Once upon a time.
In a land far far away.
Their existed a rhyme,
About the greatest game ever played.
This is the said rhyme 
preserved from the acclaim the game has gained.
Passed on to generations about the game at it’s prime. 

A game that should be reclaimed from the fame its gained at the present time.
This game came from the brain of a person
who aimed to have the time of his life. 

Town ball was for all. In any season: spring, summer, winter, or fall.
Town ball was a ball for all: no despair, grief,  or strife, could spawn.
The rules were simple
Hit ball: bases touch all. 

Teams were never full. 
And the field could sprawl.
Everything was in play just like everyone could play.
No obstacle was in the way, no direction out of play.
Yet, according to the natural law of capitalistic America,
An evolution began to make money.
**** you Jean-Baptiste Pierre Antoine de Monet!!
You may have nothing to do with baseball, 

But you spawned the evilest idea of them all. 

That evolution is caused by natural law, 

and the evolution of baseball is the downfall of all that is America.
Baseball was at one time a game of fun; 

good times shared with one another under the sun. 

Eventually they agreed to decree the official rules, 

And it was not Abner Doubleday who would have the last say in history,
for that story is a myth that we should flee from like fools.
Instead it was Alexander Cartwright who penned the knickerbocker rules.
These rules spread to the rest of the clubs,
and eventually it was coined the New York game. 

No longer could anyone play but only the ones who could slug.
If you wanted to win, it would be a sin,
to put in the has been who brought the game shame.
This game spread during the civil war. 

In down time to escape they played for fun instead of being bored.
The game spread like never before,
and soon the game covered the entire eastern shore.
The N.A.A.B.B.P was formed and by 1867 four hundred teams were born,
and in 1870 the Chicago Cubs actually won!
They actually were good before 1908,
heck some people might even say they were great. 

I don’t mean to taint their slate or bait your hate.
I just wish to point out that its been some time since that date,
and you Cub fans still must await.
Meanwhile these gentleman clubs would compete in the heat,
for they wanted to prove they were the ones to beat. 

Yet promoters wanted money so they charged the food you eat.
Then they fenced in the meet.
No longer could you watch the teams compete from the street.
If you wanted to know who would defeat you must enter with a receipt
to show that you payed for your seat.
There you would meet, eat, and greet,
and keep track of the game on your score sheet
Eventually the wood frames turned to concrete

in order to hold more people inside their games.
And the players started to earn fame.
And eventually everyone knew their name.
No longer was the game a game for games sake,
instead it was meant to entertain the fame-craved.
All that matter was the money made at the gate,
and since then the game has never been the same.
Before players would score more and their would be less of a bore.
Fielders caught with their fingers the stingers thrown,
but for catchers that was absurd.

Before, fans would abhor to the idea of a fielder with a glove adorned,
but eventually the planted seed, grew steadily, and the fielders glove was born.
At first their was no web extended between the finger and thumb.
Because that would make it so easy to catch it would be just dumb. 

Yet, somehow the web spread and eventually it won. 

Now any *** could catch between finger and thumb
and the hand would not become numb.
This lead the dead ball era dread at the start of nineteen hundred.
And ego went to Owen Wilson’s head as he lead the league with triples.
Thirty six triples the record was set
and will never be broken it has been said.
But instead its embed into the unread
record book for others to go ahead and try to break with dread.
There were several reasons that lead to the dead ball.
First of all, the same ball was used until it started to unravel.
Second, was that you would draw a strike for every foul ball,
And lastly was the spit ball which would dance to any squall.
All these reasons made the pitchers un-hittable. 

And batters seeing their batting average fall
would take a bar crawl and bawl.
But then a savior came to us all. 

This man hit the ball so far that it would fall somewhere past Senegal.
The claims were esteemed that this man was best of them all. 

Yet, he was traded for money to fund a curtain call. 

This man’s name was George “the Babe” Herman Ruth. 

A pitcher turned outfielder because he was a great hitter is the truth.
The great bambino or Sultan of Swat,
nothing could stop him when he was hot. 

And he hit the dead ball era out of the park and it was forever lost. 

He had more home run’s as an individual, than any team,

Except for the Phillies who were good it seems.

Babe was the hit man

Pitcher he was no longer

The same change came

With this emphasis:
Babe Ruth symbolized what was

the rest of the game. 


They said pitch no more.
Sluggers are what fans adore
outfields became small. 


Power was the talk

Every team must have a guy
who hits with power. 


