I rode through busy, choked city streets with stores blasting American music, flashing lights and hurried people. I rode though small villages with peppers hung or set out to dry, and dogs tied to small stakes that watched me with ears laid back, and slow moving farmers that didn’t seem to see me or care about anything outside their plants, and ancient cars parked with grass coming up though the grills. I rode up to the edge of the mountain and saw posh houses with Lamborghinis and perfect lawns and art hung strategically indoors in places where neighbors could see though pristine windows. I saw factories and workers welding, the flash and sparks creating heavenly auras about their heads. I saw cows in huge sheds, I saw gazebos out in the endless fields of rice, I saw stone bridges and mopeds and huge white birds and hundreds of dragonflies. When you really ride and become part of the road, these things are yours. The people and the peppers and the farmer’s dogs and the Lamborghinis and the mountains and streams all belong to me, and I have no want for any of it because they’re all mine, and everything is beautiful and loved. If it storms, its my storm, and if the sun shines down, the light is mine too. I lose all desire for anything when I ride, no hopes or aspirations or wants or lusts. If I’m hungry, that hunger is mine and it’s beautiful and it’s part of the road too. The road never judges me or tells me I’m not powerful or beautiful or smart enough. There are no bills, or lost friendships, or cars to maintain, or debts. I am the welder in the factory and the farmer in the field. I’m the man cleaning windows and the man who pays other men to clean his windows. I am the underpaid salesmen in the store windows, and I’m the writing of the glass walls of those dark establishments. I’m the child on his blue bicycle and I’m his worried mother with a cheap plastic camera. I’m the birds and the sky and the bugs and I’m none of these things. I am beholden to nothing on the road, but all of it remains mine.