After two years of unhappy marriage and a trial separation, I faced the task of riding my motorcycle from Minnesota to Phoenix, a two thousand-mile trek through the great plains, the mountains and the desert. I had deftly put the journey off for more than a month in an unconscious attempt to skip it altogether. Eventually, I made the decision to grow up and get moving, as my wife and my life patiently awaited me in the southwest.

I had plucked my bride, as young and foolish as I, from the opressive heat and lifeless earth of Arizona and transplanted her to the seasonal extremes of Minneapolis. Brave and hearty at first, it took all of a week in the snow to start her pining for the sun. Wistful at first, then thoughtful, then serious and finally adamant, her memories of home became a hammer and chisel which she applied to my midwestern foundation in an endless tap-tap-tapping. Eventually, the structure crumbled softly into sand and I conceded to begin anew, finding optimism in a change of lifestyle.

That summer had been warm, cloudless and serene. That, coupled with the carefree attitude and limitless self-indulgence of a born-again bachelor, had lulled me into a dreamy complacency, like a large cat asleep in the sun after an enormous meal. My senses had become lazy and dull. It was this frame of mind in which I awoke on the morning of my departure to a more realistic October day: a misty forty-five degrees with rain in the forecast. Having already resolved to reach Omaha that day, a distance of over 300 miles, I began to dress for the ride.

Weatherproofing was my immediate consideration. After a prolonged exposure to the elements of cold air and rain, hypothermia is an undeniable risk to an unprepared motorcyclist. Warm skin and cold air can be buffered by layers upon layers of soft, thick clothing. Wool and silk scoff at winter’s authority. A blaze yellow Gore-Tex rainsuit fixes even the heaviest precipitation with a defiant stare, combining unerring water resistance with velcro to snug the cuffs, wrists and collar. The remaining exposed body parts are wrapped in shiny black galoshes, heavy black leather gloves and a glossy black helmet. To an untrained eye, this garish display could easily be mistaken for a futuristic beekeeper-cum-stormtrooper.

After I casually and methodically donned the aforementioned foul weather gear, I started the bike and rode away, sleepily indifferent to the insistent, swirling moisture in my path. Travelling in the cool weather quickly became routine, with little noticeable sensory input. The constricting, heavy clothing isolated me from the bitter wind and the helmet protected me from most noises except for the low groan of the motor and the buzzing of rubber on asphalt. The only real sensation I felt was the soothing vibration pulsating from the saddle. I soon lost myself in thoughts of a troubled marriage, and questioned my judgement in making this trip at all. Would it not be easier to just turn around, to forget my promises?

I barely noticed as my trip odometer clicked past the thirty-mile mark and the rain began to fall. It came in an insidious blur, bathing me in countless tiny droplets and sending shivers coursing along my spine. The rain streaked across the visor of my helmet and cascaded off the backs of my elbows in a steady stream. Added now to the list of noises inside my helmet was the hissing of the wet pavement.

As unsettling as this new development was, I was not yet distracted from my daydreaming. I had begun to find humor in the childish melodrama that punctuated my matrimony and chuckled about things at which I would typically bellowed with rage. With comprehension slowly unfolding like a road map, I realized that a woman and her moods are very much like the weather, in the sense that they’re both completely unalterable. There are good days and bad, sunny and foul, windy and calm, and complaining about it doesn’t make any difference. Nor does taking it personally. An intuitive earthling has to either be properly dressed and willing to endure the elements or to avoid it altogether and stay inside, waiting for the sun to reappear. Also revealed to me was the subtle yet undeniable beauty in nature. Can anyone not appreciate the sheer power and unrestrained wrath of a violent thundersrorm, or of a woman scorned? Untamed nature is worthy of admiration, not distaste, sorrow, anger, or fear.

What wrenched me from this inner sanctum was the foaming, snarling rottweiler of a downpour unleashed by the heavens. Gray sheets of icy water battered the landscape with ruthless fury. Trees whipped and swirled on their trunks, leaves and limbs torn loose and away with uncaring brutality. Giving no quarter, the mother of these writhing and innocent subjects was merciless and indifferent.

Startled by the braying of a car’s horn, my brain switched on again. My mind was dragged, kicking and screaming, back to reality by the previously unnoticed violation of my extremities. The saturated leather husks that once contained my hands now contained two useless stumps of raw flesh, soaked and numb with cold. Screeching with agony, my fists could operate the bike’s controls, but only with great difficulty and determination. The driving rain had compromised the seal between the fiberglass shell of my helmet and its clear plastic face shield, sending a continuous supply of moisture dribbling down my nose, cheeks, chin and neck. The invading water also rendered my visor and eyeglasses nearly opaque with water droplets and steam. For the final indignity, beginning at my ankles, a steady flow of frigid water crept relentlessly past my rubbers and into my Nikes, penetrating all the way to my toes. Teeth clenched, I tried every few miles to wiggle the poor little guys and for my efforts was rewarded with the raw, grating pain one probably feels just prior to frostbite. With four hours still left to travel, I lapsed into a frozen state of shock and, staring vacantly forward, dreamed of warm, happy places in a Great Vast Elsewhere to which I had no access.

Twenty long years and a thousand grueling miles later, I turned off the motor near the entrance of a nondescript motel. The rain had stopped hours ago. I climbed steps and opened doors until an unmemorable clerk materialized before me, a shadow with shining glasses and dangling earrings. I penned my name here and there and fished out some crumpled and soggy dollar bills. Mumbling thanks, I absently accepted a key placed in my hand and vacantly squish-squashed my way to a numbered door, dragging my discarded rainsuit along the carpet behind me.

I gradually became aware of the cascade of water, gloriously hot, rushing from the shower head to melt my frozen skin. Coating every curve and crease of my body, the scalding liquid loosened my unfeeling arms and hands, massaged my belly and back, soothed my saddle-sore buttocks and gently woke my legs from their long nap. As the pain receded from my toes, my heart filled with pride. Pride that I felt for enduring an unendurable day. Pride in my strength and determination to continue when others might have turned back. Pride for sacrificing my flesh for a nobler gain, the reconciliation of my marriage.

With roiling, warm mist clinging to every surface, I padded, wet and steaming, across velvet carpet on tingling feet to an enormous bed, its sheets white and crisp. I dropped off into exhausted sleep, the sleep of the just, with a vivid recollection of making an honorable decision that day.

Those miserable few hours in the rain (which would then evolve into a fourteen day purging of my soul) cleansed my body and reawakened my spirit. Often times the subtle and most meaningful things in life are overlooked because of natural and inevitable distractions, such as the monotonous drone of work and the incessant downpour of family responsibility. To fend off trivial, everyday difficulties with good humor and a warm heart, to trust in one’s own virtue and direction, to square one’s shoulders and trudge through adversity, these are the ways of overcoming difficult times and breathing deep life’s soft-spoken treasures.

© 1995 Pat Hahn

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