Hometown

After 3,699 miles of riding, I reached a little driveway in front of a townhouse in Elizabethtown, PA. Out of the door came my dad with his phone recording, and then there was my mom, teary-eyed, standing half in the doorway.

Watching your “new life” slowly and steadily morph into your “old life” is a mind-bending experience. When I saw “Harrisburg” on the road sign, it dawned on me that I did it. I rode my motorcycle from the Pacific Ocean to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. I felt every mile, and each state went from unfamiliar to familiar. This was immediately familiar. I turned off my GPS, and realized that from here on, it’s muscle memory, a map that is burned into my mind from 30 years of living here.

(Side note, I tried to visit Fallingwater on my way, but when I got there, they turned me away, saying tickets were sold out, and that I couldn’t go see the house. I pleaded with the ticket-giving lady, saying it would mean a lot to me if they could let me see the house anyway. A firm no. I pulled forward, rode through the parking lot and back to the ticket lady. One last time, I said “Are you sure?” She called her manager. Overhearing the phone call, she said “No.” and a security van pulled up. Message received. I guess for the only attraction of “Normalville, PA” (I shit you not, that’s the name of the town), they sure are serious about their ticket policy. I left, realizing that I had to choose to either be angry or to not be angry. I chose to be angry for five minutes, then I chose to enjoy the rest of my trip. But fuck them, seriously.)

When I exited the turn pike to get on Rt 283, the sky was a “bright cloudy” with patches of blue peeking through. It had evidently just rained, and the rich smell of petrichor filled my nose. The smell of grass, minerals, rain, cow manure. It was all rich here in Pennsylvania, and I love it so much.

I was nearing the exit for my old house. Well, it was first my parents’ house, then I bought it from them while I was married and lived there for a few years. I had built a woodshed next to the house. I put new floors in. I got my old dog Brandy there. I worked my company there. I knew I would get divorced there. A flood of emotion began.

I decided to take the exit. The area has changed a lot since I lived here. New traffic lights, new convenience stores, but I knew the way easily. I pulled into the stranger’s driveway, and saw children’s toys in the yard. The had painted the house and planted some new trees. The woodshed, covered in green moss, with a couple roofing nails popping up, was still there. I took off my helmet, put my face in my hands, and wept.

I’m sure if they ever review their security footage, they will have a few questions, but eventually I gathered myself back up and left. I took the back roads to my parents’ house. I knew them so easily, like I had never left. Through the corn fields, through the overgrowth. Left on Beagle Rd. Right on Mill Rd. And so on until I finally arrived at their little townhouse development in Elizabethtown. It actually used to be my townhouse. In fact, our first house, that my ex-wife and I bought when I got married at 20. I sold it to my parents about 15 years ago.