.
But it suffices. Other seasons I get the chance to point my face in a
direction and just go until the money and time run out. Sailing as far
as I can from port. greeting other explorers at lonely ports. Stately
gold wings under full sail. BMW RTs in clipper trim. battered old Guzzis
chundering along.
I bring back memories. Smells. sights. sounds. deep bone ache. And I
want to return to the blacktop deep as soon as I am home again.
But in the cold months. Restricted to home port sailing by duty and
weather. Allowed only the daily brief runs to work or a quickride to a
favorite place; those memories sustain me. The dark, cold nightwatch of
an overnight ride brings me the peace that the event did. The warm
summer breeze blows through my mind as I huddle against the chill rain
and fog. A rest stop on a desert bluff, dust on my boots, the azure dome
of the sky lifts my dark mood.
And in those dark months others like me gather to the snug ports. To
await the storm season's cease. Some who ride less. Some who are
fortunate enough to voyage far beyond the horizon. We gather and retell
the tales of the Asphalt Sea. We tell lies. Foul jokes. We argue. We
fight. We plan new adventures for the coming time. All the while, each
of us has a weather eye open. A glance in the middle of a tale. A scan
of the horizon. a quick cock of the ear. waiting intently for the first
signs.
As I stand in the garage. I gaze at my bikes. The one ridden home drips
rainwater. Steam rises from the heads. the motor quietly ticks and
pings. settling in. like listening to the gentle slap of the water on a
moored boat hull. the quiet creak as it rubs the fenders. These bikes
are my ships.
It seems I have not wandered so far from the sea as I had thought.
12/09/2002
Text copyright 2002 Michael
Hazen. All Rights Reserved.
Some Images borrowed from the internet.
Direct any concerns to:
ME