When I got home, everyone said the same thing: You must’ve had the time of your life! And yes, I did. But the tone in their voice tells me they picture my experience through the lens of leisure. No one imagines the reality: a woman on a motorcycle, sweating through her gear, scanning mirrors, reading crosswinds, and burning 175 to 200 calories an hour just to stay upright—about the same as an hour of circuit training, rowing, or a moderate hike in the woods. It looks fun—and it is fun—but it’s also work: physical, mental, emotional. The road asks something of me every minute. I’m not complaining; I love the demand. To the world it’s an escape. To me, it’s deep engagement. There’s a gender dynamic at play, too. When women go away—especially middle-aged women (and older)—we’re assumed to be taking a (likely self-indulgent) break. A break that isn’t entirely copacetic. People wonder whether Matt and Tristan will eat properly, and don’t I feel a little guilty? If Matt went fly-fishing in Montana for a couple of weeks, no one would wonder whether I’d be malnourished when he got back. Truth is, both Matt and Tristan are good cooks and know how to sort colors from darks and whites in the laundry room. I do not criticize the house when I return, and they don’t apologize—they have nothing to apologize for. Life goes on, and I’ll eventually find the drawer where that top ended up after coming out of the dishwasher. As I always do after a long trip, I’d scheduled a post-trip service appointment for my bike and timed my dealership arrival to miss the worst of rush hour. This allows me to avoid an extra trip to the dealership, since it’s on my way to the condo. I planned to ride-share home with my detachable luggage but Matt insisted on picking me up—which was lovely in theory, but the route from his office to the dealership is one of the city’s busiest. Sometimes we can’t do right by someone else without doing wrong by ourselves. He was late in picking me up, but I gave him grace—which, in fairness, was easy; my system always needs a few days to relearn how to belong inside a shared life, and I suspect his system feels the same. Once we pulled into the parking garage of our condo, I went on autopilot, offloading my bags and gear onto a shopping cart while Matt parked. My across-the-hall neighbor, Judy, joined us in the elevator and said how happy everyone would be to know I was home safe and sound. “Did you help your parents find a new place?” I laughed. “Long story, but the short answer is no.” The elevator stopped at our floor. “Let me catch up with myself and I’ll tell you all about it.” Judy, ever the patient one, smiled. “I’ll be right here when the time is right.” I never expected to love multifamily living, but my floormates are like sorority sisters—pitching in with an extra COVID test or a referral to a good electrician whenever the need arises. As a writer and editor, I’m very good at hunkering down, and I think I’d lose my social skills entirely if I lived in a single-family house where it would be so easy to disappear. Matt opened the door wide as I rolled the cart into the foyer. I called out,“Hey, Lovie—I’m home.” Tristan was up from the couch before I could set the brake, all grown man now but still calling me Mama. He wrapped me in his signature bear hug and held it long enough to let me know he meant it. Hard to believe I let him live to adulthood—I wouldn’t have guessed it during the tantrum years. “Let me take that back down for you,” he said, nodding toward the cart. Matt said, “I’ve got it. I know you want to check on your plants.” Matt and Tristan are gracious in the re-entry, not clingy. We’ve learned this rhythm over fifteen years—letting one another come and go. The living room, all glass and light, opens onto a balcony, where ferns, annuals and succulents spill over the railing. At first it was my garden, my place to settle when the day’s noise got too loud. But somewhere along the way it became Tristan’s too. When I travel, he keeps it alive—watering, pruning, sending me photos so we can revel in our cultivated beauty. We experienced some flora casualties in earlier trips, but I give him credit for staying the course. He had texted a picture just last week, so I wasn’t surprised to see that the giant taro—Colocasia gigantea—had thrown up three new “flowers,” the kind that look like peace lilies only supersized. We bent close to study the spadix, and a tiny anole darted between the leaves. “Ahhh,” we said in harmony. We live in a no-pet building, so we take our animal joys where we can find them. Anoles, for one. After I hauled my cargo into the proper rooms and tossed my clothes in the laundry hamper, I finally took that long-awaited shower with my own soaps and conditioner. The smell of homecoming. Years ago I decided hotel amenities were “good enough” for “helmet hair” and stopped packing my own, but standing there under familiar water pressure, I felt the small luxury of being known by my own things again. On the road, I never have to clean a tub or fold a towel—just rinse the bugs off my visor and go. Home has its comforts, but the road gives me one priceless thing: freedom from daily housekeeping. Matt and I found our way back as a couple and even slipped away for a few quiet beach days before the next family chapter began—his shark’s-tooth hunts and surf casting, my naps and wandering, both of us in sync in our own ways. Out in the world, I choose to be the unseen observer; back home, I’m a main character. In that role, I’ve worked to be less the glue that holds us together than the strand of raffia that keeps us aligned—a loose tie that allows for movement and growth without forcing the plant upright. There’s a difference between connection and control, between love as presence and love as management. These days, I practice the quieter art of letting go with love, as the saying goes. Back in Arizona, Dad was still prepping for the wedding trip east. He and Mom were sure they’d make the drive, and I believed them—mostly. We texted a few times about routes and hotel chains, and I realized I’d need to play more of a daily, on-call role once they hit the road. But first, Dad needed tech support. I didn’t want him pulling over every twenty miles to double-check the road atlas and make sure he hadn’t missed a turn. JJ and I came up with a plan. I’d text Dad a Google Map each evening with the next day’s turn directions. We looped in Bebe, who has taken a few road trips with them in a tech support role. She got him practicing with the app and reassured him: yes, the minivan’s screen would sync with his phone even without cell service, and no, he didn’t need to print out MapQuest directions “just in case.” Stagecoach was still in. Still bright-eyed. Still ready. And for now, it was the next generation carrying him forward. Once Matt and I got home from the seashore, we ate at Carter’s restaurant, a French café where he’s the lead bartender. The moment we walked in, the staff called out their greetings. The hostess smiled wide and said, “Welcome back, Mrs. Rich! How was your trip?” I hadn’t realized they’d been following the journey all along—Carter had been carrying pieces of my story into his world, and I was touched to find traces of it waiting for me there. He spotted us from behind the bar and broke into a grin. “Mom! That tan is gorgeous!” he said, coming around to give me a hug that smelled faintly of citrus peel; his cheek tasted of salt. “That’s Carter’s parents,” one of the bar patrons whispered, noting our status as minor local celebrities. For a second I saw myself through their eyes—sun-touched, self-possessed, and wholly at ease in my son’s world. The truth is, when Carter was in high school, I used to wonder what the other parents thought of us. We weren… Get full access to Narrative Mileage with Tamela Rich at tamelarich.substack.com/subscribe
