The Road Less Travelled

I love my home. All of it, including how it is embedded in the midst of sprawling fields and verdant woods. I live at the foot of a sweeping hill. There are several ways into the village. The best approaches are from the top of the hill and afford a view of the entire hamlet nuzzling in the bosom of a countryside that breathes life into my tired soul.

I cannot capture that view. I may grab a hint of it, but it is a living thing that defies description, let alone being rendered into a mere two dimensions. Besides, the view is constantly changing. The sun brings a new pallet of colours each and every day and the land responds in kind. Trees reach out to the sunlight in a magical greeting. Each sunrise brings hope and joy. The sunset draws a blanket of peace upon everything. A rest before the next vibrant day.

I love my home, and yet as I sat at the junction and looked right towards the final stretch that would bring me to my welcome refuge and well-earned rest I found myself turning towards the alternative. As I faced in the opposite direction it appeared the decision was already made. My left hand released the clutch and the ‘bike moved where I had found myself gazing.

Even as I rode away, I felt the pull of the place I had lived for over a decade, only my intrigue kept me going. The decision was all about the left turn, after that everything was one of life’s mysteries. The natural chaos of life taking over yet again and making short work of the order I had gingerly placed upon it.

The road swept pleasantly this way and that, inviting me to lean the ‘bike over and enjoy the ride. Never am I so alive as when I am on the edge of a tyre and pitting myself against the notion of my mortality. I see so much more. I feel everything. My mind opens. As does my heart.

It was my gut that told me what I was doing was the right thing. My heart held me in the moment and urged me to be present. To remember what it was to really live. My mind was playing catch up. Throwing random thoughts at me. Asking why, when that question is both futile and redundant.

Coming out of the last of the corners, I opened the throttle and the front wheel rose an inch or two from the tarmac. The business end of a ‘bike is the rear wheel. Everything revolves around that. I was grinning with the beautiful madness of it all. A madness added to by my lack of knowing. The purity of doing a thing for the sake of it. No clutter. No complications.

I was being asked whether it would be a right turn or a left well before the next junction appeared. I knew the answer. The answer was the same as the first junction. I would know when I got there. There was no forcing this. I was going with the flow.

Another left and after I exited this village there were open roads before me. They would eventually splay out to all points of the compass.

“The world is my lobster,” I whispered to myself, inducing even more of a grin.

Freedom to adventure was presenting itself to me. I had a choice. In fact, I had many choices. Right up until I stopped at the first major roundabout and a little piece of reality tapped me on the forehead by way of the yellow warning sign in the shape of a petrol pump. I could go on for forty more miles, but filling up was wisest. A minor obstacle addressed as it arose.

I peeled off. Left again. The pumps required my card for advance payment. I kept my helmet on and filled the tank brim full. Climbing back on to the ‘bike so that that tank of highly flammable fluid was between my legs once more. One of many facts of life that we conveniently choose to ignore.

Left and left, and left again. By rights I should have been back where I had begun, but Britain’s roads are not anything like a grid system. They are higgledy and they are piggledy. Stubborn and cantankerous. Glorious in their wayward nature.

Now I was on a main artery and heading northwards. A long Roman road that came as close to straight as was possible. As I opened the ‘bike up once more I knew where I was going and I had a feeling I now knew the why of it as well.

I have more than one home and my heart resides in each one of my homes. It is not broken. It is as whole as it can be, because it is filled with love. I realised I was following my heart and I became overwhelmed as I buzzed through the countryside. I was crying softly, my vision occasionally becoming blurred, but never unsighting me.

I rode faster now I had purpose. Intent upon my goal, but never losing sight of the road ahead of me. My mind may wander as I ride, but my focus is more intense than at any other time in my life. I am a wonderful contradiction that only makes sense in this moment. I try to learn from these times. Something of them spills into the rest of my life and now is an example. The ride is never a means to an end. The ride is life. But when I dismount, there will be more life awaiting me. This is how it should be.

Sporadically, there is slow traffic. There seems to be more and more of this. Few people have the appetite to overtake and so the snake is added to mile after mile. I drop a couple of gears and sail past the drivers in their metal cages. Some acknowledge me. Most are sour faced. Jealous of my progress. A few imagine swerving towards me and putting a stop to what they view as queue jumping. These thoughts do not shame them. They have convinced themselves that it would not be murder. Not if they did it. They’re different. Special somehow. Just like every other murderer. Justifying their darkness instead of incorporating it and becoming whole.