George “babe” Herman Ruth
and Lou Gehrig, the Yankee’s
became the very best.

Then the depression came and rained on the parade of the baseball game.
Yet, families with radio’s would listen to the games as a sort of hope. 

To escape from the world that they known. 

To escape to a game that reminded them of better days.
Then WWII came and stole away the players. 

Baseball’s talent level was now in multiple layers. 

and because of lack of talent Ted Williams batted over .400 percent
and Joe Dimaggio hit the ball again and again. 

for 56 consecutive games he hit the ball back to where it was sent.
Yet, eventually the players would return and baseball would mend. 

But not before the ladies got their own league. 

and men it did intrigue.
Is this for real?
Or a joke?
They would laugh.

Then they would choke. 

When they saw that this wasn’t just an act.
The girls continued,
“Everyone used to be able to play the good old town ball game!
“This is no longer town ball,” the men said, “the present game is not the same,
Instead its now played for money and fame.”

Oh how the good old days always change.

“Give us money” the women exclaimed,
“We’ll take your fortune we’ll take your fame!”

Some men said, “you complain! Its not the same,
you have to be good to play this game,
you can have your separate league if you need,
But this game of fame is only for white men of age!”

Oh how problems never change
Instead they always stay the same.
Yet, it wouldn’t be long
Before the trumpet would sing its song. 

That segregation would possibly end. 

Not for women but for African Americans. 

Segregation had always gone on. 

***** leagues rose up, but finally segregation’s time was gone 

due to a man named Jackie Robinson. 

And in 1947 he broke through with the Brooklyn Dodgers.
Because his team was convinced they’d make more money by Lou Durocher
Yet it came with its troubles because Not everyone on the team was happy 
And some fans were just down right ******.
Some teams such as our beloved St.Louis Cardinals even threatened to strike. 

They were not going to play if Jackie played because they had that much dislike. 

But Jackie and the Dodgers pushed through all the hate that spewed. 

Other players, managers, and fans  were rude, crude and would start feuds. 
Then they would brood every time Jackie’s name the roster would include.
But after awhile people would conclude that he was actually very good.
And after review others would start to include rather than seclude,

But this integration was long over due.
30 years till segregation could be totally subdued.
The lessons we learn are hard ones that is true. 

And it takes awhile for an entire nations perspective to take a different mood.
Now with baseball integrated the game be televised. 

This allows the money in the game to rise. 

The league now expands west; 

New markets they must test.
But hey! the players want some of this. 

They want to start a free agency. 

But this is the last thing the owners need! 

But the players want to be able to move between teams.

The players want money. Oh how things never change.
But the players got what want. 

They now can negotiate and the owners this does haunt. 

The game now is wrapped inside this twisted shame of money. 

Thats all any body wants so they find ways to scheme. 

Thus steroids came to the scene. 

Players now could be payed more if they played well. 

This meant that to hit the ball far, big muscles they would have to build.
In order to get that edge over everyone else. 

These players used steroids to get their help. 

Yet that was not cool with the public 
Because steroids put you at risk. 

They are dangerous at best,
and the league didn’t want to run the risk. 

Plus what about records that have stood the time test?
Are they going be broken now and no longer exist?

All because someone drugs themselves to have a bigger biceps and chest?
Someone please lay this all to rest! 

Baseball today is such a shame. 

Its boring with all of the commercial and pitcher change breaks. 

Something needs to change. 

Because its been turned into a sideshow. 

Thats the only reason why kids even go. 

To see the park, get hot dogs,
and baseballs that when put in the dark they glow. 

Then when you get home. 

you ask them what they remember about the game 

and they say, “I don’t know”. 

This game used to be interesting. 

But now I find my channels flipping. 

Even Golf is more fun to watch. 

at least they hit that ball a lot!
Baseball should but I doubt ever will, 

Get rid of all the pitchers it has to refill. 

No more pitching changes; That would increase the thrill!

Maybe players could hit the ball if wasn’t coming 100 mph every throw. 

and instead of pure talent pitchers had to use strategy,
of when to and not to throw 

That 100mph hour fastball.
Get rid of the sideshow. 

Then maybe kids would go. 

Maybe then we’d go back to being enthralled. 

Back when Baseball was actually Baseball. 

But I doubt it will because money is what matters now.
Sideshows make money so its always going to be allowed.
But I’d like to disavow
I’d like to dropout. 

I never really watched it much in the first place. 

but now I know of a better game.
Oh and one final thing to say. 

We should just go back to town ball. 

That game sounds so much cooler than baseball. 

