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Solitude
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FOR THREE DAYS in a row I rode through the cool
thin air of the Canadian Rockies, careful of deer and mountain sheep
and poorly banked curves at sheer cliff edges. I was heading toward
a line on a map that would mark my re-entry to the United States --
to Idaho, in particular, a part of my homeland that was as foreign to
me as British Columbia had been.
The first people I saw in Idaho were a couple riding a Harley Davidson. Their fine, corn silk hair blew loose behind them as they flew along the edge of a field of brown-gold wheat. But my companion was my shadow, following along in perfect profile as I headed south in the late afternoon sun. At a corner with a cafe and a gas station, an old man in a John Deere hat stared from behind a smoky glass window while I changed the clip setting in the carbs. Since I'd come down from the mountains, the bike had been running too rich. The guys hanging around outside watched me. They all wore cowboy boots and jeans, and silver belt buckles etched with rodeo scenes. I finished the adjustment and put the left cylinder back into the carburetor. When I kicked over the engine, my pride in getting a first-start response deteriorated to embarrassment when the engine wound up. And up, and up, and up . . . . . . read the rest of this story in American Borders - the book |
