A Travelogue

Nine days on the road, three thousand miles north to south and west

along the coast, in the French Quarter, into Texas through the most

horrendous rush hour traffic imaginable to the friends

hadn’t been seen since the memorial service eighteen

and a half years ago,

wife of sixteen years went over

like gangbusters, had a ball for a day

and got on our way

through what had been a closed highway

the day

before due to snow and ice on the way

down south on into New Mexico and then the copper mining

town of Bisbee after Douglas and before Patagonia

where we met a fly fishing guy with a tie

to Michigan and the north branch of the AuSable and Lovells and Grand

Rapids and knew

Holland and the big lake who knew Jim Harrison and drank with him

in a local bar but hadn’t seen him lately, in fact, maybe a year or two,

to Nogales and finally Phoenix.

Four days to recuperate,

clean the bikes, ride to the grocery store stop in the bike café

to have them check the brakes, chitchat and drink a cup of

fresh Americano. Bikes sat on the balcony for eight months

through the really hot, dusty season. Not a good idea.

I think we will put them inside when we leave in April.