There are certain landmarks that tell you where you are, for example, when I woke up dark and early for my business meeting and headed out from my hotel and saw the Alico sign, I knew in that instant, I was back home. I was a little foggy that morning and did not have my morning coffee yet. I was dressed for the big meeting and had my laptop bag slung over my shoulder. I honestly could not tell you where I was at that moment, but when I came around the side of my hotel and looked up, there it was.
Earlier this year, I told my readers about legs #1 (Rapa Nui or Easter Island) and #2 (Tahiti) of a trip my family and I took in 1985. I had the pleasure of taking my family across the south Pacific on an extended vacation. We traveled from La Serena (Chile) to Santiago de Chile to Easter Island to Tahiti to Auckland, New Zealand to Melbourne, Australia and finally to Sydney, Australia.
Leg #3 of the trip was half of a week on the northern island of New Zealand. We landed in the city of Auckland, rented a car, and looked around a little. Unlike the previous leg (in Tahiti), I had no need to close my eyes to prices. For example: we had the same hotel chain in both places. In Tahiti, our room was costing $200 per night. In New Zealand, $36. As I said, the same hotel chain; I even think the room in New Zealand was slightly larger! And likewise, all of the other prices were much cheaper in the land of the Kiwi.
I had the pleasure of reading a book from an author new to me: John Rowland of the United Kingdom. The book, Cry from a Silent Planet, is intended to be one of a trilogy; the inside cover says it was first released in paperback in 2005. A South African website shows a pretty cover and gives the date as 4 July 2005. The sequel, The Sands of Hetranova, apparently has not been published yet; the third book is not yet named. Thus while I am looking forward to reading the other two, it may be a long wait.
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Now that the weather has changed, I am getting more crazy looks. Something that you enjoy makes those around you contort their faces into withered, slacked-jawed expressions of befuddlement. Keep doing it. It’s working.
I ride my bicycle, nothing more terrifying than giving the middle finger to the combustion engine cartel.
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In 1985, I had the pleasure of taking my family across the south Pacific on an extended vacation. We were living in La Serena de Chile at the time, and the 57th World Science Fiction Convention was held in Melbourne, Australia, 2-6 September, that year. From Chile, Australia is not as far as Europe and not much farther air-mile-wise than the US, so why not go? Continue Reading →
Greetings! I’m Megan, Bohemia’s newest blogger. Call me Meg – so as not to confuse me with Meagan Smith, a fine blogger in her own write (see here: http://bohojo.wordpress.com/2012/06/18/gift-of-love-meagan-smith/).
This is the year of new beginnings (and some sad farewells). Newly retired, my husband and I are turning our lives inside out and are going to attempt to live the dream – traveling around the U.S., working when we can, and living the Bohemian lifestyle. For me, this means finally having time to write and do all of the creative stuff that I’ve been putting off (more on that later).
At the moment we are in mid-transition. Chucking, selling, storing, donating; every single object in our lives requires a decision (and being packrats, there are a lot of them). Some of those decisions have led to unexpected soul-searching. This is particularly true in regard to family heirlooms and books.
At my packrat peak I had eleven bookshelves. I estimate that I had read about a third of the books therein. Why keep the ones I’ve read? The closest I can come to an answer is that having read them they became friends, which made them hard to part with. As for the unread ones, they were largely there because I had read a good review, or the dust jacket made them sound interesting, or I was familiar with other works by the author, or they were classics that I felt I should read to be well-rounded. Cut me, and I bleed books.
Yes, getting rid of the books was hard, and I wasn’t altogether successful.
The heirlooms, which I have dragged across the country and half of Texas, were oddly easier. I can’t say why but I was able to give up pieces of my grandmother’s furniture with very little struggle. Ten years ago I might have thrown myself across Great Uncle Billy’s trunk and said “No, I can’t possibly part with it”. But that was then, and this is now. I’ve spent more time wondering about my new-found facility to part with these things than the actual partings themselves.
For all the stuff we have gotten rid of, I can’t say that I miss any of it, or find myself reaching for things that aren’t there anymore. There’s a grand irony at work here, because my last job involved making public lectures on our wasteful consumer society. It seems I’m really walking my talk at last. It will be interesting to see in months to come how my naturally acquisitive nature (I <heart> garage sales and thrift stores) will do battle with our new Spartan lifestyle. All I can say so far is this feels healthier.
