There are three ghosts from the Gathering who’ve gotten so close that people refer to them, rightfully, if somewhat unoriginally, as The Three Amigos.  Hatch was in Desert Storm, Wilson had been run over by an ice cream truck, and Roy had fallen asleep smoking a cigarette and gotten so badly burned he ended up looking like a little devil, a cute little devil, once you get used to him.  Like me, they are totally dependent on their bikes, and had been talking for weeks about an excursion they were planning to Balboa. 

Since I make the ride every day, I took a hard pass on their offer to join them, but enjoyed watching all the preparation they were putting into their big outing.  Hatch had a backpack full of energy drinks and granola bars.  Wilson had thought to bring a few backup innertubes and a pump.  Roy went so far as to pack a flare, which I thought was really overthinking things.  By the time they set off on their adventure, however, the wind was blowing so strong from the north that they actually may have needed it for their return journey.

There are good days and bad days.  That is the universal rule that governs us all, and though the day hadn’t started out particularly bad, my mood began to slide as things dragged on.  Although I am usually able to accept responsibility for my situation, there are times when I want to blame everyone and everything, particularly the pandemic, for the state of limbo I’ve been waking up in for over two years now.  Some people wonder what I have to complain about, stuck in a camper at the beach.  Yes, but still stuck, and not every day at the beach is a good day

That afternoon I found myself in the camper, trapped like a restless genie in a bottle, realizing I had no idea who I was anymore.  Most of my life my identity had been defined by my wanderings, where I’d been to and where I was heading next, and when I got held up for any length of time it was obvious that there was no one inside, except, perhaps, a wounded and angry teenager.  The ghosts at the Gathering are taking steps to restore their humanity, but on certain days I remember that a human, having to carry around all that pain, is the last thing I ever wanted to be. 

Eventually, the despair mounted to the point, where I had to run out to the yard and jump on the Cruiser.  There was no chance of getting away, but I either had to burn off some energy or it was going to burn me up, like what had happened to Roy.

I’d been chuckling earlier, thinking about the Three Amigos making the ride back from Balboa, and now suddenly, inexplicably, I found myself riding straight into a wind that could not have been blowing any harder, on my way to Bolsa Chica.  There was almost no forward movement involved, only side to side lurching and a machine-gun stuttering of curses.

By the time I reached the turnaround at Warner, however, the trick had been accomplished, however, and the demons had been subdued.  Now came the payoff.  Circling around, with the wind at my back, I pedaled only two or three times and literally flew down the coast, my black shadow racing ahead of me.  The waves continued to pummel the sand and the seagulls screamed with laughter.