Scratch Cycles

  Sitting in the dining car of an Amtrak train, finishing up a hot dinner with a cold beer and a brownie for dessert, I was somewhat surprised to find myself having a good time. The car swayed back and forth gently, like one of those fancy dinner cruise yachts that are big enough to feel stable, but small enough to remind you that the water is still a lot more powerful. A few other passengers dined nearby, but there were a few empty tables and still more people back in their cabins in no particular rush to make it in time for the 9:30pm dinner cutoff. The overwhelming thought going through my head was just how nice the experience was.  When I finished eating, I stacked all the refuse onto my plate and nudged it toward the edge of the table, then pulled out a book and sat there reading for a little while. A conductor came by to clear the table and asked if I’d be ready to have my bed set up soon.  “I think I can do it myself,” I said.  “Well,” he replied, “There’s a bit of a trick to it

I walked out from the eastern terminus of the Chicago Riverwalk on a drizzly, dreary Saturday afternoon, just a few days after St. Patrick’s Day. This is conveniently also the eastern terminus of the Chicago River, sometimes incorrectly referred to as the mouth. Since the river flows out of Lake Michigan, this is actually the source of the river, although this has not always been the c ase. The river used to be very different.  Just south of the river is DuSable Harbor. I’ve walked by this harbor many times over the years, and I was well aware that there was a harbor there, but I had never actually noticed or remembered the name. In the winter, almost no boats can dock on Lake Michigan, so DuSable Harbor was completely empty except for a few Coast Guard vessels. Between reflecting the overcast sky and shallow littoral waters, the water was a vivid, cerulean blue. It almost seemed fake, like someone had dyed it that color, but I can’t imagine why they would do that.  I’d come downtown s

Graceland is still decorated the same as it was the day Elvis died.  The foyer and front dining area are bright. White carpets cover the floor. The walls are just barely beige and textured. A piano and multiple TVs are a distressed ivory. White furniture fills out the room. It’s overwhelming on its own, but all the more shocking because of the colorful stained glass peacocks demanding focus. They welcome you into the house, and tell you that this is a place worth visiting.  Shag carpet and ornately draped fabric adorn the walls in dimly lit, darkly colored rooms toward the rear and basement of the house. They create a cool, relaxing atmosphere that invites you to stay a while, to sit, and rest, and probably have a cigarette.  You can’t stay too long, though.  The front room a pool room in the basement Tours get ushered through Graceland quickly. There’s a museum across the street where you can take your time and learn more about Elvis’s life, music career, car collection, and even chec

  I landed in Salt Lake City on Wednesday evening and called a car to get out to Park City as soon as possible. I got to the house my coworkers and I rented for the long weekend to find it freshly stocked with 96 beers and an assortment of breakfast foods, snacks, and a bottle of High West whiskey. Only 2 of the other 11 guys had arrived so far, but we figured that in order to make the most of the weekend, we had to get started right away. We cracked open the bottle of whiskey and got to drinking.  An hour and three glasses later, the three of us walked up to High West's saloon on Main St to meet up with another guy for dinner. I got my first taste of historic Park City, walking past wood sided houses that likely built in the silver rush era interspersed with modern homes designed to look like they might have been built back then.  One stuck out to me. It was in the process of being remodeled. The wood was rotting and crumbling in places. The back half of the roof was missing. It d

Heads up: If you know Brian O'Donnell, this might be tough to read. In the past three years, I’ve answered a lot of questions from friends and family about my current living situation. I can give reasonable answers to these questions, but if I’m honest they’re not always fully truthful because I struggle to explain the emotions and feelings that make those questions not even make a ton of sense to me.  By far the hardest feeling to communicate to people is that my nomadic lifestyle doesn’t feel unstable. To me, this feels like the most stability I’ve ever had. No matter what happens, or where I wake up, or what city I’m in, I have everything I need to face the day packed in a backpack or the side cases of my motorcycle. It is a smaller core to base my life around, but I think a much stronger one.  The world has inherent instability, and establishing roots in withering soil feels more like being subsumed into the chaotic unpredictability of life than an expansion of solid foundation

  Walking along the beach just outside my rental in Humacao, Puerto Rico during the evening of my first day on the island, I was struck by an overwhelming feeling that I’ve been here before. “I know this town” I thought as I passed ramshackle houses gutted by Maria years ago and the interspersed new construction on stilts.  They looked just like the small towns on Florida’s gulf coast that never really bounced back from various hurricanes over the years. The same bungalow beach bars dot the main drag just a few blocks over with locals only during the week and an influx of visitors drinking and dancing on a Friday night. The same dirty sand on the beaches, often overgrown with various vines and grasses, frequently entirely void of humans. The same surprisingly expensive seafood restaurants implying they have only the freshest seafood, but there must be more to that story because there’s salmon on the menu. There are no salmon in this part of the ocean.  I know this town. I’ve been here