Two-Wheeled Adventures, Chapter One, 1992 – 2003


 

The book Greenlights by Matthew McConaughey describes his wanderings after his movie stardom to find validation and understanding of the accolades and celebrity suddenly thrust upon him following his hit movie “A Time for Killing.” He was struggling with his newly anointed fame. There is certainly nothing in the celebrity category that links me to Matthew McConaughey, but it was the experiences he discovered during his travels with which I identified.

I started taking several weeks-long motorcycle trips 30-years ago. I didn’t become a motorcyclist until I was nearly 50 years old, but the thrill of riding hit me hard. Realizing it was a dangerous hobby, I enrolled in a couple rider safety courses to develop cautious riding skills.

Three of my early long-distance rides were with my youngest son, Brian, sitting behind me. The three trips Brian and I made included Hilton Head as a destination the first year, New Orleans the second year, and Pensacola, Florida on our third year. As a former Navy pilot, I hoped the Marine at the gate in Pensacola wouldn’t recognize the motorcycle helmet I wore was my former Navy flight helmet which I had forgotten to turn in when I was separated from the Navy.

The trip Brian and I took the second year to New Orleans was not only cool but it rained nearly every day during the week. However, that riding challenge became a featured article in Honda’s August, 1989, Wing World Magazine.

My wife, Michele, also accompanied me on three of the earlier rides. In motorcycling vernacular, we two-up’d the Rocky Mountains on one trip, explored Maine on another, and then one September did a leaf-looking ride through Massachusetts, Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine, and Rhode Island. Those trips sometimes involved first towing the motorcycle on a trailer to some distant starting point before mounting up to ride. A couple times Michele flew commercially to meet me, like she did to Halifax, Nova Scotia, for a week’s ride through the Land of Evangeline and another time flying to Denver prior to our Colorado tour.

                                                                                            1992

The 1992 New England ride Michele and I made in the fall was a colorful extravaganza. The roadways were awash by nature’s paint brush dipped in hues of orange, yellow, and gold. We weren’t the only ones enjoying those scenes however and finding motel accommodations in New England in September was a challenge. Our riding apparel during those crisp autumn days was leather jackets, pants, and boots. However, when taking a break for refreshment or a stretch, Michele would put on a distinctive black and white checkered hat. More than once, even though our stops might have been separated by a couple hundred miles, we heard a fellow tourist exclaim, “Hey, there’s that checkered hat lady again.”

When the sun goes down on fall evenings in New England, temperatures cool rapidly. The back seat on a Honda Goldwing puts the co-rider slightly higher than the driver. Consequently, that rider gets a face full of windblast over the windshield. Our ride to Boothbay Harbor, Maine, took us longer than expected and it got cold. After arrival at the tourist cabin that night, I was making my second trip to unload luggage when I noticed a large lump in the bed under all the blankets. It was Michele who hadn’t bothered to take off leather jacket, pants, or boots. Kinda cool, were you, Sweetie?

When riding solo on my cross-county motorcycling adventures, I take a tent and accessories to enjoy the camping experience. Some of my favorite memories are nights around a campfire recording the day’s sights on my laptop and then the delight of crawling into my heavenly cozy, down sleeping bag. Even with nothing more than an inch of ground pad separating me from terra firma, I had the most restful nights in memory.

                                                                                            2003

When rain was forecast, rather than pack up a wet tent in the morning, I’d opt out for a motel. That was the case in 2003 when riding across Oklahoma. With nighttime showers predicted, I found a motel in Miami, Oklahoma. It was June 6, anniversary of the Normandy landings during World War II. Every D-Day 3,000 people gather in Miami to stage a paint ball war to celebrate. Cars and trucks were painted in military colors. All participants, including women and children were dressed in camo fighting attire. I could just imagine the briefing between parents and their seven-year-olds. “Now, Junior, this is how we’re going the sneak up on the enemy and kill them.” Only in America.

Riding a motorcycle is a sensory experience. You feel the power between your legs, the warmth of the sun upon your face, and the wind across your cheek. You smell the new wood of the pallet truck that just passed, the earth of a newly plowed field, and the dung of the pig farm. On a motorcycle you are part of the scene. It’s like you are riding into the screen of an IMAX theater with vivid scenes flashing by on either side. In a car you are outside looking in, or should I say inside looking out. In a car I have driven for miles seeing and remembering nothing except that ribbon of highway in front of me.

I decided to stop for fuel in Eric, Oklahoma on my 2003 ride. My friend Winston had mentioned Eric was his boyhood home. It had warmed up that day, so prior to filling my gas tank I took off my leather jacket and laid it across the back of the bike. Five minutes after returning to the highway, I remembered the jacket but was unable to turn around to see if it was still there. I pulled to the side of the highway with fingers crossed that it was still on the back of the bike. The jacket was gone. Just then a state trooper with lights flashing came screeching to a stop behind me. What had I done? Had I missed seeing a stop sign when leaving the gas station? Did I run through a radar trap?