From Useless Stuff to Use Less Stuff. Now if I can only get it to work with chocolate.
If you haven’t read part 1 of Wanderlust, I would urge you to do so, as this story ties into the first one. It can be read here.
It was May, 2008, one month after my epically frantic trip through the South. I had finished my Spring Semester and gotten a great job. Life was awesome, and it was about to get better. One day I was sitting around minding my own business when my mom burst in my room. Urgently, she said “find out when Robert Plant is playing again. If it’s anywhere reasonable we can try and get tickets.” Quickly, it was off to google. Getting to plan another trip within mere weeks of returning from the last one was to me, as chocolate is to fat children and PMSing women: delectable. I found the “Raising Sand” tour dates and saw that one was in June, at Lake Tahoe: Jackpot!
We bought tickets and I stayed in a constant state of excitement for another month. Finally, the end of June came. We had planned another weird road trip, granted this one would be a bit less arduous. We were flying into Reno, NV and driving to Lake Tahoe with a few stops on the way.
We flew into Reno, self-proclaimed “biggest little city in the world,” and I immediately realized something: Reno is the poor man’s Vegas. If Vegas is a shiny, spectacular entertainer, Reno is the washed up vaudevillian trying to reclaim his former glory. It was just…sad. Downtown was dirty, and I felt unsafe even walking between casinos.
Reno likes to keep it simple.
We stayed at the Circus Circus, a casino-hotel advertised by the saddest looking clown in history.
His eyes are saying “please, just kill me.”
We stayed in Reno only one night. Honestly the place kind of gave me the heebie jeebies. While Vegas was a pretty even mix of all walks of life, Reno seemed inhabited primarily by old gamblers. These were the kinds of casinos where people would poop themselves in their chair instead of going to the bathroom during a “hot streak.”
Pictured: Me, not pooping myself, I promise.
We left that sad sack of a town early the next morning, having spent approximately 5$ each on slot machines, and ready to skedaddle into the beautiful Nevadan hills in our awesome rental car, which was their cheapest model somehow, despite being one of my dream cars.
We were heading towards Virginia City, a ghost town in the hills. History geek-out, here we come! Virginia City was at one point called the “Richest city in America,” due to many of it’s inhabitants striking it rich in mining in the late 1800s. One of it’s coolest claims to fame is that Mark Twain lived there and worked for the local paper. That was draw enough for a literature nerd like myself! We pulled into Virginia City, and instantly all preconceived notions of ghost towns were dispelled: the place was JAM PACKED with tourists and the few people that live and work there.
It was a cool place though, and it was easy to picture it being an industrious silver rush town in the 1800s. I could almost picture prostitutes, whiskey, and duels as we strolled down the street.
Try to not want to go back in time, I dare you.
We strolled around in the 90 degree weather, soaking up the full tourist experience (by that, I mean we got a photo taken in wild west garb.) We found the Mark Twain museum where I purchased a copy of Huck Finn for 2$ (still unread,) and a sweet “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid” poster for 1$.
Then as we were leaving, I saw something so supremely badass, I can’t describe it, mere words will not suffice.
After a day spent back in time, it was time to head to the concert in Lake Tahoe, a mere hour or so drive away. We rolled into town and could immediately see that this area was RICH. There were fancy houses all along the lake and I swear to God we saw the dudes from Orange County Choppers driving around in a tricked out jeep. We somehow found a very cheap motel near the venue and took some time to relax. At the time, I was totally sucked into “When you are engulfed in flames” by David Sedaris, so I sat by the pool to laugh my ass off and finish that book.
After awhile of sitting there, my mother came out, agitated and excited. “I swear, Robert Plant’s tour bus just pulled up at the venue.” We stood on the deck and stared forever, trying to ascertain if it was his or some other rich bastard, until we decided to walk over and check it out. It was right across the street, and we made our way over eagerly, both having massive crushes on Mr. Plant. The stage was an outdoor amphitheater surrounded by a fence. We could see the bustle of activity on the stage so we peered through the fence, trying to catch a glimpse of our golden God. No such luck. We did spot one portly, dapper gentleman with blonde locks but he turned out to be a roadie. We left, disappointed but psyched about the concert the next day. It was hot and we had a lot of daylight left before dinner so we decided to hit the beach.
