Finding Grace In Every Mile by Adam Scull

I cheated on my fears, broke up with my doubts, and got engaged to my Harley. I renewed my vows and stayed married to my dreams of finding my own road and my own peace of mind. 

Something I can’t quite explain is what compelled me to get rid of everything I owned that wouldn’t fit on my motorcycle and ride off, not knowing where I was going, not knowing what I was doing, I just didn’t care. I had lost it. June 15 of 2017, the day came. I packed my motorcycle and left Tampa.

I knew it was out there somewhere. I only knew I had to search for it and ride down the tree-shaded back roads dappled with sunlight and parted trees that whirled my head and set my heart free, heading for the mountains and the plains. Not unlike a sailboat, I’ll put ‘er about and let ‘er run before the breezes, take a port and ease ‘er in amid the setting sun, then find a place to spin a yarn or two about the places that I’d been. After finding a place to camp out, I then get on my way to some other dusty town, riding along the lonely roads not knowing where I’m going in this distant land. All the places that I passed, desolate pastures with cows grazing, the occasional dilapidated filling stations that looked straight out of the dustbowl. Images of artist Andrew Wyeth’s painting Christina’s World flashed through my mind until nightfall when artist Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks just popped into my mind. Again the desolation was calling to me. After growing up in the heart of New York City, my heart longed for these empty scenes of rural America.

“I’d rather go and journey, where the trees have leaves of prisms and break the light in colors, that no one knows the names of. You may lead me to the chasm where the rivers of our visions flow into one another, in its clear and jeweled waters, you will surely know I wasn’t born to followâ€.
-Carol King and Jerry Goffin

Riding slowly and alone is my comfort zone. When I was young, driving my fathers’ Jaguar XKE, he always said to slow down and look around you. It’s a memory I carry with me to this day.

There is a beauty of riding a motorcycle, seeking grace in every mile; I’m out there and one with the sun, the wind, the rain, and the land. I am swept away, breathing in the history of these lands. The road is my temple, the motorcycle is my sanctuary. This is where I worship. I’m on a search for some higher meaning, ever faithful to my journey and my heart.

Riding is a teacher, it was like she had a voice. You’d be surprised how much you learn, once you’ve got no choice, and I was learning how to get along with myself. 

From rainbows in the blue sky to the red light of the setting sun, the vast farmlands to the foothills, the old red barns bleached out by the sun, it’s all there showing me our world, the silence of life from afar.

Most hear the potato, potato, potato of the motorcycle exhaust. I hear the voices of angels, the waters of life spilling into a stream. I’m living the odyssey of my mind. I grew up with two older brothers, but I was a loner, alone for what seemed a lifetime. My foolish heart is entranced by the feelings that comb through me when I ride. The gift of dreams comes alive, my glory road beckons to set me free to keep me on the road and laughing. I’ve got all my worldly goods in my bike, looking for something, knowing that it ain’t here where I’m at. By nature, I’m someone who likes to wear the mileage from the road more than a suit. Riding is like water- never still and always reflective. It is hard not to love it for its simplicity.

Motorcycle wanderers realize the most valuable possessions are ones that can’t be bought in stores, knowing the best things in life are all free, as I sail into the red light of the slowly descending sun, the wind playing with the leaves. 

“You’re completely in contact with it all. You’re in the scene, not just watching it anymore, and the sense of presence is overwhelming.â€
-Robert Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

There is a deep fire in my belly for riding which will make me achieve impossibly long miles of backroads. Motorcycle riders will not mind devoting a good amount of time and income to their motorcycles. In the hierarchy of needs, it’s motorcycling that stays on the top.

Riding a motorcycle gives one a sense of freedom. I’ve got a very bohemian mindset, an evocation of pastoral freedom, and the implicit desire to escape from the restrictions of conventional society. “Bohemians live an unconventional lifestyle and do what they want. They live life their way. They value freedom, creativity, and change. Call them hippies, bohemians, free-spirits, indigos, they don’t care. True modern-day bohemians are people who operate from the margins. They are aware that we have inherited a world whose ideologies are depleted and can only be refreshed from outside the box. No one has ever become extraordinary by following the crowd. What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly”.

I pulled off into an inexpensive neon-lit motel for the evening. The ceiling fan blades turn slowly as I stare into some vista of my imagination. The sky is a soft hue with a deepening blue, cloudless in its colored ferocity with the setting sun glaring through the branches. Off in the distance, I hear the lonesome whistle of a train engine that makes me think about the Steve Goodman written song made famous by Arlo Guthrie, “City of New Orleansâ€.

It’s the wind-swept wheat fields, pastures, and cornfields that I long to see. Riding allows me to fulfill these visions. A herd of grazing cows comes into view. I downshift, shut down the engine and slowly coast to a stop, The engine ticks as it slowly cools. I dismount and walk over to the fence and just look at the cows. A few blackbirds dive in and sit on a large branch. I stare into the deep blue sky, wondering if it’s all here for me. It’s an embracement of the senses and acts as oxygen to my soul. Whatever awaits me, the candle that burns inside will light up my life with a power that never will die.