Inn Disposed (Indianapolis, OH)

I thought I had a hangover. A logical enough assumption. After all...

I’d had a few tequilas the night before. More than the Helium Comedy Club’s two-drink minimum but well below my lampshade-on-the-head maximum.

If comedienne Anna Przy had been funny, I could write something here about laughter being infectious. Regardless, infected I was.

Going Viral

The realization hit me the next afternoon, savoring a stogie at Burn Indiana, a Rocky Patel cigar lounge across the street from downtown Indianapolis’ Hampton Inn hang.

I was schmoozing en francaise with the Normandy-born cigar sommelier, sharing fond memories of French country cuisine, when the wind in my rhetorical sails suddenly disappeared.

Feeling wilted and woozy (not the 1940's comedy act by the same name), I retreated to one of the discreet anterooms and flopped into a leather high back chair.

An attractive woman joined me, unbidden.

I sensed an unspoken commercial aspect to our conversation. As a man of the world, I wasn’t about to let an insidious inference interfere with our inchoate interaction.

A microbe of one sort of another did that for me, rendering witty repartee a Sisyphian task.

In an attempt to alleviate her blank expression and lower her arched eyebrow, I used that very phrase to describe my malaise.

It was Greek to her. So I bid my comely companion aντίο and retreated to my room.

And there I tossed and turned, sweated and froze, for the next four days. I subsisted on Gatorade, Starbucks snacks, Tylenol and news of Kamala Harris’ Vice Presidential pick.

Governor Walz left Minneapolis to burn, apparently. The virus left Farago to burn, definitively.

In my fevered state, denied tea and sympathy, I was forced to consider the prose and cons of calling time on my Ridiculously Random Motorcycle Tour (RRMT).

On one hand...

Even without factoring the flu flinging me into a semi-conscious, entirely miserable state, my three-months-and-counting sojourn has been physically burdensome.

At the tender age of 65, more often than not, I've ridden Fritz to the point of exhaustion (mine not his/its).

For weeks, I've ended my afternoons sweaty, saddlesore and soporific, longing for refuge from the road.

I’ve found it in mid-market hotels. Staying just long enough to thank God for William Haviland Carrier, find editorial inspiration in my new environs and summon the strength to leave. Only in the most recent case, not.

My bad for setting out in summer, with 90 degree-plus heat and stifling humidity riding pillion. Not to mention the degrading effect of breaking from a clean diet and regular exercise.

Against that backdrop, the flu came as no surprise. But I have been slightly taken aback by the RRMT's mental demands.

Don't get me wrong. I’m full aware and grateful that even my worst travails are a blessing compared to the struggle most Americans face trying to make ends meet.

More than that I greet each morning with joyful anticipation, remembering that every day is a winding road.

There's always something new around every corner. And with each post here, I get a little bit closer to the creative spark that wrenched me from my routine.

That said, unburdening what has been to create what can be can be a burden on someone who’s wondering what to be, or not to be. (That is the question.)

In temporal terms, my random exploration has had the same time- and mind-bending effect on this Wandering Jew as the Pandemic.

If it's WHATEVER DAY, I must be in PLACE NAME.

A lot of people I meet think that's cool. Again, it’s certainly a privilege. But I reckon most people underestimate the human need to belong. To something. To somewhere. To someone.

A need I can suppress, but not forever. Truth be told, a part of me wants that kind of connection sooner rather than later.

On the other hand...

In case you missed it, I've hit the wall. But just like the loneliest long distance runner (or a Pink Floyd fan), I discovered there's life on the other side of the wall.

I give myself no credit for finding the key. I was guided by the refrain found in We're Going On a Bear Hunt. "We can’t go over it. We can’t go under it. Oh no! We have to go through it!"

I first felt myself break on though (to the other side) in Virginia, after bailing on bad juju Charlottesville for colonial AF Fredericksburg, on a dark afternoon threatening torrential rain.

As Fritz and I surmounted The Old Dominion's gently rolling hills, sliced through its verdant forests and traversed its picture postcard-perfect farms, I gradually lost my rain anxiety.

Next to go: my sense of time. With it, my focus on destination. And then, finally, the last layer of the onion/parfait: all sense of self.

Ty Webb would have been proud. I was one with the ball. Assuming a 1000lbs. German motorcycle is a suitable substitute for a polybutadiene sphere with a urethane cover.

[NB: no mushrooms were ingested in the making of this metaphor.]

Since that ride, the right two-lane twisty blesses me with this same sense of freedom. I'm not sure I'm ready to stop chasing that high.

During this pursuit of happiness, I've met lots of new people. Obviously. Not so obvious: some of these ephemeral encounters have had an enormous impact on my psyche.

I will never forget the Fredericksburg father and son emerging from history camp to share their romanticized view of the Revolutionary War. Or their opposite: the clear-eyed Christian gentleman scooping cigarette butts from the parking lot at the Quality Inn.

The septuagenarian's self-effacing tale of woe – childhood and military trauma; marital, financial and filial betrayal, drug addiction and numerous health-related visits to death's door – reminded me of Job's faith in the face of Satan's cruelty.

Also etched upon my mind: the one-horse-town waitress who created the window decoration above. A gentle soul whose artistic ambitions were born of face-painting. Who accepted – perhaps temporarily – my counsel to call herself an artist. Just as I call myself a writer.

A writer who lives by the maxim "that which does not kill me isn't trying hard enough." Who has a lot more to see and hear and write about before he's hoisted by that adage-shaped petard.

A Wandering Jew Wonders

Taking all that into account, I'm not sure what the near future holds (other than flu-related aches and pains).

Should my Knoxville condo purchase go through as planned, I can occupy the Gay Street digs on November first, ahead of cold-weather motorcycling (up with which I cannot put).

If I rent an apartment in Marble City in October, I can get my tax, health care, automotive and logistical affairs in order ahead of the move.

Do I have the mental, physical and financial resources to keep at this for another eight weeks?

Right now I want nothing so much as a warm shower, a firm bed, a home-cooked meal and a gentle caress. To have those things for, say, a week. The rest of my life? Sure!

Meanwhile, I'm keeping a simple thought in mind: despite Hampton Inn van propaganda, happiness is a process, not a destination.

At the same time, I'm contemplating an interesting question: if I stopped this journey right now, right here, would it/I be a success?

At the moment, I'd say no. I've yet to create a body of RRMT-related work large or maybe good enough to be worthy of book form. I'm determined to keep at it, even if that means stopping and starting over years.

But I am aware there's an alternative perspective. As W.C. Fields advised, "If first you don't succeed, try, try again. Then quit. There's no point being a damn fool about it."