Day 14: Tomorrow, Tomorrow, You're Only a Day Away

Day 14: Tomorrow, Tomorrow, You're Only a Day Away

Despite my intention to sleep soundly, the words and images from Tuesday collided with the thoughts from Wednesday, and I find myself awake at 3:30am. Yet when I sit here attempting to write, I can’t think of anything important to say. The opportunity to see America from the back of a motorcycle (or from the driver’s seat for that matter) is something most people are never offered, or if offered, take. Under blue skies, the ride is amazing and the scenery spectacular, and the camera’s lens or my descriptions will never quite do it the proper justice.

I was hoping that Wednesday would be one of those blue sky rides; a perfect sun, a gentle breeze, views filled with diminutive farmhouses across fields of budding cornstalks, cows meandering aimlessly, Main Street towns, road signs and produce stands, Americana in all its glory. I was hoping the ride would render the last three days distant memories. When the weather report called for rain – again - I was filled with a sense of dread.

Anyone can ride under perfect skies, but to ride like this tests your mettle and fortitude.

And this time, I broke.

It was 35 degrees colder than this time last week. The tiniest patch of blue was an oasis in a sky of gray, but as we got closer, it was gone. A tease. A mirage. The clouds swallowed the entire sky as they stampeded past like an angry, marauding army, confiscating everything of worth in its path. The sun was becoming a distant memory, as we hadn’t seen it in four days.  There was a front sweeping across America’s Heartland, and we had the misfortune to be in its path – either just ahead or immediately behind it, announced by the puddles and water sogged streets.

The only positive was that we didn’t get wet.

The weather is no one’s fault. It is what it is, but when you find yourself huddled and shivering on the back of a motorcycle trying to make yourself as small as possible, using your husband as a wind shield and bartering for warmer temperatures with any unseen deity who might answer you, something’s got to give. There’s got to be a rule somewhere that you shouldn’t have to purchase thermal shirts from the Harley store in the middle of June. And if there isn’t, there should be.

Right now, I want to go outside into the parking lot and click my heels three times.

There’s no place like home.

There’s no place like home.

There’s no place like home.

Instead, I find myself humming the theme song to Annie,  “The sun will come put tomorrow. Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow there’ll be sun….”

And with that, I am going back to bed.

Part Two: Thursday, June 16

In the morning, much to my surprise, there was sun. It was bright and shining directly in my eyes, and I didn’t care. It was a bright, brand new day.

Was it the Annie song? Maybe. Was it the confederate flag I wore as a bandanna, staging my own rebellion against any more bad weather? Maybe. (That's fodder for another blog on another day.) Was it my own Fantastic Four – my father, grandfather, grandmother and father-in-law, who I pleaded with to use their angelic influences to keep us safe, warm and dry today? Maybe.  Whatever it was, or whatever it wasn’t, it worked.

The radio played the best songs. The road was wonderfully curved, cutting through the most magnificent landscape as we headed back east across Indiana, Ohio and into Pennsylvania. Barns were beautiful again, no matter how dilapidated they were. And the few drops of rain that dared to fall as we got closer to our hotel? There was no way they would be allowed to ruin our day.

And the best part of all?  Tomorrow we go to Gettysburg!