On some epic journey on my motorcycle, somewhere in central California headed north. While riding uphill out of town, I see that my phone at 1%. I try to quickly memorize the squiggly rural highway route up into the dry grassy hills, following the freeway just a few streets away down the hill. Maybe this is somewhere near Grapevine.
Along the way, I happen to meet three different important members of the extended highway community by chance. I often stop at nice places along the road, and it just happens. I’m usually busy packing or unpacking my motorcycle case, or tinkering with my tent, and this gives curious older people living nearby time to take an interest in me.
I help a endurance runner cross south toward Central America. I’m his route escort and encouragement, his spotter. At some point it’s interrupted when he’s arrested for something — I never figure out what. Later on, he and I are preparing for another leg. He’s relaxing, sitting with his girlfriend (my cousin Betty) on my living room couch in the Fartpartment. I’m leafing through records looking for stuff to play for him on the route; his only feedback is that he “jogs better when he doesn’t have to listen to music in French”. I give a good-natured tease about revisiting some records I already listened to, ones he missed because he was in jail. He’s teases right back when he points out that most of my box is upside-down, except the records I’ve been putting back in. Boooo. Oh well, I deserved the dumb luck.