What can I say about Lake Tahoe other than that it is extremely beautiful but goddamn cold! Being from Alaska, I have swam in a lot of cold water so it wasn’t too shocking to my system, but as I lazily paddled through the cold aquamarine waters, I looked around and realized I was absolutely the only person actually swimming in the lake. Apparently around those parts, the lake was considered too cold to swim in. “Wimps,” I thought, casually drifting along on my back.
My happiest feet.
After a few hours in the sun, we pale Alaskans were ready to head back to the motel and catch some Z’s before the concert the next day. We both passed out early. The next day was a blissful blur. It was perfect weather and I was stoked to see my main man in concert again. We showed up to the show very early, securing seats in the third row.
By the time they started, I knew exactly how the concert would go, based on my knowledge of the prior one. Alison was very reserved on stage, standing stock still in front of the microphone, arms awkwardly jutted straight down at her sides. Strange how someone can be blessed with such an amazing voice and absolutely no stage presence. Robert on the other hand is all swagger and charm, even in his 60s. At one point, my mother leaned over, 2 beers in, and said “he’s so sexy.” I chose to pretend that didn’t happen, until this very moment. It was an amazing concert. Outside in 80 degree weather, under a clear sky full of stars, and a stage full of amazing performers; Robert, Alison, and T-Bone Burnett. Other than the drunk dudes behind me shouting “play Zeppelin,” it was probably THE best concert of my life, other than Tool.
It was one of those perfect, amazing evenings you never wanted to end, and I was spending it with my mom instead of a handsome man. It did come to an end though, and all too soon. After a few hours, we ambled our way back to the motel, still hoping to catch a glimpse of Robert, but never succeeding. One of my resolutions that year had been to “meet Robert Plant,” but I didn’t succeed that year and I doubt I ever do. That really was my final chance. We drove back to Reno the next day and hopped on the plane home. The tour was ending in Nashville a few weeks later, and we’d have no chance to see the two of them again unless they made another album or decided that tour was lucrative enough to do another. Four years later, I am still waiting for the chance to see Mr. Plant in concert again. All I need is for him to make a decent album, and play a gig that my mother and I can drive to, and you know we will be in the front row, me wishing Robert was 30 years younger and my mom wishing they both were single.
(Part 3 can be read here..)
“I like songs about drifters, books about the same. They both seem to make me feel a little less insane.”
For a very long time now, I have had this problem. An extreme lust for travel and the unfortunate burden of not having been born rich enough to do so whenever I would like. Darn my luck for being born with eyes seeking out a horizon further away than my pocketbook can take me to. To quell this constant need for foreign air in my face, sandy toes, long lonely roads leading to strange vistas & landscapes, and that unforgettably ironic uplifting feeling of landing at a fresh airport, I have spent the last few years of my poor college student life dedicating most of my “extra” money to taking Kerouacan travels throughout the U.S. I wanted South America but I settled for the South. I wanted England but I settled for Florida. I hope someday to be able to afford the cost of extended international travel but for now i will have to live with the concept of seeing all the beautiful, the broken-down, the old, and the new that this vast country has to offer. I’ve seen approximately half of this nation and would like now to extrapolate on some of the more interesting (for better or worse) people & places I have encountered in my travels.
I will start with one of my more anxious and frenetic travel stories. It was Spring, 2008 and I was getting ready to wrap up another semester of college. One day, my mother told me we should watch a Crossroads special (essentially MTV Unplugged for the cowboy boot wearing crowd) starring Robert Plant & Alison Krauss. For those of you unaware, Robert Plant was the lead singer for the greatest band in history, Led Zeppelin. Since the band broke up, he has gone on to have a 30-year career both solo and with other bands and artists. In the late 2000-aughts, he teamed up with Alison Krauss to cut an amazing record which exemplified everything I love about the versatility of his voice. He’s able to kick it into high screamy gear on old tracks like “immigrant song,” and is also able to kick it into soul-twanging blues mode on tracks like “I can’t quit you baby.” When he and Alison teamed up, it was magical. As soon as my mother showed me their TV special, we decided, for kicks, to see if they were on tour and where they were playing. They were. None of their tour locations were within our comfort zone however (primarily the Pacific Northwest.) In fact, the only date that would work with my finals schedule was in Louisville, KY, a town I never would have imagined planning a trip to. Also, our regular airlines (AK Airlines,) did not fly into Louisville. The closest it flew into was Chicago, approximately 300 miles from our destination. 300 miles to an Alaskan is nothing, so we decided to kick it up a notch. We bought tickets to Chicago and added a few other stops to our trip.
