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Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Editing
Editor's Note: We were recently put in touch with one of our copy editors during his road trip West. During the trip, he continued to copyedit, but he also documented his trip with pictures and an ongoing journal. This is part of what he saw and experienced during his adventure of editing from the road.
The desert lends itself to “Mad Max”-style fantasias. I spent much of my recent three-week motorcycle trip out West trying to stay ahead of the post-apocalyptic desert wasteland mutants, who revealed themselves through weird driving—Ma and Pa Kettle-types whose interests included setting the cruise control in the passing lane.
It was 112 degrees at my first stop in Nevada. I baked in my black leather shell. By the time I got to my friend’s place in Las Vegas, I wasn’t thinking straight. I rehydrated and changed into civilian clothes.
Before we hit the Strip, I sat down to approve some rewrites. My buddy was curious about what I did for a living. I showed him the DMS system on my netbook and explained it in a nutshell, this mysterious online gig that my friends and loved ones don’t quite get.
“So someone somewhere writes an article—‘How to Shave a Pekinese in Peoria,’ for instance—and I click on it because it piques my interest, and I fix the commas.”
I left before daybreak so I could get across the desert before the ungodly heat began. I think I saw Hunter Thompson’s bats outside Barstow. In San Francisco, I caught a glimpse of the wild parrots of Telegraph Hill, which are visible only to those who are pure of heart, so I’ve got that going for me. Heading into Los Angeles during the morning rush, I got behind an outlaw Harley whose Luciferian pipes cleared a path for my polite British bike as we split lanes into downtown. The trip felt like a pilgrimage when I went to the Dennis Hopper retrospective at L.A.’s Museum of Contemporary Art. I also met up with two CE colleagues there, Rose Auerbach and Kelly Hartog, which made this strange job seem almost normal for the first time.
On my way back home through Arizona, the sky suddenly turned black. A nice long trip wouldn’t be the same without having to take shelter under an overpass, throw on your rain gear, crank Sabbath up on your earbuds and head out into the maelstrom. Riding through Utah once, I was hit with the quadruple threat of rain, sleet, hail and snow as thunder and lightning hammered the earth. The Arizona downpour wasn’t as terrifying, but it was a tense 80 miles to Flagstaff, trying to avoid all the standing water, which erases the friendly connection between tires and road. The slightest change in weight distribution or direction can win your noodle an invite to the pavement party.
After a long tour, it takes a couple of days to adjust to civilian life. As you putter about the house, you occasionally have absent thoughts of the next place you’re going to get gas, sleep, eat, stretch. But you’re home, and all that stuff is there in one neat package. The office isn’t in a noisy Starbucks or at a lonely motel desk. It’s in your dining room, where it’s been waiting patiently for you to return—along with your cat, who looks a little, yes, pissed off.
The desert lends itself to “Mad Max”-style fantasias. I spent much of my recent three-week motorcycle trip out West trying to stay ahead of the post-apocalyptic desert wasteland mutants, who revealed themselves through weird driving—Ma and Pa Kettle-types whose interests included setting the cruise control in the passing lane.
It was 112 degrees at my first stop in Nevada. I baked in my black leather shell. By the time I got to my friend’s place in Las Vegas, I wasn’t thinking straight. I rehydrated and changed into civilian clothes.
Before we hit the Strip, I sat down to approve some rewrites. My buddy was curious about what I did for a living. I showed him the DMS system on my netbook and explained it in a nutshell, this mysterious online gig that my friends and loved ones don’t quite get.
“So someone somewhere writes an article—‘How to Shave a Pekinese in Peoria,’ for instance—and I click on it because it piques my interest, and I fix the commas.”
I left before daybreak so I could get across the desert before the ungodly heat began. I think I saw Hunter Thompson’s bats outside Barstow. In San Francisco, I caught a glimpse of the wild parrots of Telegraph Hill, which are visible only to those who are pure of heart, so I’ve got that going for me. Heading into Los Angeles during the morning rush, I got behind an outlaw Harley whose Luciferian pipes cleared a path for my polite British bike as we split lanes into downtown. The trip felt like a pilgrimage when I went to the Dennis Hopper retrospective at L.A.’s Museum of Contemporary Art. I also met up with two CE colleagues there, Rose Auerbach and Kelly Hartog, which made this strange job seem almost normal for the first time.
On my way back home through Arizona, the sky suddenly turned black. A nice long trip wouldn’t be the same without having to take shelter under an overpass, throw on your rain gear, crank Sabbath up on your earbuds and head out into the maelstrom. Riding through Utah once, I was hit with the quadruple threat of rain, sleet, hail and snow as thunder and lightning hammered the earth. The Arizona downpour wasn’t as terrifying, but it was a tense 80 miles to Flagstaff, trying to avoid all the standing water, which erases the friendly connection between tires and road. The slightest change in weight distribution or direction can win your noodle an invite to the pavement party.
After a long tour, it takes a couple of days to adjust to civilian life. As you putter about the house, you occasionally have absent thoughts of the next place you’re going to get gas, sleep, eat, stretch. But you’re home, and all that stuff is there in one neat package. The office isn’t in a noisy Starbucks or at a lonely motel desk. It’s in your dining room, where it’s been waiting patiently for you to return—along with your cat, who looks a little, yes, pissed off.
MeghannLeigh
Aug 21, 7:57 AM
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DeborahH
Aug 23, 9:06 PM
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NicoleJLeBoeuf
Aug 26, 11:56 AM
I wonder whether DS would like to hear about writing articles on an Amtrak train? Usually I take a few assignments and a few Scrapbooked tabs of research when I go. One memorable time I borrowed my husband's smartphone to look up a few more datapoints from my bunk in the sleeper car.
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NicoleJLeBoeuf
Aug 26, 12:06 PM
It is absolutely not just you. You may be surprised how many male authors do this. (I'm starting to notice it when rereading Robert Moss's books about dreams, for instance.) You probably didn't even do it on purpose; it's just so pervasive that it has become The Way We Talk About Women.
If it's not relevant, and if you wouldn't refer to a man that way, please don't do it to talk about women.
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J. C. Lauzon
Aug 27, 8:47 AM
The wind farm in my photo is outside Palm Springs, which is in an incredibly windy valley that can be difficult to ride through.
I don't recommend traveling in or especially riding in 100+ temps. It really affects your thought processes. The only other time I was actually scared while riding was the time I rode home from a job on freshly fallen snow in the middle of the night. Yikies!
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Lisbeth
Sep 1, 10:38 PM
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DanL
Sep 4, 3:46 PM
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