I lived along the Front Range for a long time. A couple years in the early 80's and then something over 20 years from 88 on. When we pulled out in "Oh ten" something changed. I don't see it as "Home" any more... if I ever truly did.
I say I "lived" here on the Front Range for a long time. Though my
kiester was parked on a ranch halfway twixt Fort Collins and Laramie for
'bout half the time, my soul had its eyes, always, on the horizon.
I'm a confusing and confused... uh... "personality". That's the lot of a Yondering, Drifting, Loner, Biker Cowboy I guess.
Funny thing about Wanderers; Though we aren't comfortable any place... Though we must always move on... I think, deep in our souls is a paradoxical urge; the hunger to Belong. I think that is maybe what we (drifters) are all searching for. That Place where we Belong. Of course, when you are the "odd piece", finding the place in the puzzle where you seem to plug in right is a hard find.
So... we keep rolling... keep wandering... keep searching for that elusive valley of our dreams. I've Rolled, one way or another my entire life. Here and there along the road I've thought I'd found Home... only to have it blown apart or taken away...
Hell, the first six or seven years we were married I think we moved maybe eleven or twelve times. I sit in one place too long I get restless... antsy... my eyes start lookin' down the road. Deep inside, grows an unexplainable, driving need to move... to roll. If it isn't satiated it swells up and breaks out in less than prime ways. It will not be denied. The only thing that eases that internal pressure is movement. The literal action of splitting the wind.
Those un-afflicted can't comprehend the need, the hunger, the Lust - To Wander. It's like... Breathing. Can you convince yourself that you don't need to breathe? Telling yourself to grow up and stop this senseless attachment to breathing is akin to telling a Yonderer to grow up and put down roots.
Sitting behind the windshield of a truck is ok... Straddling the saddle of a horse is good... Hands on the bars of a fine Motorcycle, knees in the wind is the best. But movement, going somewhere new, somewhere fresh... is required. It's the only thing that feeds that unexplainable, gnawing hunger. The only thing that tempers the ache.
When I'm on the road... no matter what is wrong around me... no matter what could be better... no matter what else could be different... If I'm on a Ribbon of Asphalt, somewhere, the road stretching out in front of me... fading into the distance... into the mystery and promise of tomorrow... all is right.
It's how it's been... How it will always be. It's where the words; "If I have to explain it, You won't Understand" come from.
With My Eyes on the Horizon