April 28th came and I was STOKED. My trifecta of concerts I NEEDED to see was (is) Tool, Radiohead, and Led Zeppelin. Well, I missed the ’07 Led Zeppelin Reunion show, so seeing Mr. Plant in person was the closest I was going to come. Our cheapo tickets had us flying out of Alaska at midnight and landing in Chicago at 6am. We had (stupidly) made reservations to stay in the Heartbreak Hotel in Memphis, TN that night, perhaps overestimating our ability to get decent sleep on a red-eye. Well I slept zero winks that night, and my mother slept an hour or two. Being of sound 23-year old mind, I was somewhat able to function on little sleep, so we decided I would drive us in our rental car to Memphis. 533 miles away. I hopped in that car and zoomed down that highway, the grandiose skyline of Chicago a glimmering mirage in my rearview.
We drove endlessly through the flatland of Illinois, heading towards the rolling hills of Tennessee.As we drove through those country hills, I had an insatiable urge to listen to the greats. No, not Zeppelin. The country-rock god took me over and as mama snoozed in the back, me, Waylon, Willie, Johnny and Hank rolled on down the line, windows open, engine humming, time and distance passing below me in a straight line. These country-fied feelings slowly faded as we made our way into the heart of Memphis, approximately 10 hours after leaving Chicago. I immediately got lost in the wrong part of town, and stayed lost for an hour and a half while my mother’s panic wore away at my soul, and we drove in endless circles, looking desperately for the Elvis side of town. Finally we found it: the white-trash tourism mecca of the South. The king’s castle! The Heartbreak Hotel was on par with any cut-rate motel and plastered with Elvis posters everywhere, Elvis music piping in through the sound system. Surprisingly, none of the king’s dietary specials were to be had. I wanted a damn fried peanut butter and banana sandwich! As we dragged ourselves upstairs to pass into blissful sleep, the mournful tone of drunken karaoke could be heard from directly below us. They were singing, you guessed it, Neil Diamond.
The next morning was Thursday and we headed over to Graceland to check it out. In comparison with today’s rich materialistic bastard mansions, it was an extremely humble abode, other than the massive walls plastered with gold records.
Also, the king had zero interior decorating sense. I’ll just let some pictures speak for themselves.
After Graceland, we headed on down the road to Nashville, a place I instantly fell in love with. The air was ripe with Southern Cookin’ even though there seemed to be no restaurants nearby. It was a warm and musical night and as we walked through the downtown area, we passed musicians of every genre headed off to various gigs. I felt that momentary flutter of being at an exciting event, then realized that no, downtown Nashville was always like this. It wasn’t even a weekend night. We hit up the Country Music Hall of Fame and had dinner downtown before taking a stroll. Every building we passed by had live music filtering out into the night. This place, I thought, I could live here.
Unfortunately, we could only stay one night, and had to head on down the line. The next day we lazily headed towards Louisville. On the outskirts, we stopped at Andrew Jackson’s home for some historical lessons. I love history, and standing at the front door of his house, and gazing out across the lawn, you could almost picture a horse-drawn carriage full of good-ole boys coming over to hang out. Despite my extreme dislike in Andrew Jackson, his house was cool as shit. Yes I am an historian.
Like Elvis, I have poor fashion sense.
After spending the day there, and getting extremely depressed after viewing the slave quarters, we casually made our way back onto the highway and headed towards Louisville, where we would have a day of doing nothing before hitting up the concert the next night.
While driving, I made a horrifying discovery. We had (both apparently) misread the tickets, and the concert was actually for THAT night instead of the next. Shit. It was already 4pm and the concert was at 8pm. Also, we had a few hours to go. Also, as we were driving, we stopped at a gas station and realized we had crossed over a timezone and it was actually an hour later. Shit. We sped like demons and flew into Louisville, grabbing the first hotel we found that looked decent and was within walking distance from the concert. We had only twenty minutes to get to the show. We threw our bags into our room and jogged over to the theatre. A sign read “absolutely no cameras allowed inside.” We were both holding cameras and no purses to hide them in. Shit. I sprinted like a madman back to the hotel, my heart fluttering wildly, and sprinted back to the theatre just in time to be let inside. I sat down in my seat, drenched in sweat and my heart beat ferociously again as Mr. Plant came out on stage in full blonde-maned glory. Ah sweet sweet music. They sang their new stuff as well as some bluesified Zep and it. was. legendary! After the show, I floated back to the hotel on musical cloud 9. Everything after this would sound like shit. It was truly one of the greatest nights of my life.
