I woke up in 1770, and drove for 7 hours to get back to Brisbane, trying to beat the rainstorm forecasted for the next few days. It was ... exhausting, but, fortunately, mostly uneventful - except at the end.
Around 150 kilometers out, one of the bolts on the luggage crates sheared.
Right? 6 millimeters of solid stainless steel, crack.
Now, if I were NASA, I'd drop everything and replace all the bolts. One failure means they're ALL bad better make sure that's absolutely not the case. Fortunately, I'm not NASA - so I had some maneuvering room. I've been carrying my tools & spare bolts with me throughout this ride. I removed the old bolt after some hammering and swearing, then inserted the new. (While repairing it, I got a total of 4 offers from 3 outback-looking dudes and 1 outback-looking lady to "take 'er to the shop, we'll fix you up!" in that hour at the gas station. So rad.)
I started to close the rest of the distance between myself and Brisbane - until, 100 kilometers out, disaster.
Traffic was at a complete standstill! It was hot as hell! I was irritated after 6 hours of riding and ready with all the force of a Hobbit who'd gone without breakfast for food.
It'd been minutes. Minutes! Not an inch! What! God it smells like exhaust and stink and - you know, nope, I'm done. I sit up, start Stylo's engine, and pull over to the shoulder, driving along at a steady clip of 30 km/h beside the broad freeway.
I became aware of a steady rumble, different from the buzz of Stylo. Stylo's a quiet bike, so that must mean- I check the mirrors. Sure enough, there's a leather jacket-wielding lady on a motorbike behind me. And one behind her. Followed by three others. I was leading a motorcycle gang. Oh my.
We continued on the shoulder for maybe 15 kilometers, before the shoulder disappeared due to construction. By then, traffic had started moving again, albeit slowly - and the small gang gradually dispersed into traffic, though the lady on the bike stuck with me nearly all the way to Brisbane.
She gave me a wave as we took separate exits.
I'm not sure if I'm ever going to achieve that level of cool-by-association again.
And ... I'm back in Brisbane. Stylo's up on the marketplace. Cleaned up and looking amazing.
I don't tend to get attached to a lot of material objects, but cars and motorbikes are mechanically complex enough that they easily gain personalities - especially old ones that you grow to know.
Bye, Stylo.
Please go read Babel by R.F. Kuang.
Today, I've officially survived 22 of Earth's orbital periods around the sun.
8035 days + 12 hours. 694,267,200 seconds. Sol has completed $9.6*10^{-6}$ percent of a complete revolution around the Milky Way in this time.
I still don't, even after so much time, know what I'm supposed to do around here on Earth. What truths there are - words to speak, who to be, people to love and how to balance confidence with arrogance and humility with modesty.
There are days that I feel anxious and horrible. Days that are filled with music and wonder. Days that pass and seem not to exist at all; turnings of Earth, like an empty record, that skip a track.
Yet ...
You are a ship; a vessel designed for the seas, sleek and pointy and blunt and awkward and graceful all at once.
You are hurtling across the ocean, forever propelled by the winds of purpose and your own momentum.
There are days where the winds falter.
Days where your compass is invisible in the darkness, so you go in circles.
Days where you feel surrounded by impenetrable fog, and despair.
Yet, the ocean is vast. To get to where you seek, you must push on. You will go off course and lose your way; but the measure of the distance you have travelled always is never only a straight line.
I intend to reach that distant horizon.
If love is the answer.
