“Living on the road is hard. Dying on the road is really hard. But leaving the road? Now that’s impossible”
A life on the road is always a fascinating life.
Those who truly live out there (out in the great ‘there’ that surrounds us all) necessarily have less regular routine and more regular unique experiences.
That is the blessing of the road, a blessing which some struggle with, but one I refuse to call a curse. It is a blessing; even when you are suffering – it is a blessing.
When you are lost and in pain and bleeding – it is a blessing. When you are alone and cold and scared – it is a blessing. When you don’t know how you’re going to get back to civilisation, and whether you even want too, it is a blessing. It is a blessing, now and forever, it is a blessing.
Many true road folk would rather die than retire from their nomadic purity.
To ‘go static’ in the vernacular of the road, to plant your feet down heavily and hang up your wandering boots, to turn your back on the wind and the rain and the sun and the glory and make your self still. To stop. To stop after a lifetime. To stand still and stop. That’s tough.
I travelled North Recently, up Yorkshire way.
I stopped in the rolling hills to pay a visit to a set of sited static caravans stashed away amongst the green. I was there to visit an old friend who had retired from the road, left it after being one of the most embedded road dogs I had ever met.
This guy embodied the damn road completely. He was the road. But no longer. He had decided that he wanted to try comfort, try routine. He wanted to see out his days static. And that is what he is doing.
I am envious of him in some ways, he is gaining a new perspective on life in his last days. Perhaps he is the one acting without fear by leaving the road. I suppose the true embodiment of the life I wish to lead is following your feelings and following your instincts, whether that leads you along the road or off it…