The next day we had to head back to Chicago to hang out before catching the plane home. Chicago was (is) the only big city I’ve ever truly fallen in love with, but we will get to that story at a later time.
For now, I must adieu, my friends. So much work to be done, and all this writing has made me want to do is hop in the car and head down the road. I wish.
(Part 2 can be read here..)
It was an early windy morning at the Fifth Wheel Truck Stop in Cornwall, Ontario. My ex roommate and I left the General Motors in Boisbriandt, PQ plant the evening before with a load of empty automotive parts racks. We drove separate rigs thank God because we would have probably killed each other along time ago if not.
She took the lighter of the loads and pulled away quickly from my neutered truck. Bare with me for a moment and allow me to explain what I mean by neutered. It means my truck had a speed governor on it. It would only go 60 MPH and 57 MPH with the cruise control set. So it offered little power to me, especially on take off.
Picture this. I have just entered the highway. I am fighting the headwinds, with a neutered truck and I have the heavier load. I could see my ex roommate a ways up in front of me. I am not sure how long it took for me to catch her in my eyesight. I believe we were near the town of Gananoque, Ontario
I will call the ex roommate “Callie”.
I was probably 1 half mile away from her. Callie was in the passing lane. She rounded the curve and went out of sight. I noticed what I thought was dust from shoulder of the road. I radioed up to her in a sarcastic manner. I can still remember the exact words. ” Took that curve a little fast didn’t you?”
I never received a response, which was a bit odd for Callie. I rounded the blind curve which also included an on ramp. Then I saw the unthinkable, at least to me it was. My stomach sank.
There, rested in a jack knife position, in the ditch against, against a rock cliff was Callie’s truck. I was utterly shocked and immediately brought my vehicle to a halt along the shoulder. I ran back to her truck. I never even saw or noticed the red car resting against the median guard rail or the passengers inside. I was only focused on one person and that one person was Callie. It wasn’t until later that I discovered someone else was also involved in the accident.
As I ran to the truck I wondered what I would find. I nearly tripped over her JVC stereo that lay on the berm of the road. It must have been thrown from the wreckage upon impact. I crawled up the steps of the rig and took a deep breath. I saw her lifeless body slumped over the steering wheel. I clung to the rig with one hand on the side handle with another hand tugging at the door. I couldn’t get the door open. I fell off the truck. I wasn’t sure what to do. I thought to myself, ” Was she dead ?” . Is her neck broken? I had heard a story of a similar situation from another friend in which this other truck driver wrecked and passed away due to a broken neck injury.
Then I could smell it. I could smell leaking diesel fuel.
I used to watch a lot of television before I began driving for a living. Every program I have ever seen with a car or semi truck leaking fuel always exploded. SO..you can only imagine the thoughts running through my head.
I was the weaker out of the two of us. I normally played the roll of the “damsel in distress” . I know. Right ? Hard to imagine, but true, none the less.
I knew I must at least get her out of the truck before it explodes.”But how much time do I have before this would happen?” I wondered.
I saw three girls run across the highway to me and one ask if everything was alright.
I said “I don’t know. She’s not responding.”
Then I warned the girl away from the area because I thought the truck was going to explode. Then I climbed back up onto the truck and kept talking to Callie. I told her the truck was leaking fuel, she needed to wake up and get out.
Finally, she started moving and gradually gained her bearings. She tried to open the door but it was jammed from her side as well. She then exited the vehicle by jumping out of the window.
I later found out, according to the police officer that arrived on the scene, the probability of the truck exploding was very low. According to him, diesel does not ignite as easily as gasoline. I certainly felt like an idiot after finding that out, but at least the story does not end in tragedy right?
I was determined to find something art worthy to photograph as I made my way back home to Waco. I believe to some extent, I achieved a certain success.
I wanted to get a few photographs of downtown Indianapolis and I am also fascinated by storms. It just so happened, a storm was passing through the city as I entered it.
I call this “One Hand on the Steering Wheel Photography” and I do not recommend this method to anybody else, as it is not always the safest thing to do.
