Since the F3 is going to sit in the garage until the next track day, I bought some STA-BIL™ to keep the fuel system from getting clogged. The cash register beeped as the cashier scanned the bottle. The casher looked up and asked if I was over 18. I asked her if she was joking. "No, this item can only be purchased by people who are 18 or older. Guess someone has found a way to abuse this stuff. I don't even want to know."

She's right. The product does the job, but smells terrible. You'd have to be pretty hard up to try to get high off of this stuff. I don't want to know, either.

I smiled. "When you and I were younger, petroleum distillates was not the first place we looked when we wanted to get high." She raised an eyebrow at me, but chuckled.

Saturday morning rides to the dojo are delicious, they are time stolen from the concensus reality. The Triumph loves to cruise at about 90 mph which if you believe the 7% speedo optimism, is only 83.7 mph. So if the posted speed limit is 65, I'm within the 25 mile allowance before I lose the right to do traffic school. But I wasn't thinking about all that.

I was exiting the freeway, taking the left exit to Fourth street. Normally at this early hour there's no one on either the Fourth street exit or the University street exit, which is the right fork. The driver of the silver four-door sedan must have had that thought in mind when they decided to recover from their wrong turn by backing up the freeway off-ramp to the fork-point and take the left fork. Talk about being your own reality.

Some form of concensus formed in my mind as I accepted that the back of that car was in fact coming toward me. My brain told my left hand, "press the horn button, hold it down, and do it now", but my horn finger was paralyzed with incredulity. I smiled to myself as I swerved left while the driver continued to back the vehicle against the flow of traffic.

It is decided. Peter and I will ride from northern California to Connecticut and back this summer. I bought the Sprint last year for just this trip. The cat-sitter is booked so now the trip is "for real".

By nature I like to plan. I like to know where I'm going, approximately how long it should take me to get there, where I'm going to sleep, and that I am going to have a shower before I go to bed. Peter on the other hand, is more spontaneous. Getting "there" is not important; he is not a guy who is likely to ever suffer from "get there itis". If he doesn't shower for a day or two, it won't kill him. That's fine if one is traveling alone, but if he is planning on sharing a bed with me, showers are going to be important. There will be at least one shower along the way, my sister says we can take a shower at her place in North Carolina.

In anticipation of doing this trip I've been collecting touring checklists from people who have published their cross-country motorcycle ride experiences. Some stuff I've been buying here and there, like a tire repair kit with extra C02 inflation cartridges, and a set of bungees with plastic heads to hold the fairing together in case it gets cracked. I went to REI and bought two pairs of the easy-wash-dry-in-four-hours underwear. I'll cycle through the two pairs for three weeks. Peter rolled his eyes when I proudly told him that I'd solved the laundering of underwear problem. Having done a couple of one-week rides already, he doesn't consider laundry to be a major problem. I'm not even going to ask.

Peter has an absolute sense of direction. Even when he is lost he knows where North is. I have no sense of direction whatsoever and get lost while looking at a map. Since he is in charge of navigation, he decided that we will take the southern route going east and the northern route returning west. For him, the trip planning is now done. I have ordered a map of every state that we might pass through from the automobile association. I want to figure out in advance what roads are toll roads and make sure that we have enough dollar bills and change ready before we leave our driveway. Peter smiles indulgently. Guess who's tank bag those maps will be in.

We've been a couple for most of the sixteen years that we've known each other. Like most couples we've learned to live with aspects of each other's nature that aren't going to change, ever. He likes to keep his options open, I like closure. A lot. For me this trip is going to be a grand experiment in letting go of the delusion of certainty. When the need arises, I'll just scream out loud in my helmet and ride on. The sun will eventually start to set (we aren't going to Alaska), and we will find a place to sleep. And maybe there will be a shower.

I'm not even bringing my laptop. Or mascara. But I'm not going completely cold turkey - I'm bringing my tweezers. My eyebrows are going to remain artificially separated and arched. The day I give up my tweezers you might as well bury me. The ride anticipation is killing me - everytime I see a motorcycle with extra luggage strapped to the frame I break out into a big grin.

If I don't die from the freedom of this adventure I'll live to write the story.