I am relieved to put the traffic behind me. But the open road is not safe. There are many hazards. Potholes create a slalom course, and at times they cannot be avoided. The Romans who built the original road would be ashamed of what it has become. The worst hazards are people though. They can look right at you and still not see you. Then there’s those on mobile phones. Even if they’re not on them as they drive, their attention span has been blighted by their addiction to hungry screens.

The roads are dangerous and that is why I love them. Life is risk. It is not to be slept through. We sleep walk through far too much of life as it is. The most dangerous times are directly after an incident. I average several on any ride. People pulling out on me. People not using indicators. People swerving as they talk on their phones, telling a friend about the previous night when they got drunk and slept with their ex. Again. A conversation they’ll have face to face later that day in any case. It’s for all riders to anticipate the stupidity of others and make sure they are not caught up in a situation that will end badly for them. Even as we do this dance of near death our adrenaline spikes and as we ride away with our lives we lose the necessary focus to remain on the grey stuff beneath our wheels and out of jaws of death. For a short while we are distracted and this is when the risk is highest. We may still be killed by the bad driver and they’ll never realise their part in our demise. Not that they care.

You see life exposed as you ride. The two extremes of human nature. The good. The bad. The darkness that we all possess. A darkness that highlights the light. This is the great Yin Yang of the universe and we ride the road between the two contrasts. We are the difference in the divide.

On the last stretch I double down and renew my focus. Most accidents occur on the home stretch. Our auto-pilot does not serve us well. The entire journey is familiar to me, but this last part is where I lived for an age and it will never change. It can’t. It’s etched indelibly upon my soul.

The cooling ‘bike ticks as I stand by it taking my helmet off and retrieving my ear plugs. I carry them to the door and only now do I compose myself for what is about to take place. I can feel it. A wind of change that makes me shiver. Renders me the small boy I will always be in this place. Only vulnerable and afraid. Afraid of the only certainty in this life. I was a warrior until I removed my helmet. Now I am weak and laid low by my unwillingness to face one of my greatest fears.

I knock before I open the door.

She bolts up from the sofa. She has been crying and she is weary. Drained of the vitality imbued upon her by the love of another. This is the way of it then. There is no consolation in being right.

“Dave!” she throws her arms around me and hugs me tighter than she ever has before. I am her life buoy. Saving her from drowning in a storm of grief that is yet to hit her. The threat of it is worse than what is to come.

She let’s go of me and steps back, “how did you…?”

I shrug, words momentarily fail me, then, as I see them I wonder how they will fare in this world of ours. I see a ghost of her smile and I know they will always be welcomed in this place, “love,” I say simply, “the universe spoke to me and told me to come.”

Her eyebrows raise in a question that she answers for herself, nodding her acceptance of that answer, “do you want a brew?”

I mirror her nod, “yes, please.”

I look up the stairs. They seem bigger somehow. The final leg of a journey I had not anticipated. The hardest part awaits, “can I?” I ask my Mum, my voice cracking.

She nods, “he’ll be ever so pleased to see you.”

I climb the stairs on legs made heavy with the gravity of what I am approaching. The small boy that I have always been here does not want to accept this change. The removal of the final protection I have been gifted for so long. Becoming bare and exposed to the world. No longer able to pretend that I have someone to fix things. Someone to make it alright again.

“Dave,” he says in a reedy voice that I barely recognise, “I knew you’d come.”

“Did you?” I say as I take his hand and squeeze it, “how come?”

He smiles through the pain, “I saw it in a dream that was no dream. You had your back to me and you were going to walk away. I called your name and you turned towards me and you had that look you have when you’re determined to do something. I knew then that my little lad was coming to see me. Before…”

He trails off and squeezes my hand instead.

“Does Mum know?” I ask him.

“Not really,” he replies, “she knows I’m in a bad way. Wants me to go to the docs. No point. My race is run. I held on for you. You need to get her to come up. Then you need to be there for her once I’m gone.”

“You know I will,” I manage to say the words even as the tears threaten to assault me.

As I stand, I ask him one last thing, “why didn’t you just text or call me?”

He grins a grin that I have inherited. It makes him look younger than I’ve ever seen him, “you know I don’t like phones.”

I shake my head at the absurdity that we can all tend towards.

“Besides,” he adds, “you were on your ‘bike. You can’t use your phone when you’re riding.”

I will ponder that for the rest of my days. How did he know? How did I know? I know the answer and it will always cause an awe and a joy in me. Love. The connection that makes us all make sense. Our love brought us together for that final farewell that was anything but final.