Life Is About Letting Go, but Keeping a Little Bit

The last 48 hours have been spiritually rich, and again, it’s going to be hard to write it all down. I’ve recorded video, audio, and taken photos, but I imagine even after sorting through them, it would only give you a shadow of what I’ve felt in these two days. It’s changed my life, given me new perspectives, and even if the last 7,000 miles were just for these two days, it would have been worth it.

I’ll begin chronologically, which is the worst way to tell a story. But now, as I’m perched atop some mesa in Colorado, it’s the only time I’ve had to really settle in and reflect on what just happened.

On Saturday, I began my journey out of Texas. To sum up, Amarillo is shit, and just avoid it. I started the day very early, and the overwhelmingly red sun filled the entire hazy sky with a martian pink. I was ready to get out of Texas into the spooky southwest. I pulled aside on a frontage road, away from the Interstate, and all I could hear was the rustling of the field. I parked next to someone’s house, and again realized that this was someone’s actual life. I was also extraordinarily hungry.

I saw a billboard just outside of Vega, TX for a diner called Hickory Inn Cafe. In these parts, you never know if that billboard is a relic that will lead you to another relic, but I decided to take a chance. Pulling up to the diner, two things were clear: 1. this was going to be a good place, and 2. I will not fit in. All the vehicles outside were some variant of 4x4, lifted, and covered in dirt. The sign was deteriorated, but it was evident that it was well-maintained in the places that mattered: the signs in the window, the door, the entrance: this was a thriving establishment. As I walked up to the door, I did a double-take to make sure I was entering the diner and not someone’s house. Maybe both. There was a welcome mat, and the door was your average front door, no windows. Shrugging, I opened the door and entered the small house-diner. There were a few patrons, obviously regulars, who payed me as much attention as though a fly landed on the window. However, when it was obvious that I had no idea where I was or what I was to do, the middle-aged lady with the short hair said, “Take a seat anywhere, hun.” I complied.

The breakfast was the best I’ve had in 7,000 miles, and I ate the plate clean. My entertainment during the meal was a pair of old, fat cowboys talking politics, and a table of young cowboys and their wives talking about horse uteruses.

I left full, happy, and ready to get to New Mexico.

The moment I crossed into New Mexico, the road changed, the flora changed. The entire vibe changed. In Texas, the bigger your Trump/Pence sign, the bigger your p…ickup truck, it seemed. In New Mexico, there was nothing. I’m assuming that people will all vote the same, but the loudness attenuated, which seemed to take a veil of the landscape. There were horses roaming in fields beside the road, dead snakes that have been run over, and random patches of sunflowers and other beautiful colors dotting the brown and green plains. New Mexico was spooky, and I liked it. I strained to hear Native American drums in the distance as I made my way up to Taos. Mesas groaned upward through the plains, leaving crimson striae in their wake. I finally made it to Taos, but it became evident that the town wasn’t tolerating Covid well.

The Pueblo was closed to anyone who wasn’t a resident. Campsites were restricted to New Mexico residents only. I did a little shopping at a little square, and eventually settled down for a glass of wine and a snack. I made friends with my server, and he informed me that Covid was hitting the Navajo very hard, hence closing the Pueblo to the public. And since Taos’ primary industry is tourism, the whole town was suffering from the shutdown. I was sad again, just like in Tulsa, knowing that part—not all—but part of this trip was a lamentation. The wind picked up outside: a thunderstorm was brewing. If I was going to get anywhere, I should get there soon.

I decided that the best idea was to cut over to Durango, CO as quickly as possible. I found a hotel downtown with a room, and launched my gray, two-wheeled missile in that direction. This wasn’t a pleasure cruise: my mission was to land in Durango as quickly as humanly possible. My speedometer frequently saw triple digits as I left a trail of rubber through northern New Mexico, creating plumes of water behind me and to the side as I went through intermittent storms. Head down, in a tuck, a meteor in the night.

The sun was low in the sky when I crossed the border into Colorado. As I rose out of the mesas into the mountains, I felt as if the land asked me to take a break. Breathe. I clicked off cruise control and slowed down. 90. 80. 75. 65 felt like I was crawling through a residential area, but instead, it was just the bright reflections of the sun dancing off the wet land. Ozone. Thin, crisp air. I took a few breaths and was immediately calm. It was like I came home to Colorado, and it embraced me. I followed the road up and through the mountains, passing several pristine cabins set up on the hillsides until I hit Pagosa Springs, the first sign of civilization, a beautiful little down. Only an hour to go.

