The state of Oregon requires motorcycles to have at least one functioning mirror yet glancing left to the blue, dented motorcycle illegally parked on the sidewalk outside a coffee shop, I can count none.
The bike, Blue, has resisted mirrors by dropping them or crashing on top of them on several occasions.
A police officer issuing me a speeding ticket once commented on the lack of rear-flection, I added, "the horn doesn't work either," to my amusement. I failed to mention the speedometer quit miles ago. The officer kept writing the speeding ticket. Argh, the plight of an able-body driver of a fast vehicle; a dilemma as old as tragedy itself.
The other day, I was sampling the good-life while riding a speedless, rear-view-less motorcycle down a cold road towards a late night meeting with a far flung friend. A night when wintergreen air colors each breath.
Arriving at the Olympic Sculpture Park, I saw a bike with four mirrors and thought about making this rider my friend. Trying a mirror for the day and giving it back; but I knew this could never happen. The gas gauge doesn't work either its not that kind of bike. I wouldn't ask a model to make me breakfast and I'm not going to ask Blue to prance about bragging all its functional auxiliary switches and beveled reflections.
That same other day as the clock struck midnight I began to think about how mirrors show you the past, allowing the examination of where I've been and where I'm going. And that could be the real reason for no mirrors. As I left the sculpture park, back to my bivouac in the woods, I reflected on the past. I liked what I saw but knew I could never go back.
The future involves Blue and I scanning the Mexican interior in search of the illusive Chupacabra, while trading Portland's cool mint air and pine trees for south North American's dusty sage breathes and ponderosa pines. While I am happy about my past, I gladly exchanged it for the present.
Sipping coffee, I realize there is no more time for reflection, even if life or Blue had mirrors.
The bike, Blue, has resisted mirrors by dropping them or crashing on top of them on several occasions.
A police officer issuing me a speeding ticket once commented on the lack of rear-flection, I added, "the horn doesn't work either," to my amusement. I failed to mention the speedometer quit miles ago. The officer kept writing the speeding ticket. Argh, the plight of an able-body driver of a fast vehicle; a dilemma as old as tragedy itself.
The other day, I was sampling the good-life while riding a speedless, rear-view-less motorcycle down a cold road towards a late night meeting with a far flung friend. A night when wintergreen air colors each breath.
Arriving at the Olympic Sculpture Park, I saw a bike with four mirrors and thought about making this rider my friend. Trying a mirror for the day and giving it back; but I knew this could never happen. The gas gauge doesn't work either its not that kind of bike. I wouldn't ask a model to make me breakfast and I'm not going to ask Blue to prance about bragging all its functional auxiliary switches and beveled reflections.
That same other day as the clock struck midnight I began to think about how mirrors show you the past, allowing the examination of where I've been and where I'm going. And that could be the real reason for no mirrors. As I left the sculpture park, back to my bivouac in the woods, I reflected on the past. I liked what I saw but knew I could never go back.
The future involves Blue and I scanning the Mexican interior in search of the illusive Chupacabra, while trading Portland's cool mint air and pine trees for south North American's dusty sage breathes and ponderosa pines. While I am happy about my past, I gladly exchanged it for the present.
Sipping coffee, I realize there is no more time for reflection, even if life or Blue had mirrors.
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