invasion of america - french dressing

Final days... Salt Lake City - Home

900 miles

While I was in Kansas City, I was able to eat breakfast with Adam and his entire family. It's every other blue moon that I get to see his mom or his sister, so it was nice to able to join them for a little Ihop feast. I thought I would make the most of the opportunity and get an answer out of Adam's mom about an odd quirk that Adam's had about French dressing ever since I've known him. You see, he is the only person I know that eats the stuff and that alone makes it an odd quirk. If you eat seagulls, then you're quirky - Get it? I doubt that many of you are even aware that there is a salad dressing called, "french". It's generally overlooked not because of it's odd flavor, unappetizing color or putrid smell, but because when most servers are listing all the salad dressing choices of their particular establishment, they will place it between the most popular choice(Ranch) and the coolest named choice(thousand island), thus it disappears in your mind's eye and thus it remains uneaten and unloved. There are millions and millions of uneaten gallons of french dressing sitting in restaurant store rooms all over the world right at this moment. Oceans of it. And the only time that they ever get dusted off is if Adam shows up and eats a salad there. If french dressing tastes better after a bit of aging - say like a fine scotch or cheese, then Adam's taste buds must be in pure ecstacy every time he orders a side salad. The fact that he doesn't eat many salads tells me otherwise.

Adam has always claimed that his family is to blame for his french dressing fetish and until this moment at Ihop I have never been able to confront his family about his obsession.

"I have no idea when or where he started eating french. We never had it in the house, so I have no idea." so sayeth momma Adam.

The answer to my french dressing riddle only got further and further away from me. Perhaps I should have never asked her about it, at least that way I would think that the answer could be simply found. But then again, if you didn't ask, you would never know.....

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The train ride was a slow crawl over the Sierras and the high desert into Salt Lake City. I had tons of room in my seat to sprawl out and relax and I made the most of it. The gentle rocking of a train and the accompaning CLICKETY-CLACK of the train on the tracks was very calming for me. There was a tour guide on the train who kept coming over the loud speaker and narrating the view outside the train. I can tell you the altitude and population of every town between Sacramento and Reno, and why each town is named accordingly. I know this, because the tour guide told me so. I tried hard not to listen to him and just enjoy the view without the trivia, but his voice was so hypnotic and after four hours, I began to notice a distinctive facial twitch when his voice DIDN'T come on and explain something as it passed by. Sadly, he departed the train in Reno and the rest of the ride was pure silence. Not like there would have been much for him to tell us about the view from Reno to Salt Lake, but it would have been nice to have him there to break up the monotony. To fill the void left by our disembodied tour guide's voice, Amtrak put on the movie, "The Break Up" in the dining car for everyone to view. Sadly, the magic of Vince Vaughn and Jennifer Aniston's failing romance wasn't enough to make the time pass peacefully. In fact, their plight almost seemed to justify the theory that all good things must end. With the adjunct that when they do, sometimes they leave you in the desolation of Nevada's high desert.

The train was due to arrive in Salt Lake City at 3 AM, I had someone ready to pick me up at this ridiculous hour and a place to sleep for the last 7 hours of my stay in Salt Lake. My ride was true to their word and showed up at 3 AM - sharp, I showed up at 7, long after they had driven home and gone back to bed. Instead of compounding the problem and insuring that I would never get another favor out of Utah again, I decided it would be best not to call and wake up my ride, AGAIN, and have them come get me, AGAIN. Instead I chose to walk to their house (two miles). As I arrived, my friend was up and getting ready to leave for work. We said our goodbyes as we passed each other in a doorway and, again, I felt it was not the best way to say, "thank you" or "goodbye". Strike two for me.

I was back on the bike by 10 AM and it felt like I was on a whole new bike altogether. The seat was softer, the tires were firmer, the engine was peppier and I was sexier. I was informed by BMW that I should take it easy for the first hundred miles and to let everything on the bike get settled in with the new gear. HA! The trip is over. The last 900 miles are right in front of me and I really want to be home. It's over. Jen and Vince had their run and it ended; Burt and Loni had their run and it ended; Now I have finished my run and so to must it end. Don't tell me to prolong the final days.

I raced across southern Idaho with a purpose. I must have been traveling over 90 most of the way. I hit Boise in less than five hours which means I was really putting it down...

550 miles to go.

I hit Oregon and the final crossing into my original time zone. That's when I started to feel like it was over. I started to imagine the homecoming I would receive and how those last five miles were going to feel. I could imagine all of my friends and family standing in a huge crowd in front of the perch, all cheering for me. There would be a banner draped across the building that read, "WELCOME HOME BRAVE ADVENTURER!" I could hear the cheering. I could see the sunshine. I could feel warmth all around me. I could taste the victory.

The sun went down in La Grande, Oregon and immediately the gnats sprang into action and it was as if I was riding through a sea of gnats. They were so thick that I was actually wiping them off of my visor as if they were rain. It slowed me down a bit, but eventually I killed off enough of them that they parted a pathway for me. Even gnats know not to get in someone's way when they're driven. I wondered if being covered head to toe in gnats would ruin my homecoming. I didn't care. I just wanted to be home.

300 miles to go.

I had to spend the night at the Ponderosa. It actually worked out to be a good thing because I was able to say hi to my visiting brother who was home from the war for a few weeks. I arrived late, went to bed early and left early, so our time was short lived. That's really the best way for us. We live in two different worlds and a friendly hi is really all we share. I didn't care. I just wanted to be home.

