# Random thoughts of a weary traveler...



## Rider (Aug 20, 2015)

Helpless...claustrophobic...out of control...resigned to fate...potentially my demise...my life in the hands of a captain whom I've never met...whose skills, experience, or mental state I cannot gauge...the modern equivalent of a trans-Atlantic ocean crossing in the time of the Mayflower...minus the rats and scurvy...packed into a confined space with 150 people...little in the way of creature comforts...not enough food...water is rationed...not enough air...our future unknown...disaster courts us...certain death is just a foot from where I sit...once underway, we are fully committed to the journey...there is no escape...no turning back...I cannot exist without this ship...I dread my existence within it...inconsolable baby crying...foreign smells...odors of human excrement...sickly coughs laden with pestilence...entitled people who insist on bringing more baggage than is allowed...bloated, red-faced, and aggressive...stereotypical "Americans" of international disdain...secure in the belief that the rules do not apply for them...total disregard for others...an unflattering collage of humanity surrounds me...resignation to my fate. 

Turbulence...rough seas...germs...surcharges for a seat that reclines 3"...disease ridden blankets...pillows full of plague...recycled air...still tepid with the breath of the last person who respirated it..the entirety of my existence reduced to 3 square feet that I call my own...stripped of any semblance of personal space...another man's flesh pressed against my own as he crosses the border into my diminutive  space...like an overpopulated nation...set on absorbing the resources of its neighbor.

A jailer appears...dispensing meager rations of bread and water...no discernible empathy upon her visage...a fellow prisoner, no doubt, tasked with thankless duty...minimal compliance to those rules of engagement once defined in Geneva...my possessions limited to a seat pocket before me...the sum total of my comfort...a book by Neil Peart...exploits of the open road...small consolation now.  Is a caged bird comforted in the knowledge that others soar to great heights?  I suspect not. A bottle of soda which I dare not drink...a moment of joy...followed shortly by discomfort...then the need to embark on a journey further into the dark reaches of my prison...over sweaty neighbors...through crowded aisles...staring human suffering directly in the face as I make my way past row upon row...avoiding eye contact...hindered by my jailers...unsure of my footing as the vessel dips and surges...only to arrive at a befouled closet for a brief moment of solitude...then the journey begins again.  I'll just sit here and stare at the green bottle...longing for the brief distraction provided by refined sugar and empty calories...like a baby eyeing a pacifier...or more accurately, an addict eyeing his next fix..,a special kind of torture of my own making. 

Solitude...loneliness...150 people sitting in absolute silence...engrossed in personal electronics...donning headphones...tethered to the security blankets of the modern age...only the cries of an unhappy baby disrupt the drone of the engines.  Is no one interested in talking to a stranger...the art of conversation...places and professions outside of your minuscule sphere of awareness?  Do we really have nothing to offer one another?  Entertainment...information...comfort...company?  Never are we so crowded and so alone simultaneously      .  This feels like a microcosm of today's society...a nation of selfish indifference and apathy. 

This highlights one of the great joys of solo motorcycle travel...but it only works if you're alone...having shed the upper hand of safety provided by traveling in numbers...and preferably far from home. Under those circumstances...with only the smallest provocation...a smile or a friendly nod...everyone talks to you.  Park yourself at a rustic picnic table outside a country store in Vermont...take a nap in the grass at a rest area in Nebraska...simply stop for gas in Nova Scotia...people will approach you, they will engage you, and they will commence to pour out their entire life stories...elderly couples in luxury RVs...lonely store clerks...grizzled veterans...farmers...hikers...civil servants.  There's something about a lone traveler...far from the comfort and relative security of their home...that brings out a need in other humans to provide some connection...comfort...assurance that people in their corner of the world are "good people".  It shocks me that 30,000 feet above Iowa, I sit in absolute solitude surrounded by 150 people...but if I was 40,000 feet below...the same solo traveler...far from home...I wouldn't be able to pump a tank of gas without being approached by some friendly stranger...full of questions and eager to share their story.  What's worse, is that the 150 people on the plane don't even have anywhere else to be. They're completely sequestered...no errands to run...no kids to pick up...no 400 mile drive to reach the next hotel reservations...they've got nothing but time...yet they sit in silence and pretend not to notice the person who is quite literally touching them at this very moment.  We've been conditioned to this, but to what end?  Political correctness?  Are we so afraid of offending people that we've stopped talking to them all together?  Better safe than sorry?  Or do we simply not care?  The masterful cultivation of total apathy...for fellow man and the world.  It's a bold new millennium. 

