Thread: Taking a Trip?

It happens to me all the time, probably happens to you too. Filling your bike up at a gas station, and some guy (usually) will come up and reminisce about his motorcycle experiences. Almost without exception they wanted to head off on their machine without any encumbrances. You know the tune: “Head out on the Highway-lookin' for adventure in what ever comes my way”. Even if it's become a cliché for the born-again biker movement, Steppenwolf's “Born to be Wild” will strike a nerve in those who answer the moto-siren song.

"Taking a trip?"

But before I ever heard that song, or had ridden anything with two wheels and a motor, I was captivated by a 1960's television show about a biker who just took off on his Sportster. The title of this story comes from the opening scene segment before every episode. A harried business man trapped in traffic in his car asks it of the man astride the motorcycle next to him. The “Then Came Bronson” series depicted a man and machine alone on an epic adventure. His journey was wrought with hardship that built or exposed character. Success, even survival hinged on the individual's wits, skill...and luck. As an impressionable youth, I was consumed by the idea of making my own such trek. Still am, really.

Fast forwarding to the summer of 2007, a lot has transpired. Life has taken me down many paths. I have experienced my share of adventure and hardship, it hasn't been boring. The last few years in particular were intense. My wife Lee and I had been together for over twenty-seven years when she finally lost her battle with cancer in early June. Since April, 2001 our life together revolved around her illness and the treatment thereof. A huge chapter in my life ended with her death, and I was left wondering what was next, and even who I really was anymore. I was more than a little scared, and confused. I felt I needed a get-away to try to come to terms with the first steps in a new direction for me. My childhood desire to hit the highway came back in force, and this time I decided to do it. This could not be the open-ended epic that the “Bronson” series portrayed, there were too many loose ends and responsibilities at home for that-but for a least a few weeks, I would be “Taking a Trip”.

Near the end of June, my son Corey and I traveled to Grattan Raceway in Belding, Michigan to attend a trackday event put on by the online forum we are members of. This was the first time either of us ever rode a street bike on a roadracing course. The event was extremely well organized, it turned out to be more like a school for the novice riders. Everyone involved went out of their way to make it a great experience for all. The whole concept of meeting people through the internet is very alien to me. I am from another era, and I was rather apprehensive as to what I was getting involved in when I first began to post on line inquiries about my bikes. It was surprised to see myself more and more engaged in discussions with people from demographics I would have never been exposed to otherwise. Those who have dealt with a terminal illness will realize how your life revolves around its affects and treatments, and it was refreshing to have a venue where I could communicate with others without sickness being the focus. A strong sense of community developed, and I felt more than a little silly being so attached to people I have not met in person. After meeting many of them it was very satisfying to find them to be genuine, solid people, without exception.

On the track with my son Sport Touring, Grattan style

Three days on the race track changed everything I knew about riding a street bike rapidly! I had a great time at Grattan riding with my son and new friends. It was an experience that I will never forget, though it was not without drama: more on that later.

The day after things wound up at Grattan, Corey and I packed the track bikes and gear into the truck and trailer, and I stuffed my personal things into the cases of my FJR. When we came to the first crossroads, Corey turned east to head back to our home in Florida, and I turned west toward Lake Michigan and a visit to my past. I grew up in Northern Illinois and we vacationed near Muskegon, Mich in the early seventies. Without knowing why, I was drawn, almost compelled, to revisit the area I grew up in.

The first day's ride took me to the Lake Michigan shore. I found the beach access we used in the early seventies and my aunt's old home, where we stayed when visiting the area. That was an unexpected treat! I then rode a meandering course south toward Indiana trying to hug the shore as closely as possible. Just south of Holland I took a small two-lane close to the water. The FJR rolled effortlessly through the plentiful, sweeping curves while the cool blue lake water made frequent appearances. The bike, the road, and the scenery all came together perfectly. A great ride, and a great start to my trip! There is something soothing about the solitude that comes comes from piloting a motorcycle alone. It was a welcome opportunity to begin to contemplate the events of the prior months. I rode through the corner of Indiana, and on into Illinois.
The beach at Lake Michigan

My first night's stay was in the town where I was born- Aurora, Illinois. I spent the next few days riding around the area where I lived and worked in for the first twenty years of my life. The most poignant moment came with a visit to the farm I grew up on. It was odd to be there, strange to see the old sights, and to experience the memories and emotions they stirred up. It is still a mystery to me why it seemed so important to “go back to my roots.” I guess it was one step in a process I probably won't ever fully understand. I do know that after a few days rambling around the area, I was itching to move on. They say you can never go back, and I guess that is true in a lot of ways.

