I woke up in my favorite transient town. Flagstaff, AZ. I was dragging my feet a bit, as it had become time “to head EAST”. The roads would no longer be winding links between communities, but more purpose built shipping lanes. The motorcycle would no longer be my choice for travel, but my mode of transportation. Every trip has a turning point, and today would be mine.
As per the morning routine, I reloaded the steel horse. Clothes and camping gear into waterproof bags. Rainsuit and maps to the tank bag. Electronics where they would fit. Toiletries stuffed in cracks. The half eaten loaf of banana bread from the church in Durango… thrown away. Red bag on bottom, yellow bag on top, retired boots secured to yellow bag, blue bungees from back to front, front to back, black net over the top, tie in the back bag, tank bag attached to the bike, water bottles filled.
Somewhere during that process, I spotted a hitchhiker standing along I-40. What caught my eye about this particular man was the collection of stuff surrounding him… He had more “baggage” than I did! There must have been eight large plastic bags neatly piled along the road.
As I pondered who in the world would have enough room to actually pick this gentleman up, I saw him very methodically move two bags at a time twenty feet. Drop them and go back for another two. Once all eight had been successfully moved twenty feet, he would assume the classic hitching position and wait… Ten minutes later, he would repeat the process…
In my overly analytical state of mind, I began to redefine the term “progress”.
By the time my horse was loaded, this gentleman had come down off the road and was standing on the outside of the fence designed to keep him there. For reasons unknown to me, I wandered over and struck up a conversation with this man.
One of the golden rules in travel is that when you encounter a hitchhiker, you never ask where they have been, just where they are heading. In this case, he was heading to San Diego (about 400 miles away). I’m sure my next question was technically in violation of the rule, but it opened a 20 minute dialogue…
His name was Frank. He was 78 years old. He was not well, but didn’t elaborate on why. He left San Diego three months ago in search of his parent’s grave site in Connecticut. He had been successful in locating them and was now trying to get back to California.
Frank was educated, articulate, clean, and humble. I didn’t ask how, or why, or what. We kept the conversation in the present, as it should be.
Frank wanted a donut and a ride to the truck stop in Williams, AZ (about 35 miles away). I showed Frank my fully loaded horse and said there was nothing I could do… He then pointed out that I could unload all of my stuff, make 4 trips to Williams, then load my stuff back and be on my way…
I must have had that look of “well, yeah, but…”, because he just grinned and said “Just pray. Thank you for sharing the road. God Bless you.”
I ran into Frank about 30 minutes later (and 60 feet further down the road) when I stopped by to drop off the groceries. He was disappointed I had not bought a donut, but thankful none the less. Meeting Frank changed more than my day… He managed to put me back in “travel” mode and opened my eyes to the true meaning of “sharing the road”.