When I arrived at Durango, before I realized it, the corners of my mouth had been turned up for miles, the mountains in the distance, the feeling of life. People dining and drinking in makeshift al fresco seating, sounds of music and the clamor of a crowd filled the street. Life! I pulled up to the Strater Hotel, and I could hear live honkey-tonk piano. It’s a historic hotel, full of character, but also clearly augmented with Covid precautions. And, unlike Oklahoma, Texas, and the rest of the south, people actually wore masks. Wild. I dropped my luggage off at the front desk, and went to park the bike behind the hotel. When I pulled into the parking lot, a bald man was putting the final touches on the cover on his Harley. “Nice ride!” he said. I think. We started talking about our rides.

Larry Holden is a stocky, bald man with a huge white goatee, kind eyes, and square black-rimmed glasses. He trained reining horses. He worked for the power company for 40+ years. A legit cowboy from Texas. A gray coat. A rebel. In the span of less than two days, he also became a dear friend.

“What’s under that cover?” I asked. With a sideways smile, Larry was quick to oblige. As he removed the cover he just finished applying, he revealed a fully-custom 2011 Harley Road Glide. “Ain’t nothin’ stock about this bike, friend.” He said as he started talking about cams, pipes, seats, bags, paint, and the work he had to do to mount the huge trailer he was pulling to the frame.

He popped open his topcase to reveal a hundred stickers from different places he’s been. In the center was a confederate flag captioned “Fightin’ terrorists since 1861.” Does the confederate flag represent sympathy toward slavery? Sure. To Larry, though, that’s not what it’s about. It’s about telling you damn Yankees to stay off my lawn. Larry isn’t racist. Larry doesn’t condone slavery. This is another appropriation of southern identity that is as much a part of Texan culture as perhaps being a Democrat is in San Francisco. Remember, back in the old days, Democrats were pro-slavery also.

Larry, I don’t think, knew nor cared about my politics. We did care, together, about riding. We cared about route 66. We cared about the landscape, and about the history of the hotel, and about the passion of living outside of your own head, about the feeling of freedom a motorcycle gives you to drink in your environment to the point of saturation, and then drink some more.

Speaking of drinking, after cleaning up a bit, I met him in the hotel saloon for a drink. There have been 237 total cases of Covid in La Plata county (Durango) since the outbreak began. While denizens are, rightfully, being respectful and vigilant, everyone seemed to have a sense of safety because the numbers in Durango, and Colorado overall, are just so low. In the saloon, tables were 6’ apart, but you took your mask off to drink. And drink we did. After every Old Fashioned, we became closer friends. Talking about riding, of course, but also genuinely getting to know each other. Telling stories. Talking about love and relationships, divorce, life lessons. I learned all kinds of things about being a cowboy in Texas that I never thought I’d ever know. I’m sure Larry learned a few things as well. At the end of the night we both knew that we were buddies, and I asked if I could tag along on his ride the next day, a 240 mile loop up Rt 145, to Telluride, Ouray, Silverton, and down the Million Dollar Highway through the mountains.

Not going to lie, I woke up hungover just a tad. Nevertheless, I took a shower, grabbed some coffee, and met my new friend by the bikes. We rode all day. I’m going to shorten this part of the story, and let the video do some of the talking. Colorado is the most beautiful state. It just is. Telluride is perfect. Ouray is perfect. Screaming down from 10,000 feet of elevation is perfect. While not the most technically challenging ride, which is what I usually look for as “best ride” criteria, this was one of the best rides of my life.

We stopped in Telluride to grab some coffee (or a Bloody Mary in Larry’s case; the thought of more booze right then turned my stomach, I was still shaky from the night before). We stopped and chatted with some other bikers, and they and Larry nerded out about Harley stuff. I stood there and absorbed the fact that we were sitting in a perfect town, surrounded by mountains rising 12,000+ feet into the sky.

