Sunday morning.
Up before the dawn.
Harley.
North.
The air was cold.
Sun was warm.
Desert smelled of rain. The way only the desert can.
Creosote, wet dirt, clean air. Nothing else on earth smells like it.
AZ 89A climbs over Mingus Mountain on switchbacks.
This is where the bike lives.
Roll the throttle.
Jerome hangs on the side of the mountain.
I sat there a minute with the engine ticking and thought about a man I will never meet.
A hundred years ago.
A man came over this rise on horseback.
Same mountain.
Chasing copper, work, or a fresh start? B
Nobody crossed that mountain for fun.
He could have stayed where he was.
He came anyway.
I understand that man.
I’ve had to start over with nothing and climb back up.
A lot has changed since he came.
The horse became a Harley.
The dirt track became pavement.
The mine closed, the boom ended, and the town became something else.
But the reason men make the climb hasn’t changed at all.
Men still go looking for purpose by moving toward something harder than staying put.
The mountain doesn’t care who you are.
It only asks if you’re ready to climb.
—B