Short Term Parking

Home.  A stranger concept for me than it ought to be.  

Pictured:  Colorado mountains, at the perfect time of year.  Not home, sadly.

I just returned from the most extensive, single, personal trip I've ever undertaken.  Two months, two motorcycles, 29 states, 18,569 miles. 

Home.  Convenient storage for my stuff, whether I'm actually there or not.  Where the pile of mail accumulates, where bank and church and familiar roads are, along with most of the friends.  Family in driving range, though I tend not to actually make the trip.  

Pictured:  New friend I made, whose home is the rim of Crater Lake, Oregon.

It always feels a little weird getting back here.  The scene bears a vague familiarity, like a routine long-since abandoned, or the countenance of a forgotten friend.  A memory suddenly returning to the surface.   

I see my bed and it is just a bit less familiar than before.  My books- I still have them, but didn't think of them at all during the trip.  Hey, there's all that other clothing I still own but haven't worn in months.  And the pile of mail and problems that I failed to wish out of existence, all still sitting there mocking me ever thte more now that I've been forced back here to notice them.  

Glacier National Park.  Also not home.

I confess:  part of the purpose here, is to abandon the disagreeable elements of my life.  Running away is the natural reaction.  So much easier and less effective than actually dealing with them.  My own personal form of escapism, that just happens to provide some decent scenery and time for contemplation.

It never works, except as a temporary salve.  Nobody has volunteered to come clean up the mess in my absense.  

In my youth, I was accustomed to traveling every summer.  Six weeks to Alaska and back in a motorhome, is the longest I know of.  We made it to most of the states at one point or another.  As an adult, I gravitated to jobs that involved a constant change of scenery.  Thirteen years working as a pilot, and 200 nights a year in hotel rooms feels just fine to me.  I still threw in personal travel on top of that.

I did always want a wife and kids.  But I'm just not very good at the more normal aspects of life.  A weekly schedule just burdens me.  Stagnant scenery beats me down, contributing to whatever depression I may suffer.  I can accomplish all sorts of complex tasks, and yet fail miserably to deal with the daily, incoming postal detritus.  I've become convinced that I thrive only with a fair sprinkling of chaos to season my day.  Wandering the country, whether by motorcycle or otherwise, appears to have the right flavor.

Anyway, I've been home now for three days.  One day of rest, a day of procrastination, one more to retrieve the motorcycle and accomplish that last little fraction of a percent of the trip.  And now, here I am contemplating the next trip, despite the scornful gaze coming from that pile of problems. 

Custer State Park, South Dakota.