Rain clouds whispered my name, and I followed them home. It’s not enough to call it wanderlust–it was more primal–and it wasn’t a search. It was that jumping impulse, that abandon which has us running into the fog until we can’t see where we came from. Twenty miles into my trip I realized there was no option of return. I had just ducked into a gas station for shelter from an ambush downpour and tossed my useless map into the trash. There I was: too far out to return, only a vague idea of a suitable route, and no assurance that back roads could shepherd me safely north.

Trepidation hit me like an echo, already gone when recognized. Its hollow reverberations pounded out the rhythm to my wanderer’s hymn. I slid back on the saddle and danced to invoke good fortune–left, right, left–my cadence became religion.

Then came a moment, a brief silence. I was not riding, I just was, and the world stood still. Just completely still. Silence gave way to the soft pattering of rain, and time reached out for me; then drizzle birthed a tempest, and again came that minute bondage.

But I tasted the nectar.