Lost highway

Part One

You look back on some times and wonder how you lived through them. Cut to Chicago, circa 1970. I'm teaching psychology in a small college. Pretty burned out, to tell you the truth. The whole decade behind me seemed a blur of war, assassinations, student riots, and so on. I was living in an urban commune, or sorts. A large house known as 'the Castle' with a changing number of inhabitants. Two friends, who also lived there, had decided they were going to escape to Guadalajara for awhile. And I thought, if they can do it, why can't I? So, I decided to do that too. This notion of 'why not?' was quite rampant in those days. So, I traded in my VW bus for a motorcycle. It seemed to make sense at the time. Back at the college, I put all my some 120 students on 'independent study', and within 48 hours I was at an all-night diner at 2am having breakfast, and studying the road map. My plan was quite simple. Get out of the city before dawn, and somehow get to Guadalajara. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was a plan.

The thing is, I didn't really want to take my bike all the way across Mexico. I don't recall how I got this next idea, but it went something like this. I could take the bike from Chicago to Laredo, Texas. Store the bike there, and cross the border on foot into Neuvo Laredo, Mexico. I had learned somehow of a train that went from Laredo all the way to Guadalajara. It was known as 'the chicken train', because mostly it was hauling cages upon cages of chickens. So, really, all I had to do was somehow get on that train. It would be a piece of cake after that. Like I say, it wasn't much of a plan, but it was a plan.

So now we cut back to me on my lunatic motorcycle. I was in Indiana by 4 am, and I wound up having a late lunch with my mom and my sister in Nashville, Tennessee, and listening to caring admonitions such as "Are you kidding me?!", and "You have really lost it this time!". By late afternoon, I was somewhere outside of Nashville headed toward Memphis and pulled off for a cup of coffee. That's where I ran into Homer. Back then, hippies knew one another in a glance. So, he tells me he is living in a tree house in a hollow nearby. To make a long story short, I took a detour back into the woods, and spent the next two days eating magic mushrooms. This is just an aside, but I throw it in, since Homer shows up later in the story.

So, anyway, back to my plan. I headed on out to Memphis on a blistering hot day, and about 50 miles shy of getting there, I blew the motor on my bike. Mind you, this is before cell phones. Somehow, I got Suzuki in Memphis to come and get me and the bike, and spent two more days in Memphis waiting for them to re-build my burnt-out motor. Nothing much eventful took place during this time. I mostly laid around in a motel room watching tv. I was eager to get back to my 'plan'.

On the road again. The next phase of this ridiculous trek got really rough. For awhile, I was thinking I was going to have to return to reality. The first 100 miles I had to keep it under 50 mph, to let the new motor get broken in. I think I took about a four hour nap around Little Rock, Arkansas. I never got off the bike. I just leaned back on my backpack and conked out. Then, on the road again. My next goal was to make it to Amarillo, Texas. I had friends there, and could get a shower, some food, and a good night's sleep. Let me just say, it was a helluva ride. About 70 miles out, my whole body was aching. And then came this plague of dragon flies out of nowhere. These creatures hurt when they hit you at 70 mph. And when they hit my helmet or visor, it was like gunshots going off. I made it to the outskirts of Amarillo. Called my friends to come and get me. They were very nurturing, and I spent two days there. Since one of my friends was a dentist, part of my recuperation involved nitrous oxide in a dental chair, and really lovely music. And now, I am onto Plan B.

Part Two

Well, Plan B wasn't much more thought out than Plan A. But, I had to reckon with some issues there in Amarillo. I had just spent a whole lot of dough in Memphis getting my bike back, not to mention the motel bill. I reluctantly abandoned my initial plan of getting to Guadalajara. As though I wasn't low on money already, I had found a deal on two carpets from Caucasus, I couldn't resist. So I bought them, and rolled them as tight as I could and strapped them onto the back of my bike, behind the backpack, and decided to head home. By now, I was expected back in the classroom in four days. The dean was already irritated with me, having sent me a memo before I left saying "You need to be more business-like with your students." So, I was determined to get back to Chicago. Like I say, it wasn't much of a plan, but it was a plan.

