In a Small Town

A colleague, Evelyn Johnson, of the Black Studies Program, has sent us two letters. In the first, dated August 8, she said, "Dear Friends of Jay Walker: Exactly three months ago the enclosed letter was written by Jay, and left with me in a sealed envelope, in the hopes that it would never have to be sent out. Abiding by his wishes I have the reluctant job of sending you the sad news of his death. The details are scarce. We only know that on August 7 in the small town of Orestias, Greece, near the Turkish border, Jay met his death on the motorcycle he loved."

Jay Walker, who was both professor of English and professor of black studies, started out at the end of classes in June on a motorcycle journey, alone, around the world. Here is the letter he left with Evelyn Johnson:

This letter will be going to so many people: family, friends, colleagues, lovers, bar-buddies and bike-buddies, that I scarcely know how to address it. But the fact that it is going out at all means that I have bought the farm somewhere, trying to ride my motorcycle from Hanover, New Hampshire, to East Thetford, Vermont, the long way - via the Khyber Pass and the Singapore Strait.

My dear friend and secretary, Evelyn Johnson, of whom I've asked too many favors in the past, will do me, I'm sure, one last one by writing what she knows of what happened (which will probably, as usual, be more than I do) and enclosing it as a cover letter to this, so it remains only for me to send you a note of farewell.

I can't possibly imagine that, my demise will signal the fall of empires or cause universal mourning in the streets (it's enough to hope that there will not be rejoicing), but those of you who receive this will possibly feel some sorrow at the news, and so I'd like to ask you to shed no tears.

First, like Piaf, Je ne regrette rien. I was aware, at every moment of planning it, that the trip involved dangers. Apart from the political hot-spots - Eastern Iran, Afghanistan, the Malaysia/Thailand frontier - a projected 31,000 miles on two wheels involves its own perils. It was a danger that I accepted gladly. I intend to take every reasonable precaution, but the only absolute precaution would lie in not going, as the only safety from death lies in not having lived. There never was any real choice. The answer was "Do it!"; I did it, and I'm glad.

Second, it's not a bad way to go. The projected trip involves four of the things which have given me the greatest joy: lecturing, touring, biking, and meeting old and new friends. That means that at any given point along the way I will be happy both in the joy of a past encounter and in looking forward to another. To check out between the recent memory of one pleasure and the certain anticipation of the next seems to me as good a death as any - with the possible exception of succumbing at the age of 114 to over-vigorous love-making, which scarcely seems in the cards.

And finally, I will take with me the memory of many people: all of you whose names I've typed onto these address labels and perhaps twice that many more whom for one reason or another I can't identify or reach. Each of you in his own way has given me something valuable and something beautiful, and because one rarely says "thank you" in time, I'll say it now. Say a prayer for me if that's your bent, but also remember some outrageously good time we had together and, for me, smile at a stranger.

That's about it. A few days ago I ran across, or again ran across, a bit of Housman verse. This time it rang bells, and I'd like to leave it with you:

Now hollow fires burn out to black,And lights are guttering low:

Square your shoulders, lift your pack,And leave your friends and go.

Oh never fear, man, naught's to dread.Look not left nor right:

In all the endless road you treadThere's nothing but the night.

Good night, and happy roads.