You could really make some unique obstacles

Put in a fountain or maybe even a wall.
It just sounds like a lot of fun. 

I plan to play it this summer some. 

Everyone will be welcome. 

And we’ll have fun under the sun. 

And it won’t really matter who will win. 

Because its about having fun, building character,
and growing relationships
The end.

We're here for a couple of days
weather OK in some ways
went to the end of the pier
then back again for a beer
Beer was best.

Sunbathing without a vest
beetroot coloured painful chest
back for fish 'n chip tea
salt 'n vinegar free
Salt 'n vinegar best.

There's plenty to see and do
sideshows and slot machines too
glad to get home tomorrow
then we'll have to borrow
The Beer was best.

We’d all been out to the Carnival,
Had chilled and thrilled and cried,
And Patsy laughed that she’d wet her pants
On the killer Monster Ride,
While Orville’s face was covered in floss
In a pink and sticky goo,
And I limped past the Penny a Toss
With something stuck to my shoe.

I’d won a horrible Voodoo Doll
That I tried to pass to Kate,
She said, ‘No fear, if I took that home
I would just lie there, awake!’
We’d had our fun on the Octopus
Though the Mouse had made me sick,
And the Big Wheel stopped in a passing cloud
At the height of a laughing fit..

A spider deep in the Ghost Train came
Unstuck in Patsy’s hair,
And Kate had shrieked, for Patsy had
No clue that it was there.
We threw it one to the other, first
To Orville, then to Jack,
But then it landed on some old dear
And gave her a heart attack!

We laughed and pranced and we danced beside
The sideshows – ‘Way to go!’
But Orville fumbled the rifle and
He shot some guy in the toe,
We had to run but were laughing there
So hard, and fit to bust,
That Richard ruptured himself out there,
And now he’s wearing a truss!

The time it had come to wander home
So we wiped off Orville’s goo,
But I had trouble in walking with
That thing, still stuck to my shoe.
I slid and wiped and I scraped at it
But nothing would make it budge,
Said Jack, ‘Just what do you think it is?’
I replied, ‘some sort of sludge.’

We got to the edge of the fairground
And the others wandered home,
But I was stuck, I couldn’t move,
I was standing there, alone.
And then my foot had begun to turn
Back to the lights and sound,
I felt myself, being impelled
By my shoe across the ground.

I tried to twist and I tried to turn
But my shoe was saying, ‘No!’
I had to follow wherever it went,
Wherever it wanted to go.
It took me back through the alleyways
Still lit with a thousand globes,
I felt a bit like a Brahman Bull
With a steel ring through my nose.

It dragged my foot through the mud and slush
And the other followed too,
I didn’t have much of a choice, I thought
As long as I wore the shoe,
It led me in to a darkened tent
With a dais, up on high,
Where a shadow sat in an old top hat
With a single gleaming eye.

The shadow opened its mouth to speak
And its teeth were long and sharp,
‘What have you brought me now to eat,
Some dross you found in the park?’
The voice was deep, was a muffled growl
And it shook the earthen floor,
The shoe was dragging me forward as
I turned for the flap of a door.

I felt a wrench and the shoe came off
So I hopped and ran like mad,
The growl of the shadow had freaked me out,
It had to be more than bad!
My father gave me a hiding when
He found that I’d lost my shoe,
He wouldn’t listen when I exclaimed:
‘You would have lost it, too!’

Next day the shoe was sat at my door
Its prints deep pressed in the lawn,
I couldn’t have put that shoe back on
If the Devil had blown his horn.
I took a stick and I picked it up
And dropped it straight in the bin,
I couldn’t go near a Carnival now,
I’m too attached to my skin!

David Lewis Paget

Come join the unraveling circus
quite soon to be passing our way,
with the clowns in a clamor to twerk us -
line up as they lead us astray!

Arriving, the elephant trumpets
agendas of aberrant acts
while the donkeys drool, dunking their crumpets
and twirlers spin, twisting the facts.

The big top’s now open to breezes,
so pundits soar spreading their wings
to convince us to tread the trapezes,
for it's they who'll be pulling the strings.

The merry-go-round’s so amazing
(black horses bound, chasing the cart)
as the brass ring of change wanders wildly
till stealing straight back to the start.

The moldy old model of Ptolemy
(at the hub of this three ring domain)
mixes marvels of magic with alchemy
in the bowels of the mastodon’s brain.

Neglecting the gulls who’ll be eating
stale crumbs that have dropped from the plate,
the vain vulture of virtue’s oft tweeting  
of Circus Land once again great.