I had some decisions to make, even during this time in which I was trying to not have an agenda. Tragedy had struck at the Grattan event: a mature, experienced rider crashed severely there and the affects of the accident claimed his life a few days later. That sobering event gave me much cause for introspection about the new hobby my son and I are now engaged in. As a wise man said at the track, “This ain't Disneyland out there, people!” Maybe that is the root of the attraction we feel when doing things with true risk? The passing of our friend will make a profound impression on all of us for a long time, and once again I don't have any answers. The memorial service was held near Detroit and I had to decide if I would go back and attend. I don't want to milk it and say I was close friends with Rich. The truth is, the sum total of my relationship with him was to have read his forum posts over the last year or so, trade a few messages, and spend a few minutes talking with him before the track walk on the morning he crashed. I was under no obligation to go, and to be honest I wasn't looking forward to another memorial service so close to my wife's less than a month before. In the solitude of a lakeside camp that a close friend let me use, I laid out my atlas and made my plan. With no rational explanation, I strongly felt I should go back to Michigan to the service. It didn't fit in with the route I had in mind for the next part of my journey, but as it turned out I don't always know what is best, and what is important will often work itself out, if I let it.

Where to go?

Though it was out of my way, the next morning I decided to head west to Quincy, IL to visit my father's grave. It was the first time I had ever stood there, and reading his name on the bronze military plaque gripped me more intensely than I expected. It seemed at that moment as if I was dealing with death out of proportion. It is never easy, but this particular one is hard to reconcile. Rich lost his life suddenly while doing something he loved, Lee finally succumbed to a foe she never quit fighting till the very last breath. My father chose to end his own life. There is no way to fully understand his decision, and I was heartbroken to think what could have been as I stood under the oaks that shade the site. Once again, I had to go there, and then it was time to move on.

After spending the night in town, I crossed the Mississippi to visit Hannibal, MO on Independence Day. The Twain themed town was bustling with patriotic activity. After lunch I rode back across the river to stay at a forum friends place before the ride to Michigan for the funeral the following morning.

The "Mark Twain" Riverboat. Hannibal, Missouri

We left early to ride our bikes to the church, joining with another friend on the way. The service was moving in the extreme, the words of Rich's family and friends, the personal pictures on the projector slide show, and the music played by his brother-in-law were overwhelming. They provided a glimpse into a great man's life to those of us not privileged to have known him well. After the service a bunch of the forum members ate together . The atmosphere was like a family gathering. I felt strongly that this was something I should not miss. That instinct proved to be correct for several reasons: I got a chance to know someone better in the process of saying good bye to them, a chance to ride with some moto-brothers, an opportunity to spend some more time with friends who now seem like sisters and brothers. But possibly the main, hidden reason for my attendance: I was able to grieve for Lee as much, if not more, than Rich. That was something I did not expect. At her service I was so numb- it was the closest I have ever felt to what I would imagine an out-of-body experience to be like: almost as if I was watching a movie of what was going on. This service was freeing, I felt an incredible release of emotions. It was also extremely draining. Like it or not, I couldn't ride far that evening.
Motorcycles at a rider's memorial service

The next day I traveled back through Michigan, Indiana, and Illinois to spend the weekend in St. Louis with good friends I have known since my youth. I worked with John and Randy over thirty years ago, and we became best friends. We had some great times together, though they tend to remember my past exploits as being more comical than I do! It amazes me that even though several decades and life events, have passed, when we get together we pick up where we left off. Is that the definition of true friendship? It was a time for some of life's more important stuff: tossing horseshoes, BBQ in the back yard, and laughs with people you feel comfortable with. Very healing for me.

Next time: Westward, Ho!...