Great trip

It was somewhere along Interstate 5 in northern Oregon when I took a deep, relaxing, meditative breath.
I glanced at my odometer. My home was more than 300 miles north and it had taken me that long before the cares and troubles of my day to day life slid off my shoulders and onto the blacktop flying just beneath my boots.
Last month, I decided I might never have another chance to take a leisurely bike ride south. At the moment, I am out of work, laid off from my old job in March.
Despite several applications, a few tests, and one background interview, I have yet to land a job. Add to that the obligations of middle age, when children still need our time and parents increasingly do as well, and I could feel myself begin to bend beneath the strain.
I asked my wife whether she could spare me for a while if I took a road trip south. At first, she wasn't thrilled, but as my angst became more acute, she fell wholeheartedly behind the idea.
I think she needed a break from me as much as I needed a break from real life.
And so the past few weeks, I did my best to prepare my motorcycle for the first road trip I've taken in more than 20 years. Yeah, I think I was 22 when I hopped on another Suzuki I once owned, though that time I drove from Los Angeles to the Oregon border, then turned right around and went home.
Anyway, I rebuilt my carburetors, installed new intake boots on my bike and my airbox, checked my wiring, and bought a few emergency supplies, like a tire repair kit.
I did a few last minute repairs around the house and then on Monday morning (not Sunday, as I had planned), I hopped onto my bike and just drove.
That first day was tough on my body. I'm not used to being on a bike for so long. I drove from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m., with no break longer than 10 minutes, enough to gas up or stretch my legs at a rest stop.
By the way, Oregon rest stops are absolutely awesome. They're as beautiful as the best city parks and a welcome respite for a traveler.
I didn't meet many friendly bikers the first day, mostly running into Harley Davidson riders, who rarely responded to my friendly waves.
By 5 p.m., I was driving into a sky full of thick, fat, gray clouds. A blue-white lightening bolt flashed just a few miles down the road from me at one point. Then it began to rain.
The lightening was enough to convince me to bag my original plan of camping for the night and I decided to take a room at a motel. I happened to pass one in Grants Pass, Ore., just as the rain began, so taking chance as my guide, I stopped there.
The motel owner was pleasant, but the motel itself was a rather sad little affair. An abandoned car sat right outside my room. This car had been there so long, spiders had spun their webs on the tires!
The place was empty when I checked in, except for one old woman who briefly pulled her curtains aside to glare at me as I parked my bike, then immediately flung them shut when she caught me watching her in return.
Later, about three other rooms were filled that night. My room was missing the secondary latch that most motel room doors have, though the guide book in the room urged me to use this missing device. The screw holes where it had been were still there, it was simply the lock that was missing.
I barricaded my door with a table and chair.
The sun had been up about an hour when I packed my bike and headed out of Grants Pass. It was a beautiful, sunny morning and turned out to be a fantastic, second-day on my trip.