Starlight
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Sometimes, I forget the starlight.
It's easy to do. Having exhausted yet another onerous week of on-call, its days and nights filled with indisposed patients and enquiring colleagues, it dawned on me that it had been some time since I had seen the stars. Routine had taken over, and the balance called for restoration, at least for one long Easter weekend. I longed to revisit the promise of the road, to hear once again the auguries of the wind, and to sleep under the luminescence of the stars.
Work done, I retreated home to rest. Rising to a new day, packing naught but a sleeping bag and a notebook, I fired up Hawk, and departed from Hamilton, with no fixed plan other than to ride. The where was not important; rather, its absence was essential.
I rode south, through the mighty Waikato. Suddenly, like a chained phoenix set free, I was revitalized by the indefatigable majesty of the ride, and I reciprocated the hails of motorcyclists travelling in the other direction, reestablishing a secret fellowship that other motorists rarely experience; the camaraderie of the ride. I journeyed amid golden-green fields flanked by wistful mountains, basking under a brooding sky. These things, they had no concerns. By late afternoon, I had arrived in Taumarunui.
I stopped for dinner. Outside, dancing troupes of clouds emerged, accompanied by a light drizzle, and the more diminutive part of me mused that perhaps this was not the ideal evening to sleep under the stars. Thus, having eaten, I faltered, and pulled up to a hotel to ask about a room, but the edifice was full, and the better part of me knew that this apparent misfortune was in reality an auspicious boon, a timely omen - did I want to see starlight, or not? Laughing at my own foolishness, and exonerated from my atavistic hesitations, I left.
I rode west, and found myself on the Forgotten Worlds highway. An aptly named stretch of road, its inception composed of scattered farms, gradually merging into a more destitute topography marked by forested foothills, and as dusk approached, I chanced upon an itinerant tree, its branches spread upwards and outwards in perpetual expectation of an impending shower, so I stopped, and lay upon the comforting discomfort of its gnarled roots. No stars could be seen through the pantheon of grayness collecting above my chosen place of rest.
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The Forgotten Worlds highway. |
I slept. Close to midnight, I awoke to a downpour; I had feared it would rain, so it rained, and for two hours this wrathful deluge punished my apprehensiveness. Yet vindication eventuated, in the form of waltzing flurries, and they chased away the vexatious precipitation and ashen clouds, thus exposing the cosmic suzerainty of the stars, who said, "Never fear, we are still here - even if you forgot us."
Release
Next day I awoke early, surrounded by a freezing mist.
Choosing not to linger, I rose quickly, and revved up Hawk to continue my apologue on the Forgotten Worlds highway. The condensation was thick, such that I could not see far ahead, and was dragooned to travel at slow speed. Moreover, it was quite cold, compelling me to stop frequently so as to warm my hands, just so I could feel them again. During those early morning hours, I saw nobody as I ventured into that still landscape, an unremembered realm largely bereft of human activity, and although the fog and freeze were discomfiting, a purgatory to the senses, the primal conditions also filled me with exonerous jubilance, for they were a grateful perdition to the metronomic customs of my previous rituals. Eventually, the morning rescinded, and the mist and cold melted away. I rode past farms again, and found myself in Stratford.
I stopped for breakfast. Slumbering and riding in low temperatures is hungry work, so I ordered four meals, determined to cease shivering as noon approached. Satisfied, I continued on to New Plymouth, a picturesque municipality juxtaposed between the Tasman Sea and Mount Taranaki, a gargantuan stratovolcano turned quiescent monarch, silently watching over the turmoil below. I explored the presages of the town for an hour, then moved on.
I rode east, along the south Taranaki coast. It was a long stretch of highway, with more motorists, and higher speeds were called for, resulting in the occasional measured gambit, yet when riding a motorcycle, any increase in risk is more than balanced by an improved awareness of the world, and a freeing of the spirit; the release of the ride. It's a worthy trade. By evening, I was in Whanganui.
I stopped for dinner. Outside, daylight renounced its hold on the world, and darkness appeared - and yet again, I hesitated in my resolve to see the stars, briefly ruminating over the possibility of rainfall, and considered seeking a cozy shelter, but after several seconds, I chuckled and dismissed my tedious thoughts. How easily one is swayed by the yearning for assurances! Considered rightly, it was a simple decision - the uncertain prospect of starlight, or the certainty of a ceiling? I finished eating, and sped off into the night.
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Distant view of Mount Taranaki. |
I rode along a pitch-black road. There was nowhere to pull over and sleep, but after some time, a side-road revealed itself through the gloom, and I took it. The detour was dwarfish in size, wide enough for only one car, more like a glorified lane really, and for a while I moved through the subdued verdure of a tenebrious forest, until I halted, and wandered into a grove, and settled down onto a soft bed of mint.
My gaze fell upwards. Here were the stars; I did not care about rain, so it did not rain, and for two hours I was vaguely aware of a celestial melody that my senses could not quite detect. I could smell the mint, however, and a soft mistral caressed the trees, disclosing sounds from past, present, and future, and as I lay in my nightly abode, the stars twinkled, saying, "Is this not preferable to four walls and a roof?"
Immersion
The following day I awoke early; cold, though not so cold as the night before.
Rejoining the main highway, I rode expeditiously, along pleasant hills and spiralling bends. Always - always - I aim to execute the perfect turn, yet even as I improve, I know that such precision can never be attained, but it is imperative to persist in the endeavour, for it is within the perseverence itself that one may find transcendence. By mid-morning, I had arrived in Ohakune.
I stopped for breakfast. Since it was Easter Monday, only one restaurant in town was open, a crowded place with smiling patrons and cordial dispositions. I shared a table with several other customers, and we spoke on insignificant topics, although the real meaning of any conversation lies not so much in the words themselves, but in the prosody, which signifies the intentions behind the words; here there was meaning to be found. I had three meals, and carried on.
I rode north, into the Manawatu-Whanganui region. A vigorous breeze rippled right through my jacket, reminding me of the most vital aspect of the ride, one that other motorists cannot appreciate, an enhanced perception of the visuals, noises, palpations, and scents of the world, microenvironment removed, thus culminating in a more profound existential interaction; the immersion of the ride. I meandered along the placid shores of Lake Taupo, and past the quaint pleasantries of Mangakino, until at last I chanced upon a conciliatory viewpoint, where I rested.
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Hawk. |
I dozed. The sun came out, cloaking me in its translucent solace, and as I saw ahead, past a vague sense of time which I knew was not there, my cognizance melted away, and named things disappeared. The wind swept the grass in hushed tones, and the stars were not visible, yet I recognized, beyond my senses, that they were there, shining and beckoning, and they whispered, "We will never leave, unless you leave us - don't forget that."
Renewed by starlight, I rekindled Hawk, and soared home, back to the zephyr.
Solace.
