Notes

The Rider
uhr hublot

He was a rider at heart. Driving for Uber was just for the money.
He had to ride quite a bit to see his family. And that he did. Many times a year. They were cattle feed growers in Nebraska.
I was returning from Arches National Park. He said he had been there. On his bike, of course. I imagined him riding through the park, taking in the magnificent sights of red rock dusted with snow. Tall arches flying by; the Three Gossips looking at him, and having their silent conversations.
He said he stayed outside the park that night. Not in a hotel. Not in a tent. Not in a trailer. On his hammock. I wondered if it was tied to rocks or trees. He must’ve visited in the summer. He rode in again the next morning. And the next.
His long rides were quite long. And monotonous, I imagined. How did he manage to stay alert on his bike, I wondered. How did he complete jounery after journey, riding for more than twelve hours on most days. Damn, his back must be killing him every night.
It must be boring to see field after field flying by, all of them the same, more or less; the never-ending straight road stretching away into the horizon. For hours. Without stopping. Sometimes limited by the fuel tank capacity.
Except he said he didn’t see all that. He saw different things.
I was quite drowsy after the early morning flight. But that made me pay attention.
He didn’t need to see the fields and the empty earth. He had seen it too many times. I would be awed by the immense expanse of fields all around me, reaching and jumping into the horizon in every direction. But not him. He was a country boy as a kid.
He rode in another world.
Under the water, he said.
As he rode through the fields, the land turned into seabed. The blue sky turned blue-er. The clouds, whales. He saw things floating toward him, and turning away at the last minute. Manta Rays, and squids, and giant oysters, and fish of every kind. Trees were seaweed. Tall fields of grass were coral reefs, displaying all sorts of colors and their subtle shades.
Sun rays playing hide-and-seek with the clouds were nothing but waves refracting light coming from above the surface. I wonder what he thought of rain and wind? Did he see storms as schools of fish moving around in haste?
I almost asked him.
He chose to ride in this world.
At night, he tied his hammock between trees along the road. Or rocks, sometimes. His back would finally rest as his gazed focused on the inner arm of the Milky Way. He didn’t need to imagine anything this time. It was there. Right above.
He lived on land. Rode in the ocean. And slept beneath the sky. That is what kept him going.
I wondered about his dreams. Did he ride in space? Or was it back to the underwater wonderland?
He said he wished he could do it forever. The vagabond rider, I imagined, traveling to different realms at will.
As our ride ended, I had so many questions. Unanswered, they remained. Indeed, on this occasion, the journey was better than the destination.
I hope he gets to ride more. And dream more.

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