Somewhere approaching Arkansas, I realized my bike was getting hot again. So, I pulled off the interstate to take the remaining miles to Little Rock under better conditions. Shady winding country roads through the Ozarks. This worked fine for awhile. Quite beautiful. Then I hit the fork in the road. And I remember thinking, "Let's see, Highway 9?....Or Highway 10?" It came up faster than I had imagined. I realized, too late, I should take the left fork. Highway 9. Let's make this long story a bit shorter. I took the curve anyway, throttled down too late, had to lean the bike down quite a bit, perchance to make it. But, didn't. The bike hit the gravel shoulder, and everything is a blur after that. I awoke with a broken arm and the sound of my bike still running, but nowhere to be seen. It turns out, the bike went on without me, down a ravine. The good news was that a guy in a pick-up truck stopped and took me to a rural clinic to get patched up. The bad news was that I was a long ways from home. After getting cleaned up and getting my arm braced in a sling, I was released. The sheriff's deputy helped me re-claim my backpack and the carpets, and I called the Suzuki dealer in Little Rock. "Could you please send someone to pick up my bike. It is on Highwy 9, just past the fork. It is down in a ravine in a blackberry thicket. Thanks a lot." After that, the deputy dropped me off on the interstate towards Nashville, and wished me well. I don't think he was being sincere, however. It was time now for Plan C : Get my ass back home.

I walked up an exit ramp to some fast food joint to get something to eat. As I sat there eating my burger, I was looking out the window at the parking lot. There must have been two dozen small birds hopping about, excitedly picking up french fries someone had thrown away. Suddenly some big birds made the scene, sending the little birds flying. The big birds promptly devoured all the remaining french fries, and left. The little birds came rushing back. But they seemed really confused as they hopped about. Like "What the hell happened to all those fries?" I determined then and there, that when I was done eating, I would give these poor birds my remaining fries. I also made a quick note of this great philosophical moment of existential clarity on a napkin. This is what you call 'thinking ahead'. I knew I was going to be really tired whenever I made it back to the classroom. So, when the kids ask, "How was your vacation?", I can deliver this weighty treatise about birds and french fries. I also noted that between Plan A and Plan B, you might just bump into X, Y, and Z. So, be prepared. Another important lesson I can teach my students, who like me, don't have a clue what is going on these days. Or, what's coming next. Now, back to the highway, and my evolving plan.

I must have stood there on the side of the interstate for an hour or more. Everybody was whizzing by like maniacs racing toward a cliff. I was getting discouraged. There I was, with the sun going down. I was earnestly holding my thumb out with my remaining good arm. Can't they see that I, with my other arm in a sling, my bashed-in motorcycle helmet on the asphalt next to my backpack and two oriental carpets, seriously need a ride? Don't they have any empathy? Do they not understand that I am a maniac too? Realizing I had just come across yet another moment of existential clarity, I determined to make a note of this right underneath the one about the birds, the fries, and XYZ. But, lo and behold, suddenly a big rig came to a squealing halt on the shoulder. A big rig, as you may know, has 18 wheels. I was saved. I had left home on two wheels, and now was headed back on 18!! Oh, praise the Lord!

Well, it turns out the trucker had left Ohio some 3 days earlier, dropped a load in California, and was on his way home too. He hadn't slept the entire time, thanks to the modern pharmaceutical miracle known as "Black Beauties", or as he called them, "West Coast Turn Arounds." And that was news to me since I thought they were called 'White Crosses'. Make another note about how it is an ever changing world. On the radio came a song about how the road goes on forever and it never really ends. I was going to make a note of that too, but then a truck driving song came on. It was about some trucker who had died, but his ghost was still driving around. He rescued people in trouble. I glanced over at the guy behind the wheel. He was rambling on about how he planned to retire and become a hippie too. He started asking me questions about 'free love'. I tried to tell him that its not all its cracked up to be, but he seemed oblivious and lost in his dream. Funny, the crazy romantic ideas people have sometimes.

I suppose I should move on now, to how I wound up at a huge outdoor rock festival in Indiana the next day. But let me take a break and fix a cup of coffee.