The tamer, adorned in fine trumpery
(pate garnished with fiery mane)
has endeavored to wall the ring's boundary,
keep millipede migrants in rein.

The dwarves and their antics are funny
while juggling to balance the books,
so the titans laugh, grappling the money
extracted by hook or by crooks.

The sideshows provide a composite
of fails of the frizzed billionaire,
some disclosing the bones in his closet
caught clutched in the arms of the bear.
    
From towers the trumpet is blowing
fake messages, fetid but full,
but as long as the cattle keep lowing,
he’ll hasten to serve them the bull.

The masses, persuaded to follow,
float foolishly into the fog
overwhelmed by the vapors they swallow,
choked up like the ruff-collared dog.

The snap of the whip as it whooshes
maintains the domains of the dupes
so the cats won’t escape to the bushes,
refusing to hop through the hoops.

With the promise to call out the cavalry,
the hearts of the crowds beat athrob
for in spite of their struggles and rivalry
the Don’s still controlling the mob.

Humbled Empress on *******’s hilarious,
parading her ***** and mules,
with her fabulous tales (mostly spurious)
wagging only the naive and fools.

Mounting ponies in circles, she rode 'em
through lobbies where influence crawls
with her claws clinging tight to the totem
while seals on the banks balanced *****.

Yes, the pack’s still pre-paid by the PAC men,
some wolfing their ways through the maze,
while fey fables are hawked by the packmen
who canvass our eyes with a glaze.

The pretender defender of females
is actu'ly one of the hawks;
secrets hidden in spills of her re-mails
means pillory, stuck in the stocks.

The swine in the central arenas
(immersed in the fat of the throne)
begin dancing like wee ballerinas
’fore pitching the proles a bare bone.

Jesters Cruzo and Bozo, while boozin'
(dealt cards which were ******* by the ****),
ruled “not winning the hand would be losin’
and need for an armed Minuteman.”

Well the ray gun's still loaded and toted
(the gall’ry forbidding all bans)
and the NRA gang’s become bloated
shooting **** in the face of the fans.

One day when the mad house has folded
and sawdust’s been wafted aside,
Human Race will be racing, remolded,
surmounting life’s hurdles in stride.

I type 'Life'.
My greatest invention yet. They are born and
they die according to this curve I drew up using my favorite software.
They'll see soft lights. They'll fight. They'll go.
Where?
I'm working on it
Still.

I type 'War'.
The adventures of Hiroshima and Nagasaki,
A bunch of sideshows
And there's a massive one scheduled at 8.54.
Stay to watch?

I type 'Love'. They like this a lot.
They react well to it.
Strange how they rise to their feet at the slightest presence of
Love.

I copy and paste
'Love love love love love love love love'

Then I crunch on a moon. Cold, sweet, juiceless.
Hmmmmm.
I type -
'Gobstopper'.

They broke his bones in a bathroom stall
with pipes and left cigarette burns
on his eyelids and I
washed my hands, cleaned the blood
off of my shoes and shrugged.

Some days is all you can do to throw
your body on a cursing poor *******,
but most days you seem like you know
humanity is going to eat itself alive
so you just close the door and stay
in bed for a few more hours.

They say his lies have gone too far
and they know they don't know
whether he's gunning to give up
or run away and try again somewhere
where freaks on the inside stick
out like circus sideshows.
Home is not where we belong.

Christ got nailed to a cross
and I stared and said, "So what?"
that day and every day since
I've been cursed to give zero *****.
I tried and it almost killed me too,
if you know whats good for you
keep to your own.

This world isn't made of flesh,
it's made of dirt and fire,
you'd do good
to keep that in mind.

Sai Krishna
what magic have you wrought
the sideshows and acrobatics
of the world no longer entice
robotically I go through the motions
of daily living
my mind totally absorbed in You

Captivating Lord
You have performed a sleight of heart
and I am hopelessly smitten
fatally attracted I stalk Your
charming footsteps
planning my sweet ambush

Alluring  Giridhari
the mid-night air is
dulcet
and heady aroma of
jasmine enchants the Soul
on the soft earth
I have drawn a sacred white circle
a magical mandala
under a pyramid of stars
I wait

People are walking down the street,
during the final apocalypse ,
radios on their big feet,
the jails are empty and all stripped,
and Micheal Moore might call it,
republicans old warship.
It's all our fault we built a world on ideas of ownership.