The trooper approached, “Lose something did you?” He had been parked by the gas station when I pulled out and saw the jacket fly off. “Incidentally,” he said, “I had to go 100 mph to catch you. You ride safe now, ya hear.”

The mountain roads in Colorado often paralleled winding riverbeds. Consequently, I found miles of hairpin, switchback curves and loved it. With Placido Domingo singing Granada on my tape player, I swept through those curves, first to the right then to the left with sparks flying off my foot pegs when the lean exceeded 45 degrees. It brings a smile to my face just remembering.

A jeep tour through the red rock terrane of Sedona, Arizona was memorable. I sat up front with the driver, Pecos. A refined couple from Atlanta sat in back. That jeep went places I thought defied gravity. Was that ledge near vertical? Miss Scarlet from Atlanta was screaming. “Oh my God! Oh my God!” With a mischievous smile, Pecos leaned over and said, “Thank goodness for Depends, eh?”

That afternoon, I wondered where the best place would be at sunset to take pictures of the red rocks, buttes, and cliffs. I asked a park ranger and he whispered in my ear to let me know a local secret, “Airport Road overlooking the valley.” Okay, I won’t tell a soul.

At 5:00 that afternoon, there must have been a thousand people on Airport Road toting their disposable cameras. Hmmm, the secret must have leaked out.

I hiked the Bright Angel Trail in the Grand Canyon. I didn’t go deep. I figured 45-minutes down would probably require a two-hour hike back up. I was part of a scraggly line of a dozen or so other hikers, all I guessed to be tenderfoot outdoorsmen judging by the clothes they wore. Shower shoes, really?

Not much conversation going down, but once we turned, the every-five-minute rest stops provided opportunities to visit.

Jonathan, a 50-year-old timid soul in Bermuda shorts and black socks, introduced himself by immediately telling me he had lost his job last year, his father died, and he inherited his father’s new Cadillac. He was driving that car in search of meaning for all his misfortune. I noticed he shared that story with everyone over the next two hours.

Ed, an exhausted grandfather, was on this hike with his eight-year-old grandson. The grandson had run ahead of everyone going down the trail and was now half a mile ahead heading back up. Ed said, “When I catch that kid, I’m going to kill him.”

Margaret was sitting on a rock on one side of the trail. Her husband George, drenched in sweat and red faced, was on a rock on the other side. Margaret said, “George wanted to do this. Said it would be fun. I said okay, but next year it’s Hawaii … by God!”

Passing through the Four Corners, a point at which the states of Arizona, Utah, New Mexico, and Colorado meet, I found myself dealing with 50-mile-per-hour winds. Head-on or directly behind wasn’t so bad but cross winds required a significant lean to maintain my position on the road. But that wasn’t unmanageable until I passed a semi. Semis create their own turbulence and when that is mixed with gale force winds I was really working to stay out of the ditches.

Finally, seeing a roadside café, I decided I needed a break. Maybe those winds would start to abate. The only other patrons were three good ol boys in their cowboy hats and big belt buckles. Thirty minutes later I felt ready to do battle with Maria once again. The wind had not died down unfortunately and perhaps was even stronger.

When parking the motorcycle, I had put it on its side stand, leaning away from the direction of the wind. In order to get it upright I needed to heft it up against the wind … and I couldn’t do it. Normally this is an easy maneuver of just standing upright. And although I had the strength to heave it up, my concern was heaving too much and having it fall over on the opposite side. I tried several times without success.

Finally, I reentered the café and with much embarrassment asked the good ol boys if they would help me get my motorcycle upright. The looks they gave each other seemed to ask, who is the helpless soul out here alone in the desert and can’t even get on his motorcycle. I didn’t try to explain, just accepted their help and rode off in search of calmer days.

10 thoughts on “ Two-Wheeled Adventures, Chapter One, 1992 – 2003

  1. A great motorcycle book:
    Pilgrimage on a steel ride : a memoir about men and motorcycles / Gary Paulsen.
    James Lockwood

  2. Jim, I think I would have joined that woman that decided, next year would be Hawaii. I’ll bet that cutey in the checkered hat would have opted for a friendlier locale also. Keep trucking, my friend.

  3. Brian,

    You bet but not nearly as many miles as your total. I ran more miles than the circumference of the Earth. I suspect you’re probably half way to the moon.

    Dad

  4. I love motorcycle stories. I will be reading each of these as you release them.
    I have a State Trooper/MC story too. I will send it to you when I get back to my computer at home in February.
    Ken

  5. Love it! There’s a lot of miles between those legs. And on them too!

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