Surviving the red-sand vanishing-point tracks and boastful blue skies of the Australian outback, John Mee tucked a gleaming white Simon Anderson 6'5" Indo gun underarm, and boarded flight GA16 one-way to Adventure. From that day, he stared down the thundering boneyards of a boiling Sunset Beach reef from atop twenty-foot swells. He criss-crossed, in a brown two-litre fuel-injected 1979 kombi, the slate-grey concrete ribbons of American heartland, and fringes. He defeated, in a marble-walled mall beside the raw open sewers of Surabaya-Indonesia, all-comers to that late-but-great arcade game: Street Fighter II.
Yet John yearns, to ride a tyke Jap motorbike, through melodious jungles of Laotian tribesmen, into whistling high solaces of white-tipped sentinals flecked with Himalayan porters, amidst blaring color bazaars of Iranian merchants, and to languish awhile, in the teeming town squares and moldy stone ruins of patronising pommy peasants, or mustachioed Bavarian burgomeisters, or petite, precocious princesses of Paris.
But today? In the red-eyed vanishing point of a 10–15 hour affront to the silent blue-grey indifference of an Apple Eyemack? His yesterdays and tomorrows blend. Blur. Patient, slumbering Adventure stirs. Stretches. Yawns. Waiting. Next chance.