Part Three

The trucker let me out a few miles from Nashville, at a truck stop. So, I called my sister from a pay phone and asked if she could come pick me up. "Where's your motorcycle?" she asked. I told her I would tell her later. In the car, and driving to our mother's house, I told her of my ridiculous adventure. She agreed that we should not give mom all these details, since, you know how moms are. But of course, when my mom saw my arm in a sling, she said, "What the hell did you do to yourself?" I tried to downplay it by quoting a line from a Bob Dylan song. I said, "Its all right ma, I'm only bleeding." After a great home-cooked dinner, I fell asleep promptly.

In talking to a friend from Chicago on the phone next morning, I learned that a huge outdoor rock concert was happening on the coming weekend. It turned out to be the infamous Bull Island Soda Pop Festival on the Wabash River in Indiana. So my friend agreed to drive down to it and pick me up, if I could get that far. I love it when, just as you are about out of plans, another one emerges. So, I promptly hopped a bus at the Greyhound station and headed for the festival.

Well, as it turns out a whole lot of people were headed to this festival. I had to walk about 7 miles to get to the venue since traffic was hopelessly jammed up along the highway. The estimated audience of about 50, 000 had turned into an estimated 200, 000. The whole thing turned into the classic mud-fest as I arrived at last in a drenching rain. I dragged my gear through the mud and through the crazy throngs of people. I was looking for a place to set up camp, so to speak. My camping equipment consisted of two oriental carpets that were getting heavier, the wetter they got. And what to my wondering eyes should appear? Homer. I found him relaxing on a hammock strung between a tree, and his converted school bus. The classic hippie mode of transportation. Especially after you've already blown out your VW bus hauling too many people, to too many concerts, one time too many. He was soaking wet, but didn't seem to care. I was beginning to feel the same way. After awhile though, I crawled under his bus where it was nice and dry, and fell asleep listening to the distant sound of thunder, and Canned Heat on stage. Why did I crawl under the bus, when I could have crawled into the bus? To this day, it remains an unsolved mystery to me. All I can say, is that when large numbers of people all come together out of nowhere, they often do strange, inexplicable, and sometimes awful things. I learned that a few years back at the '68 Democratic convention in Chicago. There, 1000s of demonstrators got into what can only be described as a city-wide brutal riot with the police.

Well, the Soda Pop Festival did not get as bad as all that, but it got bad. I went to sleep in the rain, and I woke up in the rain. I couldn't even get near the stage, but I could hear Cheech and Chong doing their crazy schtick, trying to bring comic relief to what was turning into an ugly situation. People were milling about looking like a muddy mess after a war. Trash, and fallen tents were everywhere. A truck delivering food got somehow hi-jacked. And a number of vendors' booths had been up-ended and ransacked. Three festival-goers drowned in the river. Just as I was at wit's end, and about to pull my hair out, here comes my friend from Chicago. He was laughing and in great spirits. Turns out he was tripping. Anyway, we finally got out of there. Where the stage used to be was, by then, a huge bonfire behind us. It had been torched. So much for the Peace movement.

At last, I made it back to the castle quite happy to see my friends again. I might add that they were falling all over one another in laughter, as we passed a joint, and I told them of my unheroic, epic misadventure. And laughing at myself was the most fun of all.

Next day I returned to the classroom to address my students. I cleared my throat and spoke sternly. "I hope you will take good notes today, since what I am about to tell you will be on the final exam next week." I then wrote the key words of my lecture on the chalkboard. Birds, French Fries, XY and Z. I expounded on these weighty topics at great length. Finally, I picked up the chalk again, and wrote "Does the road really go on forever?" I didn't answer that question. I left it for them to think about.
As it turned out, it was one of only two questions on the entire test. They were essay questions. I retired from teaching at the end of the semester. It was the end of one thing, and the beginning of everything else. Oh yes, the other question. It was this: "A straight line is the shortest distance between two points. But what is the most meaningful way to get from here to there?" My students' essays were quite interesting, and I left teaching with a renewed hope that, just maybe, we will survive these times. And I do emphasize 'maybe'.