Pundits expound on attachment these days. Buddhists can’t stop talking about them.

As I glide North on I5 my awareness grows of all the attachments that hold grips on me. Their strength is not necessarily unpleasant. Some roots are good for us. But mine sprout quickly, which is not always practical.

Tasks Before Leaving

One such attachment is to finishing tasks before trips.

The following always  happens to me. I remember tasks that have languished for weeks without consequence. Yet the importance of their completion is massively amplified by any impending departure for a trip. They all must be accomplished before that fatal day when the motorcycle will rumble to life for takeoff, or the Uber awaits downstairs for the airport.

For example, before this very trip, did I really need to connect my new printer? Or what about vacuuming the vents in the back of the refrigerator? Yes, I did that. Maybe adding the  missing label-maker label to the Container Store box in the garage could have waited? I had added my newly acquired battery analysis tool to the box. So now the set of labels on the box were incomplete. As I roll North, they no longer are.

I got all these tasks done. But why?

The Car Ahead of Me

As I ride the freeway, I tend to pick a car behind which I settle in. My selection is based on the steadiness of the vehicle’s speed. It should be about 5MPH above speed limit. The driver must pay attention to inclines, and adjust the accelerator to maintain that target rate of motion. No dead-foot driver will appeal to me.

The car should be of compact height, so it does not block my view. And I want to like the automobile’s color. Once I find my soul mate vehicle, I attach. When it passes, I follow. When it relinquishes the fast lane, so do I. This road fellowship is restful to me.

And eventually, it happens. I am betrayed. My intimate relationship is rupture when the car exits the freeway. I feel the void it leaves behind. The burden of vehicle dating begins anew. This car waits too long on passing a truck, and begins to dawdle down to 60MPH. No good, that one. Or, maybe I try to look past a wrong color, only to find that the driver stays too long in the left lane. So much time wasted on the dating, and hopes dashed.

Sometimes I exit for gas, reluctantly letting go of my vehicular attachment. At least in that case it’s my decision. I’m not getting dumped or misled. The sadness is there, but I’m in control. And I do take responsibility for my actions. You won’t hear me whine over the loss.

And then, sometimes, for magical reasons, I find my friend again; two hours later sometimes. There she is, the dark blue Honda with that beautiful license plate, and steady, reliable speed.

The Road Itself

What I learned today is that I form affinities with freeways. Until today I’ve been following I5 hour by hour, for several days. We observed agricultural use change along our sides. Harsh scrub gave way to well irrigated green trees, thousands of them, and all the same shape. Then, sudden changes to vast truck repair yards, wholesale propane vendors, sheet metal suppliers, grain silos, or tractor dealers.

Malls slide by, to melt into raw rock through which dynamite blasted a path for my I5. Then finally, when I am tired and mildly over heated, I5 gives me a motel. The road bids me good night, and hums me to sleep. Waiting for me to join it again with fresh eyes.

Then, today it happened. My GPS nudged me off Exit 300. Leaving my I5 to continue alone towards Seattle. Life was simple when it was just I5 and I. Now it’s even numbers encased in white shields, rather than the soothing Federal blue.

My Motorcycle

If you’ve read the earlier entries, you know that the relationship with my motorcycle underwent a crisis. RT1250s were winking at me, and swaying their hips. Well, one of the guests in Roseburg, while awaiting his wife’s return from checking in walked over to us, and admired my K12.

“Beautiful bike”

“Yes, though I’ve been thinking of trading in for an R1250RT”

“Ahwww,” he actually shuddered, “you’d be disappointed with an RT after riding this K. The only comparable might a Husaberg.”

Well damn! My K12! He envies me for it.

Being the unfaithful lout that I am, I still looked up Husaberg bikes. They were bought by various companies over the years, and are now called Husqvarna. The current model is Norden 901. What kind of name is Husqvana Norden 901?! Compared to BMW K1200RS? Also, looks like the target audience is not quite me:

I’m like the husband in the 1970s Geritol ad. His wife, in her 70s explains brightly that she takes Geritol every day to keep her healthy, strong (and by implication, lubricated). Cut to the husband:

“She takes Geritol every day. I think I’ll keep her.”

That’s what I say about my 1997 K12. On the other hand, there is healthcare. I feel as if it takes a while for my 1st gear to ‘grip’ as I release the clutch. That has me worried. Which is why I called a nearby BMW dealer for a transmission fluid check.

Jordan, the nice gal on the phone was regretful:

“We don’t service motorcycles more than twelve years old.”

So, there is that.

My Hotel Room

I woke up at 11am this morning, thinking I’d spend the rest of the day at the BMW dealer getting my transmission fluid filled. You know what happened that. But, I like it here. The bike routes on the map I included in an earlier post shows two loops. So, why not stay a third night? I’m loosely attached to this quiet, fourth floor room.

So, I proceed to the lobby, passing my room service woman, who is preparing the room across the hall. We agree that I don’t need my room done, but am missing lotion and shampoo. She brings my two arms full of the delightful, little bottles, and we part ways. 

I find the desk clerk studying the display of security camera feeds. Lots of feeds!

“We are fully booked for tomorrow,”

I hear his verdict as he turns away from that screen.

Seeing my dejected face, he relents, and sits down at the computer.

What follows is agony. He stares at the screen the way an airline ticket agent attends to your request for a flight change. I try to read his face, which is as of stone. Time stretches to minutes of silence. 

