As we left San Diego yesterday, kicking off the official start of Road Pickle, I could only feel enthusiasm for finally getting this road trip underway. In a way, we've been on this road trip the past couple of months if you consider we've been living out of motels and relying on our motorcycles for transportation. But yesterday was the day we finally finished up with business commitments, and was free to leave.
I couldn't feel any sadness for leaving behind San Diego or even Menifee, our long time home for the past couple of decades. I didn't even feel sad about leaving behind our friends; somehow I know we'll be seeing them again.
But Sash was teary eyed and couldn't hug her friends and family members long enough as she bid them goodbye.
It makes me wonder if I even left home, or if perhaps the road is my home.
It seems I've always been running away.
My parents divorced when I was seven, and then remarried new spouses and had new kids. I felt abandoned, replaced, and ignored. I found refuge in one friend who was living a similar childhood, but otherwise, I was riding my bicycle down the Santa Ana River Trail for as far as I could ride. As long as I was far away, I didn't have to face my troubles.
There's a strange feeling that the less material possessions I have, the more I seem to be in touch with myself.
Somehow, when in times of anxiety, I want to shut myself off from the external world and go deep into my spirit for comfort. The material things around me only seem to get in the way. It's as if these things have me surrounded and cornered. I need to get away and find that naive, innocent little boy inside.
Over the decades, through all the hardships, the pain, conflicts and confusion, his mind became poisoned and cluttered. It's like I need to hit the reset button and just clear all that shit out of me.
Honestly, I could do this road trip forever.