As the world sat there dying,
the remorseful dragon was bled,
and the leaches are all crying,
their brothers are all dead,
and I know though my silver spoon shines,
in the moonlight it turns to lead,
I sat there on the mountaintop and watched tom thumb break his leg.

The popular trend is collapsing,
the pirates are heroes too,
the tree now is alive and clapping,
what were once lies are now all true,
but ages pass and still we know ,
that every day is just a clue,
I ran across the border along with Napoleons entire crew.

The glass coffin it has a leak,
snow white is looking for love,
but all that people want is a peak,
and all she gets is mud,
behind her sunken eyes we can see,
a dam that will soon flood,
she kept it hidden long enough to water every shrub.

Everyone you knew has been abandoned,
They didn't last long on their own,
the prizes they always branded,
are gone its like they never were owned,
and even when the memory returns,
they'll just be a name on a stone.
And the people worth more than others are now just dirt and dirt alone.

Gandhi was walking his rat,
and he handed him a flower,
he said there you go Mr. diplomat,
but don't get drunk with the power,
and even with all of the things he yelled ,
the rat jumped off of the tower.
And we are now left to determine what to do in our last hour.

The ****** was again, alone,
with the memories of his father,
who was famous for many different tones,
he played while on his swather,
and he knows deep down he killed his pa,
there no excuse for hes a doctor,
and know he has to be punished so he kidnapped his own toddler.

The sideshows are all empty,
the freaks have all gone home,
the first to die are the the yetis,
the first to live are made from foam,
we remember this but forget the rest,
if we must we will build catacombs,
but be careful if you don't comply with them they'll take you up into their domes.

Every night I chase them.
Feelings so close to me.
Will I ever escape from this miasma of broken dreams?

My life is now a picture.
My tears are now a lie.
Reminded through my faultless mind of why I want to die.

No longer can i flee.
Walls are closing in on me.
A thousand fists, a million tears that meld into my skin.
I am no one but you who made the hate I garner within.

Hold me to feel a thousand memories of pain that are now one.
Nuance me with your shun.
The course of mine that runs.
Hide with your conspirators deep inside the temple.
You are my personal devil.
In my head I feel you revel.

Like all before you look away in fear of what I have become.
To you I could be your love.
To me I see no one.
Emptiness and life are my drug.
My eternal bane.
My pleasure an my pain.

Touch me to see everything you love all fall as one.
I am a curse.
A poison.
The failed volume of an author.
Progenitor to a slaughter.
The blood mixed in your water.

Reason and logic keep me from losing control of this.
This body I feel not mine.
The circus of my life.
I am the prized freakshow, the star of my own hell.
All the lesser sideshows look unto me and want.
The king of everything I hate.
Disappear.

We knew T-Rex from its tiny claws
Its hungry mouth, its toothy jaws.
But how can we assess T-****
When all our data’s from a stump
And weekly polls that flinch and jump?

The answer’s lying deep below
Perhaps with Edgar Allen Poe
Whose poetry is dark and slow.

A creature walking o’er the earth
In privilege stretching back to birth
That claims ascendance overall
And loves to brag and boast and brawl
And sometimes recoils, sometimes howls
(One sometimes wonders at its bowels—
When watching active ****** scowls.)

T-**** is marching to consume
What’s going on in the newsroom
And feeds on minor predators,
(Ignoring its own creditors).
It likes to crouch and dance and pose
While speaking in a broken prose
And often wrinkling up its nose
At anything that might oppose
Or even worse, that might expose,
Its streak of show-and-tell sideshows.

Alas when sizing up T-****
One hits a show-and-tell speed bump
That’s not about its topmost clump
Or its eternal ****** frump.
We know, somehow, we’re each a chump
In thinking that there was an ump
Who’d put things on the ump and ump
And so we lazed, and scrimped and scrumped
Instead of what we’d need to do—
To find what’s cleanly new and true,
And redirect our Waterloo
Away from its own cancerous lump
And toward a far less spurious zoo.
In other words, to dump T-****!

My mind is a dumb dolomancer dancing along hypotenuse avoiding the 90 cause the long way around has neato little sideshows distracting from the problem that A plus B might equal C but ya need the square.  A nice tight fit uniform to make out that right angle. I am imaginary numbers.

Sitting in the back of the bus
Wondering what it is
All of the fuss
Sit down, be quiet
Let the man drive
We're all gonna get there
Let's hope we're alive

The windows are *****
Should I wipe them clean
Sideshows and wildlife
I'm told it's quite the scene

I close my eyes
It's a long ride
I'm gonna reach home
One stop or the next.
One day or the the next.

