The Gypsy Life
We're driving along in the darned
quadracycle, doing business, getting groceries, taking family on vacation, whatever, and we see a lone motorcycle headed our way.
It has happened to all of us, I would imagine. We're driving along in the darned
quadracycle, doing business, getting groceries, taking family on vacation,
whatever, and we see a lone motorcycle headed our way. We get closer, and see
it's a solo rider, the bike packed with gear. The guy is on the road, and we
have no idea where he is going, nor for how long, but there is that twinge of
envy, the wish that we were that guy, heading out, going anyplace.
Then the realities take over, concerning dog food and mortgage payments, not to
mention putting three kids through college, and we settle back into the seat and
look at the gas gauge. Gee-suss! Going to have to fill up again with 20 gallons,
and with the low-test going for $2.99, it'll be another $60 top-up.
I imagine that nearly all of us have a bit of gypsy fever in us, the desire to
hit the road and not look back. The daily grind inevitably gets to us, the
repetitive work, whether fighting traffic to be at the office on time, making
sure the children get to school, or the paying of bills.
But just suppose... Your Harley is paid for, your brother gave you the two grand
he has owed for three years, and a little trip sounds good. Put a little
frosting on that: The spouse has recently hooked up with the contractor who
remodeled your kitchen and left, saying she doesn't want any alimony. Mildred
the cat went to feline heaven after 15 years of earthly pleasures. The kids are
out on their own. And on Friday the boss said, "Why don't you take a few weeks
off?"
Well, kick me in the head and call me Bubba. Sounds like its time to get on the
road, with nowhere to go, nowhere to be.
The trick to true gypsying is to be independent and in no hurry. With no place
to be, there is never any rush. Motels are for travelers, not gypsies; there's a
tent up in the loft of the garage, and the sleeping bag hasn't been used for 10
years. Shake them out. Go down to the sporting goods store and buy a decent air
mattress; sleeping comfy is the key to happy wandering.
None of this KOA camping, either; that's just a motel without a roof. No, you
are going to head for the national and state forests, public land, your land,
where you can disappear into the trees, find a grassy spot beside a lake or
stream, and not worry about any neighbors.
Put that cooking kit together. If you are going serious gypsy, you will build
wood fires, so a small grill is in order, something you can lay a steak on. Plus
a pot to cook in, everything from boiling spuds to making coffee. Food is
important, and gypsies do not dine at Denny's; they eat better than that.
The Dyna's got a windshield and a pair of saddlebags. But those won't hold all
the camping stuff. Find a tough duffel bag, one big enough to put the tent and
all inside. Toss that on the rear seat and bungee it to the small sissy bar. On
and off in a flash. Rigging your load is important, and it may take a day or two
to get it right, but you do not want to be littering the highways with your warm
sweater or your tube of toothpaste.
Maps are useful. Take a bunch of maps, the more detailed the better. They fit
into that little pouch hanging on the backside of the windshield. You may wake
up in the morning and head off in any direction, the one that offers the best
weather, but sometimes you want to find a certain place. You meet a biker on the
road, and he tells you about this great place to camp over in the next state,
that's when the map is good to have.
Take the bike down to the dealer and tell the service manager you want an oil
change, a new pair of Dunlops, and a good, thorough check of everything. Two
days later you pick it up, charge the $690 on your credit card and go home to
pack. A tool kit goes in one saddlebag; you're not going to need it, because
Charlie, the guy at the dealership who worked on your bike, is a really good
mechanic. But still, it's nice to have, and you may be able to help some less
fortunate rider who is down by the side of the road.
Don't take too many clothes. Everybody takes too many clothes. You come home and
there are some you've never worn. Do take a towel, because you are going to be
camping, remember, and bathing in rivers and ponds rather than under hot
showers.
Forget the razor; you'll grow a beard. Or hairy armpits and legs, if you're a
woman.
Late one morning, everything seems ready. The neighbor's daughter will look
after the house, bring in the mail, mow the lawn. The bank will pay the bills.
You take all the perishables out of the fridge and toss them. Ordinary folk
usually leave crack of dawn on the first day of vacation; you're not ordinary
folk.
12:52 p.m. The baggage is in place. Roll the bike out, lock the garage door.
Press the starter button and the well-tuned Twin Cam settles into its lovely
lumpy idle. You're going to head west, out of town on a main road, because you
never motored through the Rockies.
Two hours later you stop for gas. You're thinking, "Where will I get to
tonight?" That's ordinary thinking. Ten minutes later a smaller road angles off.
You take it. The road starts weaving through woods and fields, comes to a small
community with a church, a general store, a garage, a couple of dozen houses. A
guy in bibs is sitting on the porch of the store smoking a pipe.
You stop, kill the engine. "Any place to camp around here?" you ask.
He takes his pipe in hand and says, "Sure, down by the river. Go up the road a
couple of miles; take a right when you come to an abandoned farmhouse. Chimney
is leaning way over, can't miss it. About another mile along, you'll be at the
river. Nobody'll bother you there."
The meat counter in the store has some healthy-looking T-bones. Along about dusk
the tent is pitched. Your cup is full of your favorite libation and you're just
waiting for the coals to get right. Somebody had built a fire ring out of
stones, a good fit for your grill.
"Darn," you think, "I'm missing the news."
A whippoorwill starts up his evening song. The river gurgles past. An owl swoops
by. The first star of the night appears.
"On the other hand, maybe I'm not missing anything at all."
The gypsy in you is taking over.
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