Now I really want that room. It’s such a wonderful room. I don’t want to leave tomorrow. Why didn’t I ask for that additional night yesterday? What an idiot I am. I like this room so much. 

For releasing the tension I study the security feeds. A woman drapes a towel over a table. Is that a view into the massage room? No wonder he was staring. Just my luck. Now she is between clients. Maybe I should take a job as receptionist here. Then I discover the washing machines in the background. Maybe just one more night then.

The clerk’s boss emerges from the back, and slips into an adjacent seat.

“He wants an extra night,” says the clerk to his boss. “And he has the courtesy of telling us the day before, so I’m trying to help him out. Otherwise I‘d have said ‘Jacuzzi‘ .”

They have a jacuzzi too? Yep, and a spa.

The search continues. And finally:

„I can give you the accessible king. Would that be all right?“

Well, yes, of course.

„You‘d have to move“

I understand.

That‘s kind of awkward, actually. I really like my current room. I have my CPAP machine set up. All the electronics are quietly sucking power from my sprawling set of USB manifolds.

But I thank him honestly, and he attends to the phone. So, in passing, I address the boss:

„Why is this hotel so popular?“

„Motocross meet, and the marina.“

I feel like my mother years ago. With a female friend, both in their 70s, and mothers of three children each, she was hiking in the Black Forest. Eventually they were hungry and exhausted. Every restaurant they tried turned them away:

„Mothers day. We‘re full“

So, here I am, a serious long distance motor cyclist. And I can’t get a room because of a motocross meet?

I am grateful, though, and thank the boss for the dinner tip he provided when I arrived last night. He of course had witnessed the entire room finding tragedy.

„Did you have the halibut and chips?“

„Yes! They were great!“

„They are the best. That’s what they are known for. What‘s your room number again? Let me double check.“

Another several minutes of study. But:

„That wedding tomorrow is an additional problem.“

He promises to call me if there are any cancellations:

„… so you don‘t have to move.“

So, here I am, back in my room. Waiting for a call.

My Three States of Being

It’s not that I’m inflexible. I transition between three states of being ‘Andreas’. In between ‘flights’ I’m a happily bellied, friendly and curious seeker of impressions.

When fully armored and rolling I’m aligned with bikers, and a little bit with truckers. Because my K12 is so big, I’m respected on the road. Even Harley riders greet me. Unless they are in a group, wear studded leather jackets, pot bellies, and beards. Even then, I hold my ground. It’s that middle state, of checking out, and switching persona that’s disconcerting. I’m comfortable in either stable state. I attach to the role. But that transition…

Very oddly reminiscent, this all is, to an exchange I had with my mother:

Andreas: “Are you afraid of death?”
My mother: “Death isn’t the problem. Dying is.”

When you attach, as I do, the transitions are what needs learning.

Anger

Anger is closely tied to attachment. Trouble is, my attachments to angers are complicated. For example, I should be angry at the Supreme Court overturning affirmative action. But I just don’t have any attachment to affirmative action, one way or other. No attachment, no anger. Just a bad conscience. 

I am livid when someone deliberately tries to cheat me out of a dollar when making change. I’m definitely attached to honesty around making change. It’s the principle. I’m attached to the principle, which makes me irrational. The cortisol spike and subsequent curtailment of life span aren’t commensurate to the dollar. That, of course, is where Buddhism comes in. I’m trying.

But how about if you just can’t decide whether or not to be angry? Kind of a latent attachment to fury that may manifest, if observed. Here is what happened:

A wide open parking lot. But the driver of that red car must block one of just two charging stations. The sign specifically states that you are to park only for the duration of the charge. He’s got exhaust pipes! Whom is he kidding?

I don’t have an electric car. So why should I care? A second spot is wide open. I should care even less. But what if I did have an electric car, and the second slot was taken? Damn it how thoughtless. No, actually, that driver is aggressive. He doesn’t like electric vehicles, because their drivers are Democrats. And you know what? That building in the background is a Yacht Club. Now that clinches it. That driver is an electric car sabotaging Republican. I’m attached to my motorcycle key as I grind it side long into the car’s paint job.

Satan is Everywhere

After finishing the above entry I browsed the Web a bit. For the articles, not for the pictures. They really do have good articles, you know. Well, one of the centerfolds was a review video of the R1250 RT. Not that I’m interested. 

What do I learn? That bike comes not just with cruise control, but also with a radar cruise control. You place yourself behind a car on the freeway, and it follows that car at some choosable distance. It attaches!

Turns out, situated 20 minutes away, there is a BMW motorcycle shop. What a coincidence. They have the very same bike from the review. I know, black isn’t great for all sorts of reasons. But 20 minutes isn’t far.

Chris, the sales guy is right there for me, can you imagine? I explain about my trip, and he vocalized a thought:

“So, you want to get a new R bike, and leave your bike in the parking lot?”

I had a dollar amount in mind, and who knows what would have happened if he had met that price. 

But something went sideways:

“Where is the reverse gear?”

“They don’t have reverse gear for the small bikes”

“It’s 615 lb, 1250cc bike”

“That’s right. It’s a small bike.”

I couldn’t believe that BMW would do something that stupid, and Chris was highly motivated to be wrong on this news. But nope. 

That’s like offering a bride for sale without including a push-up bra. What an oversight!

Close call this one. I won’t mention it to my K bike. What’s the need? She’ll just get upset, and we have many days of vacation left in close proximity to each other. And after all, nothing happened. I just sat on the R. Didn’t even start her engine. But now I understand the evangelicals: Satan is everywhere, ready to tempt.