300 miles to go. (I add miles going to the perch)

It was a chilly day. The final day. The sun was hiding behind the clouds and it would only peak out everyone now and then to tease me with a ray of warmth. The welcome home party in my head had grown larger over-night and now it included everyone from the trip. Everyone that had really made it work out. There was an incredible feast laid out and the mayor was there with a key and a wreath. Several of my ex-girlfriends were there - All crying and begging. Beyond that - an orgy, where everyone that attended had to dress like their favorite movie star. The girl from "Amelie" was waving shyly at me. I gave her my best Fonzi grin. I REALLY wanted to be home.

200 miles to go.

The hills of Washington are incredibly ideal for riding a motorcycle. They curve just enough so that you get to grip the road and feel like a bad ass as you rip around them. The scenery was working well to pep me up and send me home. I could hear the clapping of a million people in the leaves and needles of the trees. The pines were still as dark green as I remembered them and their leafy neighbors were beginning to show their fall best. Brilliant, sharp reds and crisp yellows, all peppered about the great pine forests to give it a deep contrast of distant and grandeur. I don't care. I just want to be home.

100 miles.

Those pesky little grey clouds started to give up their secret. The rains were steady and rudely heavy, but it didn't matter, all it did was make me laugh. I really am home. The mountain pass was really all that stood in my way but I ripped across it like a man who really just wanted to be home and accepting that wreath from the mayor.

30 miles.

The last turn off the highway before the city limits. The small highway that leads me home. It's here that I worked in July as a landscaper to raise money for this trip.

10 miles.

Tacoma city limits. I can smell home. The skies are pouring and it's very chilly. I would imagine that the parade of people are a little miserable but still excited to see me. I can hear the marching band warming up their instruments and practicing different refrains of "Bad to the bone".

1 mile.

The exit that leads to my house. All that's left is just a quick turn and then just straight up the hill, a quick left and I have done it.

1 block.

Stopped at the stop sign and I can see the perch. I can see my parking spot on the sidewalk. I don't see the parade, it must be around the other side of the building in the park. Of course, we wouldn't want to..... ..... .....

There is no banner. No loving crowd. No feast. No orgy. No Amelie. No wreath. No marching band.

I pulled up to my favorite parking spot and I just sat there for a moment on the idling bike. I didn't want to get off right away, I wanted to savor this moment. I was the only one there to welcome me home.

I did it.

I really did it. I didn't die. I didn't wreck. I made it home. I didn't do everything I said or everything I planned to do, but I did do the most important thing; I made it. And I made it without a scratch.

I turned off the bike and the absence of the engine noise allowed the rain drops to beat on my helmet and for a second it sounded like applause. It felt great and I giggled. I unloaded all the gear off of the bike for the last time. I had to wait for my friend to show up with my house keys, and that allowed me to reflect a bit while sitting on the front stoop. I was able to reflect on everything that happened on the way, of all I have seen and done. And the only thing that I can think of in this historic moment is the fact that the last two days of my trip... There was no wind. I rode the last 900 miles without so much as a breath blowing against me. All that way... and only in the last two days did the weather work in my favor. I laughed because I thought that the only reason there was no wind was because the last two days were originally planned for California and Oregon riding and instead I went a different way and I think I through fate for a loop. I think nature was probably beating the shit out of people all over the west coast wondering where I gone. Or, perhaps fate just decided that I had had enough and it was time to just let me go home. I think even fate realized that I had won and for all of its cruel intentions I had earned safe passage back home. Yeah, fate and I made up.

----

Presently I am sitting in a high rise hotel in downtown Edmonton. It's been a week since those last few moments on the stoop out in front of the perch and yet it's still very fresh in my mind. I am still not completely over it yet. I am sitting here slamming away at the keys of my trusty old powerbook and I am whole - or at least I feel whole. I think back on those moments on the stoop and in the days that followed, I can still feel all those swings in emotion that hit me while I was there. Directly after I entered the perch, I crudely unpacked my gear on the floor and just flopped down on my couch and didn't move. Over the next 48 hours, I wouldn't leave the perch for any reason. I wasn't resting, and I didn't need time to reflect - I was regrouping.

On the floor of my apartment was all of the mail that had accumulated over the six weeks of my trip. Surrounding the pile of bills and credit card offers were mounds of gear, clothes and other mementos from my journey. Each item demanded my attention. Each pile needed to be addressed. Each pile had a different tangible world that had to be acknowledged.

I was expecting fanfare and fireworks. I expected a huge banner and a parade. Instead, as coldly as fate could do it, I was reminded that life goes on even for intrepid explorers and adventures. The first man to climb Mt. Everest eventually had to come home and pay his bills and do his laundry. Christopher Columbus had to come home eventually and when he did, I'm sure his garden needed weeding. So you took a six week bike tour - so what! Pay your bills. So you saw some of your friends and family - so what! Laundry is piling up. So you survived 8500 miles on a motorcycle - so what! You have a tour of Canada to prepare for. Life is an adventure when you call it an adventure. This is true for even the moments between discovering new worlds and climbing to the top of them.

I had 48 hours to grieve, celebrate and forget my trip and I was back out on the road.

Like I said, I'm in Edmonton. It seems like the bike trip was a million years ago. It seems like a million years ago when I cared so much about the gas mileage; the weather; the relevance of it all. How easily fate can suck us back into reality when the piper demands his satisfaction.

I sit here looking at a sleepy cold city. My head is so full of great memories and even greater resolves that I can not begin to laugh or cry or scream for fear that none of it could bring me the peace I knew while on that trip. In my brief history I can think of no other moment when I have been so completely content with the world. I believe I have proved nothing to no one and I feel that that was exactly what I needed the most. A trip across the country that takes you violently and peacefully through your past and your present. I was hoping to feel something deeper, but instead I am left with no answers at all. Except that I have lived....

...And I still don't know why Adam eats french dressing.