So, the 555 came to a scattered end in the far reaches of Portland, Maine.
We pulled in as a unified crew and left in a scattered blur of fuzzy headaches and mechanical and structural breakdowns. Finding the inside, underground track to the lobsters and local bars where a shot of whiskey was 5 ounces in a glass, we laughed into the cool, triumphant evening.
Waking up to out-of-place zombie strolls through a continental breakfast and indecisive confusion, everyone slurred into action of some sort or another. With not much thought, almost like in a fit of habit, everyone started packing up their bikes. Broken bits and pieces presented themselves in the morning sunshine after the hard push to cross the finish line over the array of the endless frost-heaved pavement of the north. It seemed far too early to have to start thinking about another visit to a welding shop. Thank god it wasn't me.
I had two things on my mind...food and coffee. With the sun shining, we packed our bags as if we were never coming back--just like how we left. The team scattered with little communication. Slim and I found ourselves at the dock squinting into the bright wait of an opening oyster shack that is a secret delicacy of Portland (J's). Some others straggled in, and some meandered to a coffee shop, others to the welding shop. One could hear the ruffled choppers roaming their ways to some spot in town.
My decision was made. I was going to California. I was going one way or another...so i figured I should just ride.
Crossing into Wyoming and into the immense sage field deserts, I at once felt at home as I reminisced of the days of desert living around the Grand Canyon. The subtle ease of life and weather in the desert floored me as I leaned on my steed, ate food, rolled a cigarette, drank coffee, and watched the flickering fire dance with the steady light of the full moon. There wasn't a soul around for miles except the antelope that meandered around camp in the early morning.