From the Desk of The DBeazy One-Man-Think-Tank

I wish that I could remember the dream that I had last night. Recently, while searching for a better quality of sleep, I incorporated a nightly Melatonin tablet which to my delight, served to intensify my dreams, but ultimately, I quit on the meds because I found myself drowsy during the day. Since then, I’ve found the dreams to be no less vivid, no less electrifying, but at the same time, no more memorable. I have a glass of diet coke by the bed, right next to the Carmex, which is next to the notepad, sans words, that is. Consequently, I’m convinced that directly above the bedside table is the brief stopping point for nightly dreams. Dreams that leave the plane of the bed, rise for a bit, then exit this dimension toward wherever it is that unremembered dreams go.

I silenced the alarm early this morning, immediately remembering that I was making the morning ride to work on the bike. I forced myself to lie there for a few minutes to allow the fog to clear and to compile a mental punch list of everything needed to move from feet touching the floor to easing off the clutch and starting for work. The list for departing on a motorcycle is much longer than the steps required for hopping into a 4-wheeled method of conveyance. The list included things like additional and extra clothing, bungee cords to strap down my backpack, the face shield on my helmet always needs cleaning, the usual “pre-flight” check of the bike, including air pressure, oil, and coolant; all of this in addition to my normal routine of feeding the herd of cats and dogs that I support. Finally, I exited my room and started up the hallway, remembering the current state of my riding boots.

My boots were in bad need of attention. It was a task that I didn’t have time for this morning, but could scarcely see that I had a choice. I took a deep breath and convinced my mind to relax, to slow down, to remember that I had an entire day ahead and that it wouldn’t start or finish without my presence. I studied my boots and I attempted to recall their age. Did I purchase them in 2018 or 2019? They were scuffed, partially covered with a combination of mud and dried ashes from a day of yard work back in December. Upon further inspection, I noticed that the boots had glitter on them that wouldn’t come off and I remembered wearing them early on the morning of New Year’s Eve. It was the morning of the wedding of my youngest daughter and I sprayed a homemade crescent moon with glitter paint as I prepared it for the main backdrop of the wedding ceremony. I was in a mad rush to get everything done in time and the wind scattered more glitter paint on my boots and jeans than on the moon.

I gathered everything needed to clean the boots and polish them, quickly realizing that the glitter was not coming off. Then it hit me. I realized that it didn’t matter if the boots had some residual glitter, for the glitter represented a day in the life of DBeazy. I stared at the boots, performed some quick math, and noted that every scuff, every nick, every wrinkle in the leather, every slick part of the sole of the boot represented a part of the almost 90,000 miles worn while on the back of a motorcycle, plus many hours wearing the boots while not riding a bike. I thought about all of the places those boots had been, across several states and many a historic location. Those boots have walked across many a barroom floor, they have traveled at speeds exceeding 105 miles per hour on a Harley Davidson the day that the world restarted after the Covid-19 lockdown. A day when people hit the roads for the first time in 4-wheeled vehicles and collectively drove like they were out of cigarettes. The heels of the boots are rounded from my first experience of leaning my Honda Valkyrie to the point that my foot pegs dragged the pavement and my heels along with them, what a rush! These boots have been worn as I drove to a store and if they could speak, they could reveal my thoughts as I mentally spent the millions on the way to and on the way back from purchasing lottery tickets. These boots, if they could talk, could reveal both less-than-pure actions along with very noble actions on the part of the man wearing them. They might also know that the man wearing them is much, much less than perfect and if they could express themselves, they might even make excuses for me. Yes, regarding these boots, I imagine that I second-guessed if I could afford the purchase when I clicked the “check-out” button that day because that is what I have always done. I remember how proud I was to own them and how I simultaneously “justified” their purchase, and felt guilty and selfish as I considered what I could have done otherwise with the money.

These boots are not special to anyone else. To me, well yeah, they are just another pair of boots, of course. But time, age, and miles bring about a different perspective. Neither right nor wrong, just different, that’s all. I could look at those boots from the point of view of a younger me, or me with more discretionary money to spend and begin shopping for new ones, but I am just not ready. The same thoughts apply to my riding gloves and my vest and jacket. Most of the attire that I don while on the back of a motorcycle is a bit worse for wear. But besides all of the purposes for the gear that I wear such as protection against mishaps on the roads and protection against the elements, my gear also serves to identify me while I am out on the road. What I mean is that my attire mostly identifies me to other bikers out there, but also to anyone that I run across. The wear and tear on my garments, helmet, and boots tell those that I encounter that I have logged the hours and that I have logged the miles, and that I’m not the motorcycle riding version of what Mel Tillis referred to as a “Coca Cola Cowboy.”

So what is it exactly, about those boots? Well, today, they represent the future. After I cleaned them and got them all shiny and protected for another run, they represent the next 90,000 miles or 350,000 miles, whatever the number turns out to be, that I will travel. They represent every step that I will make, walking into a “sketchy” roadside tavern, when every cell in my body is screaming, “just crank back up and ride away,” but I continue ahead because inside, I will meet a subset of Americans who have voices, opinions, and points-of-view that are valid and who otherwise wouldn’t be heard. The boots represent that guy who recognizes my 25-year-old motorcycle at a rest stop and can make a connection to a bike that they owned, or their father owned and brought back fond memories of when they rode. The boots may represent that guy, about to make his 40^th birthday, who is beginning to question if his life is only about his wife, and his children, and who may feel that he has lost his identity as a man and hears that voice SCREAMING inside that there is NOTHING more. (and decides that a new bike is better than trading his 40-year-old wife in for two “twenties.”) My boots bring connotation to the stops that I will make on the Natchez Trace Parkway, which I haven’t seen to this point. Just as these boots have walked amongst the pillars remaining of the Windsor Ruins, parked near the red clay of Mississippi’s “Little Grand Canyon,” have been present in the “acoustical buffer zone” surrounding Mississippi’s Nasa Engine Testing Facility, they represent all of the places that I will visit by motorcycle in the years that I have left to ride my portion of the planet Earth.

There will come a day when my health fails me when the lines of time and age converge and the sands in the glass fall faster due to less resistance. By that time, I hope and dream that my boots and I have ridden the plains of Kansas, have seen the mountains of the Great Divide, traveled to the Southern most tip of the United States, and held me steady as I take in the beauty and majesty of the highways, byways, cities, and towns that I still have planned to see; all from the seat of a motorcycle. I also hope that my boots take me back to some places because often, revisiting old and familiar places is more rewarding than learning new ones.

Off in the distance, when the time comes, when the last grain of sand settles at the bottom, I pray that my boots, my bike, and I just ease off into the darkness with no pomp and circumstance, just a quiet, simple exit.

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