I gazed at the blur of the Minnesota pavement when the wind was
strong and at my tail. I pondered an encounter with a young,
six-pack-carrying Native American who, when I mentioned the spirit
of South Dakota's land, told me he had sold his for a bundle
of cash. I contemplated an encounter with a Vietnam veteran
in Rapid City who said his death was near and whose shirt read,
"AGENT ORANGE KILLS." I meditated on the meaning of a bumper
sticker in Wyoming that read, "MY OTHER CAR IS A HORSE."
I reflected on Nuna's response when I encouraged her to help pull
the rig. The nearly full-grown husky had sat down and scratched
her ear.
The primary focus of the bike trip meditations, though, had been on my
years with Rama. I had meditated, for instance, on the LSD trips.
During the intense rush of the drug, my acquired knowledge of myself
and of the world around me peeled away like layers of an onion.
It was as if I saw the world through the eyes of a child. Hours later,
as the effects of the acid began to wear off, it was as if I saw
the world through the eyes of a young man whose self-confidence had not
yet been shaken. Rama, who observed me during each trip, mostly let
me re-form the layers which made up "me" on my own.
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