I’ve been traveling this same route once or twice a year since 2002 . Never once, have I taken the time to get a photograph until now. It’s always been stored in my head as a memory. There was nobody to share this with until now.
This next series of photographs were shot while on the road passing through Effingham, Illinois. This is the location where Interstate 57 and Interstate 70 intersect. Honestly, I’ve always wanted to photograph this monument. I really do consider it a work of art.
This cross is considered the “World’s Largest Cross” according to the website Roadside America. Built by the “The Cross Foundation” it towers 198 ft and spans 113 ft.
In my traveling trucking years I used to pass by a similar cross in Groom, TX on I 40. Truly a magnificent piece of art, especially when you can see it from such a great distance .
You can read more about both of these works at :
My final selection, two murals crafted inside the women’s restroom, is located on the westbound side of Interstate 30 near Mt. Vernon, TX. They even have wireless internet at this location.
I just wanted to share this video of the bridge I always cross at the Missouri-Illinois state line when I travel to Ohio. I also panned to the side to show you the Mississippi River. In some places, throughout the video to the right, you can see where the flooding has receded to the tree line. The state put sand bags along the highway to try to contain most of the flooding. This was earlier in the beginning of June.
Oh..and by the way..Jaimee Harrris cd’s are wonderful travel companions.
I stopped at the “Trail of Tears” rest area on I57 Northbound to stretch my legs. As I walked up to the information building I noticed a squirrel climbing into the trash can. I immediately went back to the truck to retrieve the camera to get a shot of my new friend. Everyone..Meet Boho the squirrel.
According to the visitwesternillinois.info website, the “Trail of Tears” rest area is where the Cherokee Indians camped during a forced march to Oklahoma.
Over 4,000 Cherokee lost their lives during this period.
Just before leaving the area I observed some of the most beautiful colors of foliage and snapped a few photographs. I do not have a lot of knowledge about flowers and plants but if you know their identities please feel free to comment.
I also made a stop at the I 57 Northbound rest area just before Marion, Illinois and took a photo of the playground. I don’t remember rest areas being this much fun when I was a child.
So… where was I ? Oh, I remember. I bet you might be wondering what happened to the motorcyclist. Did he live? The answer is YES. The man must have been a cat because he seemed to have nine lives and he used one of them that day.
I climbed down from my rig, leaving it in my lane with the four-way flashers on. I ran toward the man laying on the pavement and, to my amazement, he stood up as though nothing happened and walked over to me and hugged me. He said to me “Man, that hurt”. I stood still for a moment and measured in my mind the distance between him and the front bumper my truck . I began to shake but not noticeably. It was sinking in just how close I was to running him over.
He told me he was tailgating the other driver because he was running low on gas and the trailer blocked the wind for him. I notified him that the other truck driver called the police and that we should wait. He said “I have to go. I have been drinking” and he walked over to his bike and rode away.
He left me standing out in the middle of the highway. By this point, I can’t believe any of this happened. I can’t believe this guy is alive. I can’t believe I didn’t run over him. I can’t believe he stood there and told me he was drinking. I can’t believe his motorcycle was even road worthy. I CAN NOT believe this man just rode away as though nothing happened.
I notified the other truck driver that all was well. He said he would stay until the police arrive. I decided to roll on to the next service plaza and call my dispatch to let them know what happened. I was a bit shaken up because I almost ran over some damned drunk fool.
As I continued to truck on to the next plaza, I drive by an OPP car with a motorcyclist pulled over. I thought to myself “It’s that idiot again!” I pulled over, grabbed my flashlight and started walking the long quarter-mile stretch between myself and the police. By this time I was extremely tired, stressed out and highly pissed off at this motorcyclist. I was about to let the air out of his sails.
I arrive at the police car. There are two officers. I see that same motorcyclist in the back seat of the squad car. When the cyclist saw me, his facial expression was that of one that had just seen a ghost. I said to the officer with approval in my voice “I see you caught him”. “Caught who? What are you talking about?” responded the officer. I raised my voice with excitement “The guy that wrecked his bike”. The officer went on to tell me that he pulled him over for tailgating yet another truck. I was furious. The officer ask me to join him in his squad car as I told him my story. I told him that the guy admitted to me that he had been drinking.
I guess some people just never learn from their mistakes. I often wonder what happened to that guy and if he still thinks about the event that happened that dark early morning. I know I still remember it as though it were yesterday. It was over 18 years ago.