The Scientific Reality of WORK... and the Emotional Requirement of Balance.

I haven't speeded up, and time ain't slowin' any. I keep getting up in the morning, doin' "my thing" slowly through the long hours of the day... and like the flash of lightning, another day is gone. It's just an always curious paradox. How can anything that moves so slow, go so fast? ;)

Two days ago I'd been sitting in front of the computer for too long. The work needs to get done. If you want to keep on goin' down the road you have to take care of business, but you'd better find a balance in the process or you'll hit a wall.

The body must be fed but the spirit also requires its own nutrition. Ignore either and the train jumps the rails.

So, in the interest of avoiding a wreck I climbed on the Raider and took an afternoon roll farther up the PCH. On toward Nehalem Bay, Manzanita, Garibaldi, Seaside, Cannon Beach...

*Hwy 101 Near Seaside, Oregon*

This is a road and a ride on my "bucket list". To ride it from The Mexican to the Canadian border and stay on the Pacific Coast Highway. Or, the other way 'round... ending in the southern desert. Ride it all, but cover it in one ride, not the short lil' sections I've been doing on day rides.

The PCH is most often two lanes that run from fresh and smooth asphalt to split and decaying pavement that can test your abilities on a scooter. At least if the tendency of your right hand is to test the limits of legality.

Little of the road is straight. It bends and winds through tunnels of trees until it climbs up over naked bluffs that tower above the ocean, past rocky headlands and down along miles of sandy beaches.

The scent of the ocean is always in the air. That fresh, fishy, tangy, salty taste in your nostrils that somehow speaks in words that can't be spoken.

There is also, for those seeking a "peaceful" place... an oddity. It is never still on the coast, it is never silent. There is a quiet of sorts. A peace of its own. But it is devoid of silence. The seamless low sound of the surf is perpetual. The waves coming in and then sliding back, receding into the sea. Like the breathing of a lover in the dark. As if the ocean is the lungs of the very land we live on, breathing on, unceasing.

It's the same language of the High Mountains... or the vast and open deserts.

It's a language that can't be taught, but all can know... if they open not only their minds to scientific reality ~ but their hearts to possibility.

I stumble along, finding bits of wisdom left by those that passed through before. Like shells on a beach.

An Unbalanced Wanderer Walkin' the High Wire Without a Net
Brian