Copyright © 2019 by Zane Safrit. All rights reserved.

There’s a man with a mask and a plan and a dream and although he’s just a man he’s far more than he seems.

The man puts on the mask and the magic starts, the goal is simple. To capture your hearts.

I want to light the fires of your passions, want to inspire your desire, look at the lights and the fashion.

If we are the artists and this is the art, then you are living it as we create it. You are a part of it.
We present you with the strange, we show you the sideshows of the past in modern flare.
This is vaudeville this is show this is an indulgence. So runaway from reality into the Shadow Show because our doors are open and we’re ready to entertain.

Trust the man in the mask because you’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain
everything you’ve seen so far is just the beginning, the rest is clawing at the door just waiting to show itself.

So, trust the Jester because I haven’t told you a lie you haven’t liked. He’s an honest charlatan, everything you see before you is as real as you want it to be. So surely you jest because we’re the best at what we do and what we do is to bring the strange, odd and wonderful to you.

Let us inspire your desire. Let the real world go- if even for a night.
You’re living art while we live this life. It’s who we are and what we do. Our blood on the stage our dreams hang overheard, to make you smile to make you scream. It’s a little scary and that’s the tightrope we walk, dancing on the edge of a knife.
So, we trust you to trust us and we trust the Jester.
If only for one night you walk into our world we’ll pluck the stars from the sky and burn brighter than any light you’ve known. If only for one night you want to let go, let us take you on a journey you have only dreamed of

Day #7: Vernal to Cortez

The next morning, I was on Rt #40 and headed from Vernal Utah to Dinosaur Colorado. I wished that I had had the time to go into the dinosaur museum again.  When I was last there, over fifteen years ago, they had a fossilized dinosaur, and it was almost half uncovered from the side of the cliff where it was buried.  They had built the museum around this discovery, and its walls connected right to the cliff on both sides of the dig.  I made a bet with myself as I passed by that they had entirely uncovered it by now.  It was hard to believe in this dry arid climate that the greatest creatures to ever walk the earth once roamed here.

This Week Was Not About Museums Or Sideshows, It Was About The ‘Ride’

At Dinosaur, I took Rt. #64 East toward Rangely where I gassed up and connected with Rt. #139. I then entered the great flat regions of Western Colorado where the only towns were Loma and Fruita with Grand Junction sitting just off the interstate twelve miles farther to the East.  

Just before Fruita, I passed the old farming community of Loma Colorado. Loma sat just off interstate Rt.#70 and looked like another one of those towns that time had forgotten.  I stopped to photograph the old two-story Loma School that sat in the weeds 100 yards off the road.  As I approached the front entrance, I could feel the excitement of the students who had attended there reverberate around me. I thought I heard their laughter, as I pushed on the double latch of the large front entry door.  Sadly, it was locked. As I looked in through its glass panels, I thought I saw a figure carrying books and making a left turn into one of the deserted classrooms — or were they deserted.  

I have learned to no longer question what I see but to be thankful for the gift of being able to see at all.  While closed, I was gratified that the county had not torn the old building down and had allowed it to stand. It was a living testament to all that had happened there and to what, in a passing visitors imagination, just might happen again.  I smiled realizing that I would soon be like that old building, a memory, whose retelling would overshadow any new thing that I might become.

There were two deserted schools, that sat dormant, yet vibrant, along the pathway of my discovery this week.  I had put my hands firmly on the front doors of both hoping that they would empty into me all the mystery hidden within their corridors and halls that they had been previously unwilling to share. Forever, they would remain unsettled in my thoughts because of what they once were and even more for the stories they might tell.

At Fruita, I got on the Interstate (Rt #70 East) and missed my exit for Rt.#141 South which would have taken me across the Uncompahgre Plateau.  I went twenty miles too far to the East before turning around and on the reverse trip made the same mistake again.  The exit for Rt.#141 was not marked, so I got off and followed the signs for Rt.#50 and stopped at the first gas station for better directions.  The clerk behind the desk smiled at me as I asked for her help.  She said, “Not so easy to find Rt #141, is it?” Many things in the West were not easy to find, but the ones worth keeping had been worth looking for.

After a series of three right turns, I arrived in the tiny town of Whitewater Colorado and saw the sign for Rt.#141.  I didn’t refuel back at the gas station — I had simply forgotten. The next town on Rt.#141 (Gateway Colorado), was still 43 miles further West.  I knew I could make it with what I had left in my tank but would Gateway have fuel?  If not, I would become the remote victim of an unknown fate caused by an unfortunate memory lapse.  

