Tuesday, July 5. Westfield, MA to Phoenicia, NY . I woke up about nine. The sun was peeking through the heavy motel curtains. Kate was out cold, lying on her side with her mouth open and her little red lace butt sticking out of the covers. She was lying there in the bed in her underwear looking like an innocent kid who'd fallen asleep in the back of her parents' car, but the swell of her inner thigh, the way her hips jutted, her breasts made her into something far from innocent. The secret of the sexes: men wake up one day wanting something they can't understand so bad it chokes them. Women feel desire first and then grow into the power of being wanted slowly and painfully.

I walked back to the room sipping my ice coffee. My stomach was gassy from a night of trying not to fart and from the anxious possibilities of the day. Kate was still out cold. She rolled over when I came in but didn’t open her eyes or make any kind of show that she wanted to get up. I sat out on our little porch and wrote in my captain’s log, the daily journal I’d decided I needed to keep on the trip. Apart from being a search for love, land, and family, the trip was also going to be a search for the soul of America.

The motorcycle hunched alone in the corner of the lot looking forlorn. I was glad it was still there and kind of surprised. I was still in that space where I was expecting a trip-ending disaster at every moment. It was certainly possible. They say over 75% of accidents occur within a mile of home. In the wilderness the easiest time to get lost is right at the start of the day when you set out, because you don’t have any sense of distance. I knew the start of the trip was crucial and that if we didn’t get clear of it soon Kate and I weren’t going anywhere.

“So are we gonna fuck?” I said.
“Don’t you think we better make some time?” Kate said.
“So you’re going back on your word.”
“Not necessarily.”
Kate blew me a flirty little kiss and turned back to the minimart to get us water.

We were headed to Woodstock, NY. I figured we could find a cheap hotel nearby and go into the hippie village and get Kate some quality vegetarian food and me some good local beer. On the other side of the New York Thruway we hooked up with a small beautiful road, NY 28 N. It runs right up into the Catskills to Woodstock. The road got windy as the land rose. Riding curves on a bike is not an intuitive procedure.

For me the 60s are still large in my imagination, a glowing multicolored ball of good energy and unmet promise. They are the time my parents looked funky, when racial barriers were broken, when war was rejected, when Utopian communities were planned and formed, when my parents got together, when young people who grew up in far flung towns met in cities and exchanged spit, blood, and dreams. As far as I can tell the 60s ran from about 1967 to 1972. They started with the killing of JFK and ended with the oil crisis in the Mideast. They were five years of intense hopefulness and searching, when America was at the apex of its world influence, and everyone who lived through them was changed, no matter how young or old they were at the time.

We rode another hour or so before the rain front came and the grey clouds built up. We had reached the heart of the Catskills and the valley was narrow and the sky above us a small strip between the ridgelines. When the sky darkened there was very little light left at all. The rain began to fall and it was cold. I thought we were about ten miles from the campground I had picked out on the map. Woodland Valley, a pretty name and a green triangle on the map was all we had to go on. I decided to pull over at a roadside tavern to get out of the rain and to ask for clearer directions. Road maps these days show all the numbered roads in good detail. The roads that just have names don’t count anymore.

“I’m gonna run check it out,” I said.
I didn’t care how much it cost, I just wanted a room. Kate said she wouldn’t go for it unless it was less than $50. The Phoenicia Inn looks like an Old West tavern. It’s got a rickety weathered wood porch. An old-timer was sitting outside smoking a cheap cigarette. He barely turned his head as I hopped up the steps by him. The front door was loose on the hinges. Inside there was a foyer with two broken pinball machines and another door to a bar. I walked in. It was dark. Two grey-bearded guys in plaid flannel shirts were drinking beer, side by side without speaking. At the far end three women crowded each other. One was eating and the other two smoking. One of the women smoking was black and she spoke in a loud voice waving her cigarette.