Didn’t go far for this one. Found it in my archives…
I was setting up a camp and wrestling with a big tent in a stiff breeze one 105-degree West Texas August afternoon a few years back, and when I sat down to check email, a friend asked how my day was going. (This was back in the days when I still got email from friends, so a LONG time ago…)
I was having a fairly unpleasant time of it and was tired enough to be lyrical and too tired care about being brief.
“When you’re On The Road, some days your boots have wings, your pack is actually lighter than air, and your staff pulls you forward on its own. The Lady sits on your shoulder and sings love songs in your ear. You dance down the road and wish it would never end.
And there are days when your pack sits firmly on your broad square shoulders, your boots and your staff ring out against the stone, and your heart speaks to you of quests, of honor, of glorious tales to be told by the fire down ages not yet dreamed. Your cloak flows behind you like a battle flag, and you press on yet a little farther at day’s end.
And there are days when your pack is going the other way, your boots claw into the mud and won’t let go, and your staff grows roots every time it touches the ground. And there ain’t NOBODY talking to you anyway. All that’s left is to put your head down and keep your feet moving, because whatever there is at the next inn can’t be as bad as the one you just left….
I’m in there somewhere. But it might be worse. At least I am On The Road.”