We rode to Ouray, and stopped into the Outlaw saloon (of course), and the barkeep, Colleen, whom Larry befriended a few days prior, took excellent care of us. I broke down and had an IPA and a French Dip sandwich, complete with horseradish and hot au jus, and crispy frites. I destroyed that plate. I jokingly asked Colleen for another, and I was only half kidding.

Outside of Ouray, the Million Dollar Highway begins. It rises up into the mountains, no guardrail. If you aren’t paying attention, to quote Larry, “you’re going to be falling for weeks.” With every switchback, we rose. I could feel my body reacting to the thinning air, but my adrenaline augmented any negative effects. I trusted my tires, I trusted the bike. Larry and I raced up the mountain in tandem, stopping once in a while for views, or to let slowpoke cars get a mile or so ahead so we could continue with our fun pace. We both felt it: this was a special moment, a special day. Do not take it for granted.

We stopped in Silverton to shop a little. He knew a Navajo guy who ran a jewelry store there. I bought Katy some really pretty things, and I also got myself a ring. I’m not a ring guy. I wear few things on my body: Boots. Socks. Underwear. Jeans. A black t-shirt. My watch. And now a bandanna to mask up. That’s it. But now, I wear these things, and an antique Navajo ring, rectangular, inset with two types of Turquoise and Onyx. It was made in the 70’s or so, and shows heavy signs of wear. I imagine its original owner to be a leathery old Navajo, who wore it until he died. I’m sure that’s not the case, but I’m going to believe that story.

Somehow, we avoided storms in the last our back to Durango. The sky was ominous, and the air was cool, which to me was a respite from the rest of the day. Spent, happy, out of gas, we pulled back into the Strater. That was one epic day. Larry went to get himself a dunk in the sauna, and I went back to my room for a much-needed shower. As an aside, as I was drying off in my room from the shower, one hapless hotel staff decided to enter my room without warning. No knocks. Just hey, here I am. “Um hello? Go away? Go away!” Was literally all I could think to say. He saw my junk. We locked eyes. Oh well, lucky him. He was wearing a mask but like, I knew him now. The rest of the night, and even the following morning, anytime we were near, we never—NEVER—looked at each other, or spoke a word to each other.

Larry was waiting at the same table at which we drank too much—or actually, the right amount— the night before. A guitarist was hammering out awesome covers. I very much enjoyed it, but Larry was the real fan. Calling out requests, hollering about how awesome he was. He bought him some whiskey as the first move in an attempt to get him to stay later than his 8:30pm slot. Genuine. Larry is fucking genuine. And I love that.

The more Buffalo Trace we imbibed, the louder the bar got. There were few guests. It was a small, intimate party. The guitarist was killing it. He was also a very quirky character. Funny, with a dry delivery, as if Mitch Hedberg and John Mayer had a weird baby. After his set, we were all friends—the other guests, the bar staff, and Sean. Sean O’Brien, the guitarist, sat down with us and introduced himself. “Irish?” I said. We all bursted out with laughter. Turns out this talented musician used to live in LA. Now he drives a propane truck in Durango with his family. They’re happy. They have a house. He plays shows at the Strater every other week. Also, as an interesting detail, he has a flip phone. Where am I?

The night was coming to a close. 48 hours before, I knew none of these people. Now, they are an integral part of my life’s story. I knew when I went to bed, it would be a very long time until I got to see Larry again, and I also wondered if I’d see any of these people again. I started to feel sad, but then, I stopped. I realized that life—living—is about these moments, and holding onto them is futile. The more you try to hold on to things, the less you appreciate them for what they are, in the moment in which they are to exist. To paraphrase Alan Watts, when you die, it’s just your consciousness that ceases to exist. Life doesn’t cease to exist. And who’s to say that your life is your consciousness? You are bigger than that. To paraphrase Christian doctrine, we are all one body, one flesh. We just happen to live in walled identities of our own construction. The more we can let go of that, the more life becomes more rich, and death becomes less scary. I put my hands on my knees and stood up. “Well, it’s time to get some sleep.” I complimented and thanked Sean, and wished him well. I then looked over at Larry. We gave each other a big bear hug. We exchanged addresses, and with them the hope of expanding our back yard a little more. Larry and I are different, but we are also the same. Through our friendship and the time we’ve spent in Durango, now as I look around at other people, I see them just a bit more not as individuals, but as part of me.