Charlie fixing salmon and long-grain rice, a futile attempt to seem civilized.
October 24, 2007 — FAYETTEVILLE, ARKANSAS
I am returned to Fayetteville, my city of never leave. If I had known how interminably long the bus ride would feel, I would have ridden the bike back. (Sarah, why did you not warn me! Aren’t you done with that essay about Greyhound yet?)
I arrived at the bus station in Fayetteville about 12:30 a.m. and walked up School Avenue, past the Korean fish market, past the Elenita's and the new soul food restaurant, up the hill past the public library, then right on Mountain Street past Uncle Gaylord's restaurant and the site of Sophia Sawyer's school, across the square, down Smoky Row to the alley, northeast past the Morning News office and the First Christian Church, across Dickson Street and into my neighborhood, the historic district where the trees are family and the neighbors know who you are.
To the east, the archer Orion was climbing above Mount Sequoyah, chasing the big bear Ursa Major beyond the western horizon. Straight above, Cassiopeia and the Pleides shined down.
When I first set out on a bicycle ride in 1982, it turned out to be a coming-of-age tour for me: I understood for the first time that I should be a writer; I started corresponding with a woman whom I eventually dated and whose lovely spirit and own impish sense of adventure proved to be an inspiration for the rest of my life; I recognized a wonderful desire to be among friends, family and community; and, I developed a stronger trust in my ability to cope with difficult situations.
I had been in plenty of tough spots before the ride — rising rivers when life was at risk, twisting caves in which all sense of direction seemed lost, and narrow ledges upon which fingers and toes provided the margin between safety and error — but that first bicycle tour brought all manner of surprise, from extreme weather to mechanical breakdowns to bone-weary loneliness.
On this 2007 Tour, I didn’t expect to face those sorts of surprises. I was pretty sure I knew what to expect. I had gear for rain and cold weather, should fall arrive early. I had a better idea of what structural or mechanical problems might occur with the bike and how to fix them. And I was pretty sure I wouldn’t suffer the loneliness I had on previous trips.
Getting text messages, e-mails and online comments on the journal made the riding feel as though I had a whole support crew traveling with me. And in Tupelo, Mississippi, I was out looking for post cards during a break in the rain and happened to look up at the sky at the right moment, and burst out laughing. On a billboard above me was Brenda Blagg's niece, Brandy, hawking some car dealership. Brandy was in the documentary film class I took while working on the master's degree, and her face was a very nice reminder of home. If there were momentary pangs of sadness at being alone, they were no more than what I would have felt had I been sitting alone at my house on a Saturday evening and hearing one of those songs that takes you back to a specific moment in time.
That's not to say I don't miss each and every one of you when you are not near. I do. But knowing that each of you is there, that is a good feeling. The path that we follow through the waking hours and minutes, the one that we follow toward our dreams, toward where the heart says go, that long, narrow road that Basho followed to the far province, it is best traveled with friends. And I have the best friends.
Charlie, when I started reading this, I thought, "Somebody should have given him a ride from the bus station." But then I realized you walked past many sacred and significant places from your life, and they are all in Fayetteville. That walk, through your hometown in the middle of the deserted night, may have been as much of a spiritual journey as your bike ride to Tupelo. Sometimes it's the little things, like friends and home. Welcome home, my friend.
Posted by: Bill Bowden | October 27, 2007 at 08:55 AM