Go West Young Man!

32 Days and 5,536 Miles On My Vintage Motorcycle

Justin's teeth hurt. Mine didn't because I brushed them the night before. He mistook my good hygene as an aversion to the nomadic roads and living beyond the humming cities. I didn't have any hard learned experience left to offer him, you have to sort that out for yourself. He complained less about my personal grooming after that, although our riding styles remained a topic of contention.

Still in Mariposa, we ate breakfast and talked. This morning I saw my first true doppelganger. The man seated behind Justin looked so much like my grandpa that I would have confidently sat at his table if I had walked into this restaurant back home. Out of Mariposa we climbed highway 140 deeper into the Sierra Nevada. Just within the park boundry of Yosemite I pulled aside, climbed down to a beach of pummeled granite and gulped a handful of the Merced River. If there's anything more pure I haven't tasted it.


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