Jimmy Frizzell: On The Edge

Originally Published In The September 2016 Issue Of Cycle Source Magazine

Tourism: The uncontrollable urge to rediscover a watered down stereotypical version of the ideal situation filtered through the minds of money grabbing locals dressed in perfectly pleated pants, tourism, just don’t do it. I lead a charmed life filled with solidified hallow ideologies based on the rock solid foundations of a pure hatred of large mindless gatherings of human waste and the long monotonous lines that coincide with their splendor. I’m motivated to take a lesser path. I have no understanding of the mind-set that contributes to the safety of social tourist traps designed to numb the mind long enough to bleed the wallet dry. Some may say it’s all in the name of relaxation but I call it bullshit. I went to Disney World once, so I’m pretty sure the traumatizing experience makes me a f#@king expert theorist on the effects of smoking Prozac through a Rohypnol incased pipe. It’s a god damn nightmare sure to lead a sane man to the clock tower faster then a sugar fiending diabetic kid can snort a pack of Smarties. Yet still the unconscious fanny packed army of the drooling American mainstream feeds into these plastic ideological false hoods in search of experience while only being spoon fed a soilient green social experiment.

Every year as the cob webs shake free from the bowels of winter slumber the uncontrollable desire to disappear takes a strangle hold on my soul. The road opens and whispers in my direction, and if for only for a few days I must in some way heed to its call. The beginning of any trip doesn’t seem to truly begin until you have escaped your comfort zone and the pavement that roles beneath your wheels isn’t as familiar as the ones that passed only a few short hours ago. Then without a true definitive moment to place your finger, you realize…. you’re in it. Somewhere far off the well traveled highway the space between the lines drones into a happy cadence. The open road introduces you to yourself and the chaos that’s been so overpowering inside your head is instantly silenced. The destination is only a place to rest your head, it’s the time spent between the stops that allows you to relax and rediscover adventure. The mental reset is sometimes all you may need. But why wouldn’t I spend it hurdling head first into the garbled masses of the family entertainment gladiator wasteland harboring the ultimate satisfaction wrapped into discounted premium packages. The skull swelling anticipation of missing out on every last second of condensed ocular stimulation is enough to make me regurgitate in my own freshly brushed pie hole. Has this become the overly processed fast food version of stress release and dose it in fact wield the same mental nutritional value, masking stress for a menial amount of time, until the soul just f#@ kin gives up. No one can.

No one can understand the medicinal value of getting lost in your own head. The true power of two wheels doesn’t fully rear its ugly head until the seat numbs your ass and the scenery is almost alien. Once you get past the safety of your surroundings and fall victim of the rhythm exploding around you the important things begin to surface in a way that’s completely organic and inviting. To put it simply, and in a not so flower child frame of mind… Life stops screaming in your ear and pissing down your leg long enough to give you a chance to reorganize your existence in a fashion that allows you to stop being a volatile mental disease and start becoming a valued piece of crap once again. I don’t “tourist”, I can’t stand it, and luckily I was poor enough to come across this revelation a long time ago. All you need is a direction, gas money, and a selective ignorance to the word “no”. Mountains of yuppie pestilent subhuman asshats are clamoring toward the acid laced Koolaid already, so you need not apply. Abandoning adventure for a guaranteed vanilla flavored experience quarantined from reality and the sting of the unexpected, these drones of a smartphone narrated lifestyle will remain malnourished and mentally inept surviving on the promises of anonymous demi gods. I started this season as I plan on ending it, collecting miles. I find great luxury in Podunk gas stations void of cell service and name brand refreshments where the art of conversation is all but lost. I’d love to experience the roads of distant lands if time and money would someday allow, but luckily I will never make a dent in the thousands upon thousands of miles I have access to right from my own driveway. The point is (if I was so bold as to say that I may in fact have a point) there is nothing to be gained from the definitive tourist trap, it depreciates the spirit of exploration. For me the capability of controlling and participating in the experiences all ready unintentionally set in motion around me is the true adventure…now find it.

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