I listened to the debate, and scanned the blogs and news sites.

And decided I wanted to write about something else instead, before my head implodes.

So let me tell you about my weekend instead. I went to Monterey to be a corporate spouse to TG, who had to be at a conference. My role involves a small amount of bureaucracy-chasing (dealing with the hotel, and making sure that the right people have access to the suite), hanging around and chatting with people (yeah, that’s hard for me to do), working on my laptop (yes, Powerpoint is the tool of Satan Himself). Oh, and I get to ride my motorcycle…I rode up while TG had to drive The Mighty Odyssey with all her swag in it.I’ve been too busy to ride much lately, and when I have ridden, it’s been in groups which involves about as much socializing and group-massaging as just plain riding; this was going to a solo trip up and back, with a short day ride with a couple of friends in between. All told, maybe 1,000 miles of riding over 4 days.

I was in a hurry on the way up; we had a giant lunch event we had to make; TG rolled up Interstate 5 that cuts directly north through the Central Valley, and I meandered just a little bit on less-patrolled back roads (which meant I could keep my speed up, thanks to Valentine One and the H.A.R.D. heads-up radar display for motorcyclists).

Riding long distances has a great effect on me; my mind quiets down. I can force myself to concentrate for half an hour or so – in essence force all the random thoughts that we have wandering around to sit down and be quiet for a bit – but after that it becomes difficult and the chatter comes back. But after two or three hours, it calms down and reduces to one or two clear lines of thought. And then those go away and I’m quietly in the landscape, just feeling the wind and the physics of my movement.

And there is something about California’s open areas that I find irresistible. The ranch country, with rolling golden hills and oak trees gives way to high desert scrub and then to the coastal mountains themselves. The economy changes from ranchland to oil fields to farms and then to scrub and open range. I pass the For Sale signs, and always look – an instant too late – for a flyer to tell me what I could get here for how much.

I’m trying to make miles here, so my stops are short and efficient. Gas, check the bike (tires, chain, oil), use the rest room, get something to drink and some Fig Newtons or some raw nuts and back out on the road. I’m wearing my bright yellow Aerostich armored coveralls, so people always look for a moment. Firefighter? their faces say, and then no, and sometimes they ask me and I’ll explain what the suit’s for.

People are all the same, but there’s still something different that you see in the faces of people in Taft or Avenal from what I see here in Los Angeles or in the urbane coast. It’s in the open friendly faces of the older women ahead of me in line at the gas station, and in the hard, pretty face of the teenage girl outside smoking until we showed up and she had to come in and wait on us. The world isn’t handing them opportunities in the same way I see it here in the city. But they get things for it in return; the older woman asked after the girl’s brother and wanted to know if he was better yet.

But on a basic level, riding alone is a selfish act. I’m riding through their lives and the landscape, watching and appreciating it one moment, and putting my head down and seeing how far I can get the speedometer needle to go the next or feeling the weight of the motorcycle balanced on my throttle hand as I accelerate through a corner, the toe of my boot sliding along the pavement.

And then at the end of it, there’s always a driveway leading me back into the world I live in; back to the hotel where my wife waits, or better, back to our home and children. My legs are sorest, then my shoulders and wrists. But my heart feels very good.