If the first twenty miles of this trip hadn’t been mired in road construction, the remote beauty of the canyons, and the road they stood as bookends against, were worth any chance that I might run out of gas. The manual said that the Goldwing could go over two hundred miles before running out of gas. Today would test both the veracity of that statement and my belief that the road was always there to save you when you needed it most.  

Road construction in this part of the West meant that two lanes had been reduced to one totally stopping the traffic in one of the lanes. A long line of idling vehicles waited for the pilot car to come from the other direction, turn around, and then take them through the construction zone to where the second lane opened again. Once there, the pilot car positioned itself at the head of the opposing line of stopped vehicles wanting to go the other way. It slowly began the whole process all over again going back in the direction from where it had started.

There’s an old Western joke about the West having four-seasons —Fall, Winter, Spring, and Road Construction. If you’ve traveled west of the Mississippi between Memorial Day and September, you undoubtedly have your own stories to tell about waiting in line.

If you’ve been lucky, you didn’t have to wait more than twenty or thirty minutes for the pilot car to return.  If not lucky, you could’ve waited forty-five minutes or more.  On this day, the thermometer on the bike read 103,’ so I turned off the motor, dropped the kickstand down and got off. I removed my jacket and, within sight of the bike, went for a short walk.

  The Heat Was Coming Off The ‘Road’ In Waves And Made    Standing On Its Surface Both Uncomfortable And Severe

As I anticipated, in exactly twenty minutes the pilot car emerged from around the mountain in front of me. Within three minutes more, it had turned around, positioned itself in front of the line where I was number five and, with the flagman waving back and forth in our direction, had us on our way.  It looked like it was going to be a slow dusty ride through the Grand Mesa National Forest toward Gateway for another ten miles.  

Slow and dusty yes, but it was also gorgeous in a way that only a San Juan Mountain Road knew how to be.  With all the temporary unpleasantness from the heat and the dust, I wouldn’t have changed a thing.  This was what real travel was all about. I had learned its true meaning on the many Wyoming and Montana back roads of my youth — and on a much smaller motorcycle — over thirty years ago.

It’s What You Can’t Control That Allows For The Possibility Of Greatest Change

Casting my fate again to the spirits of the road, I passed the four slower cars in front of me and was again by myself.  The awe-inspiring mountain’s drifted lower into canyons of incredible beauty.  The descent was more than just a change in elevation.  I was being passed off from one of nature’s power sources to the other. As the mountains delivered their tenant son to the canyons in waiting, the road, once again, proved to be smarter than the plans I had made to deal with it.

               The ‘Road’ Had Once Again Proved Smarter …

Typical of many small western towns, the only gas station in Gateway had a sign on the front door that read … ‘Back In 30 Minutes.’ The two pumps did not accept credit cards, so the decision was to either wait for the station manager to return or to continue south toward Nucla, and if I had no luck there then Naturita. “One of them surely had gas” I said to myself, and with still an eighth of a tank left, I decided I would rather take the risk than wait, as daylight was burning.  Betting on the uncertainty of the future was different than dealing with the uncertainty of the here and now.  One was filled with the promise of good intention, while the other only underscored what you had learned to fear.

                                I Decided To Move On

Just outside of Gateway, and like a mirage in the desert, I saw a large resort a half-mile ahead on my right. As I got closer, I realized it was no mirage at all as the sign read ‘Welcome To The Gateway Canyons Resort.’ Nothing could have stood in greater contrast to the things I had seen in the last fifty miles.  This resort looked like it should have been in Palm Springs or Sedona.  It was built totally out of red desert stucco with three upscale restaurants, a health club, and an in-house museum.  

What I cared about most was did they have gas?  Sitting right in front of their General Store were two large concrete islands with pumps on both sides.  It was a welcome sight regardless of price, $4.99 for regular, which was more than a dollar a gallon higher than I had paid anywhere else.

                                  Any Port In A Storm

After filling the Goldwing’s tank, I walked inside the General Store to get something to drink.  The manager was standing by the cash register and talking to a clerk.  She looked at me and smiled as she said: “So where are you headed?”  When I told her the Grand Canyon, and then eventually back to Las Vegas she replied: “Hey, tell all your Motorcycle friends about us, we love to service the Bike trade.”  