Turbulence now...the plain drops like a stone in 50 foot increments...engines surge...the passenger compartment rolls from side to side...rushing of wind across the flaps...nervous passengers sweat...high pitched whine of the engines...momentary glimpses of the earth through windows in the clouds...unexpected acceleration...I am resigned to my fate. 

Touch down.  No screams...no fire...no sudden impact...no death. That's a happy surprise.


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## Rider (Aug 20, 2015)

I apologize for the atrocious format and terrible grammar.  I was just throwing down random thoughts and looking for something to build off of.  My writing isn't exactly polished.  Unfortunately, the more I try to refine it, the worse it gets...at least as far as conveying the feelings that I felt while writing.  If I put too much effort into the mechanics and structure, I usually dilute the content.


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## Plasticweld (Aug 23, 2015)

I think you need to frame this story with some sort of beginning.  I personally would change the title so as not to give away the sarcasm of the text.  Make the reader guess where you are, make them wonder what sort of horrid place could you possibly be, or what could you have done to end up here.  Simple misdirection could add some real charm to this, as opposed to it coming across as a rant. 


The ending and the reason you ride could be your escape, it could be what you were day dreaming about to escape your captivity on the plane, making it clear why it was so important.  Just some suggestions 


You have obviously never flown next to me :}


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## John Oberon (Aug 31, 2015)

It wasn't a very pleasant read. You certainly express a lot of contempt for people. I think you would do better to turn this into a humor piece tweaking yourself and your various neuroses.


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## Terry D (Aug 31, 2015)

This reads like a rant more than an informative piece. That's fine if you are just writing for the cathartic relief, but is a bit scatter-shot if trying to connect with readers. I agree with Plasticweld that it needs more structure. I would also suggest reconsidering the ellipses. Those three small dots can be a handy tool, but, like garlic, can be easily over used.


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## Ariel (Aug 31, 2015)

I agree with Terry, this seems more like a rant than an informative piece.  The ideas are all fine and coherent but I have issue with the ellipses.  (Despite having a cat named for the punctuation I actually can't stand them).


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## ShadowEyes (Aug 31, 2015)

Rider said:


> I apologize for the atrocious format and terrible grammar.  I was just throwing down random thoughts and looking for something to build off of.  My writing isn't exactly polished.  Unfortunately, the more I try to refine it, the worse it gets...at least as far as conveying the feelings that I felt while writing.  If I put too much effort into the mechanics and structure, I usually dilute the content.



I apologize for getting to this so late, and I suppose this might be old hat by now. Or maybe you still feel the things you've discussed. If that's the case, then you could definitely turn this into something which really connects to readers. I think there's a very large audience of people who feel the same way, and others love new connections and revelations of the same issue. It may seem cliche to some, but I wouldn't worry about it.

What I mean by "issue" is that you've expressed disdain for some aspects of the modern world. I think the people who read nonfictional journal pieces aren't necessarily looking for an answer to the issue, but rather a slight ray of hope to how they overcame it. So that's why I like the bit about motorcycling. You could probably make that the whole point of the piece.

Therefore, you seem to know your audience. If you can compare your experiences or thoughts to personal anecdotes (which reveal your own character), then I'm sure people (other weary travelers?) would find it inspiring.


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