and she said.. "how you interpret the dream is probably more important than the dream itself"

The constant struggle with the inner monologue is grinding me down.

If I could build a nifty uplink port into the back of my skull where I could jam a big metal thing into my brain and upload every thought in my ongoing confusion, well... I wouldn't do it - cause frankly I would trust it. Sticking large metal things into the back of your brain only seems mildly enjoyable on the big screen and even less so the more you think about it - blue pill please. But I digress, the main point is that there would not be enough room on blogspot to house such a warehouse of nonsense. Not enough room in the whole world maybe.

Worked late last night to get some time in so I could ride to NH and get the bike worked on today. Time for a 12,000 mile major service. Valve-adjustments, the whole works. Why NH? Cause they got one of the most world-reknowned Ducati specialists.. so why not take it there if it's practically in my back yard? Why not? Cause I'm too lazy, apparently.

Woke up early at 7:30am and looked outside - sun was coming up all nice and round and the sky was clear and crisp. 76 degrees today they said - 76 degrees. Perfect riding weather. 108 miles from Laconia, NH. And lazy me decides to go to work instead.

Last night, in the wee hours of the morn I looked at my friend with conviction "I'll be up at 7:30 and we'll be on the road by 8!". I believed it too. I lay in bed reading about John Adams - that most responsible and steadfast of statesmen - and thinking that I, too, was good for my word. I shut the lights out at 2 thinking warm fuzzy thoughts of crank-case oil and gasoline.

7:30AM and I blinked my eyes open at the bright sky out the window. I could hear the morning traffic shuffling by and the carpenters already working on the house down the street. I felt good and even rested despite only 5 hours in the sack and even felt like I would follow through with my plans. I glanced at the clock and rolled over - "I'll wait for the alarm," I thought.

The buzz buzz buzz buzz forced me from under the covers at 7:45 and I hammered the clock with an iron fist. I looked at my bed - this is where, on a normal day, morning-mike would lay waste to all of nighttime-mike's plans of getting to work early (or even on time!) and would curl back up under the covers, pillow over the head as if cotton and down were the perfect shield for guilt. Today, though, nighttime-mike prevailed and proceeded to get dressed. Pulled on some hiking long-johns for the ride and put on a sweater for extra warmth. Trudged down the stairs and woke up my traveling companion (like a 9 y.o. old boy but not from my 1st marriage).

We sat on the couch - me with leather drapped over my shoulders and him wrapped in a sleeping bag - and starred sleepily out at the waking world. The street sweeper came roaring by making a large cloud of dust that seemed to do little but re-distribute the sand to different parts of the road. The ferry came chugging up to the public landing and 4 or 5 trucks that had been waiting for some time clambered up onto the deck of the boat. Morning people drove by cheerfully with coffee in hand and the hint of a smile on their lips. Non-morning people grudgingly ground their fists into their eye-sockets and rolled by in their plymouth sundance's and toyota corolla's with a nasty scowl.

Inside, deep within, morning-mike began to rise. He pulled at the knees of nighttime-mike like a child begging to be picked up. He rose and tugged now on the shirt and now he pushed forcefully downward with his palm flat on the top of nighttime-mike's skull. It was, afterall, morning.

"I don't really want to go," I said.

"I don't blame you," my friend said - a fellow nightowl commiserating with the damned.

"I want to go back to bed," I said.

"I don't blame you," he said. "If I were you I would just take it to the local Ducati dealer and have them service it. I mean, you don't think they'll do a good job?"

"Yah.. I guess," I said weakly. The guilt was already setting in.

But as a punishment I did not go back to bed. I was not allowed some comfort in my misery. I forced myself to put on business casual. I forced myself to tie my shoes and grab my keys. I looked around one last time at my apartment - visually locating my new rear bike tire, my riding gloves, my helmet - as if I might change my mind at the last second. Yet I knew it was not to be.

Rode to work with beans on the air - passed the B&M factory in a roar as the bike picked up speed on the on ramp and merged into the morning traffic. She loves to run. Purred up the highway and off onto Rt. 1, past Mackworth Island and Martin's Point, and up into Falmouth. She loves to run.

No full name yet - she is but a young babe and the ink on the adoption papers are not even dry yet. The car, a prelude, was dubbed Speedy Marie (see Frank Black - Teenager of the Year) in it's second or third month... but the bike.. it will take some more thought. There is still time.

For now the sun creeps ever higher and the the mercury inches up the thermometer and I sit and watch the phosphors dance on the screen in odd patterns as if to suggest the outlines of java code but I only stare through it. Maybe 50 yards away, right outside the front door, she sits and waits patiently but I can hear her whisper.. she calls softly.

Ride Me