Motion

Motion

The sleeve of my shirt flutters as I dip my arm in and out of the slipstream of the van through the open window. Smooth gravel rolls under the wheels and the sun is warm on my face. 

Warm is relative. It is warm for this far north, above the arctic circle. Miles and miles from home where warm would have a different implication. Days on this road to the Arctic Ocean have been hours of rain split by piercing sunlight.

Feet, then skateboard wheels, then bicycle wheels. Miles and miles and miles rolling under my bicycle wheels. And then a car. Four wheels and the allure of perpetual motion.

Road trips. The California coast. The Grand Canyon. Yosemite National Park. Sequoia National Park. Owens Valley. Joshua Tree. Death Valley. Miles and miles of concrete, asphalt, gravel, dirt. 

Not running from or to.

Just going.

The planet spins. I don’t feel it.

Daniel