I told her I was a writer and would in fact be doing a story about my ride. But based on her overly inflated prices I would have to recommend filling up in either Whitewater or Naturita.  She grimaced slightly and said something about business in this remote region dictating the price.  I returned her smile as I wished her a good day. Joni’s immortal words about “repaving paradise and putting up a parking lot” rang in my ears, as I walked back outside and restarted the bike.

Sometimes We Had To Cross The line To Know What The Line Meant

This place had been recently built by John Hendricks the founder of The Discovery Channel.  He and his family discovered this valley on a vacation trip in 1995.  Instead of becoming part of the surroundings, he decided to turn his vision of the valley into an extension of what he already knew.  It was a shame really because a museum with classic Duesenberg Cars was as out of place in this remote canyon as any notion that you could then merchandise and control it to suit your own ends.

I couldn’t leave fast enough! Without even one look back through my rearview mirrors, I rounded the bend to the right that took me away from this place.  Once out of sight of the resort, I was deep in ****** canyonland again where only the hawk and the coyote affirmed my existence. I wondered … why do we do many of the things that we do? At the same time, I was grateful, as I looked up and offered a silent thank you for the gas.

Asking ‘Why’ Throws My Spirit Into Reverse Gear, And I Know Better …  

Just past Naturita, I made a right turn on Rt.#141 and headed south toward Dove Creek.  It was farther than it appeared on the map, and it was past 7:30 in the evening when I arrived where Rt.#141 dead-ended into Rt.#491.  I took the left turn toward ****** where I continued south toward the 4-Corners town of Cortez Colorado.  This time life balanced. The trip to Cortez from Dove Creek which looked at least as long, or longer, than the one I had just traveled, was only 36 more miles — and I could stop for the night.

I raced toward the 4-Corners as the sun disappeared behind the Canyons Of The Ancients. I averaged over 85 MPH again alone on the road.  My only fear was that a deer or coyote might come out of the shadows, but I traveled secure inside my vision that on two-wheels my life would never end. I knew my life would never end that way, but a serious injury was something to be avoided.  

The trip to Cortez was over in a flash, and in less than twenty minutes I saw billboards and signs that pointed to a life outside of myself lining both sides of the road.  As I pulled into the Budget Inn, the sign that directed you toward Rt. #160 west and the Grand Canyon was right in front of the motel. There were only two other cars sitting in the parking lot with a lone Harley-Davidson Road King parked in front of a room at the extreme far end.

The desk clerk told me that he was originally from Iran but had been raised in the Los Angeles area.  He had a small Chihuahua named Buddy who would perform tricks if offered a reward.  I took a small milk bone out of the box on the counter and asked Buddy if he’d like to go for a ride.  He barked loudly, as he spun and pirouetted in the middle of the lobby. I thought about my own dog Colby, who I missed terribly, waiting faithfully for me on our favorite chair back home. As I walked across the parking lot to my room, Buddy had been a proper and fitting end to a ride that left nothing more to be desired.

I splashed water on my face, left my helmet in the room, and rode back into Cortez. All I wanted now was some good food and a beer.  Lit up in all its glory, the Main Street Brewery sat in the middle of town, and its magnetic charm did everything but physically pull me inside.  It was an easy choice and one of those things that you just know, as I parked the bike against the sidewalk and walked inside.

The ribs and cole-slaw were as delicious as the waitress was delightful. It disturbed me though when I asked her about road conditions on the way to The Canyon, and she gave me that familiar blank stare.  “You know, I’ve lived up and down these San Juan’s all my life, and I’ve still never been down there.”  My heart filled with sadness as I said: “It’s only three hours away and the single greatest sight on earth that you will ever see.”

She looked at me vacuously, as she cleared my table, and promised she’d have to get down there one of these days if time and money ever permitted.  Amazing, I thought to myself! Here I was, a guy from Pennsylvania, who had visited the Canyon over thirty times, and this local person, living less than three hours away had not seen it — not even once. I cried inside myself for what she would probably never know as I got up to leave.

             Crying For What She Would Never Know …

As I turned around to take one last look at the historic bar, I was reminded that some things in life served as stepping-stones, or stairways, to all that was greater. I was in one of those places again tonight. The people who served in roadside towns like this saw the comings and goings, but never the reasons why. They were spared from feeling that outside their immediate preoccupation there could ever be anything more.  I needed to be thankful to them for having provided sustenance and shelter along my travels, but my sadness for the things that they would never see, which were many times just over the next hill, overrode any gratefulness I would feel in my heart.

         The Blessed Among Us Are The Blessed Indeed!