My Favourite Real World Activities
If you are a Pirsig fan and have found a whole new way to look at two-wheeled journeys, lemme know. That was just what happened to me during the summer of 1991. I was still riding a 1200 Sportster and had yet to ride further than 100 miles from home. But the enchanting tale of four (or five) travelers changed all that. I was then, as I am now, always looking for an excuse to ride someplace new. The more obscure the better. One June evening, I got a call from my brother-in-law, Craig, then a carnival employee (a story unto itself) who planned to pass through Indiana on his way to Milwaukee. I jumped at the chance to ride with him. I left home clad in sweatpants and hi-top tennies. The visor on my second-hand helmet flapped in the wind at speeds over 50. Stabbing eastward into the unknown on beat-up concrete two-laners, I rolled across the stateline around two in the morning. The tiniest of hick burgs, their sidewalks long since rolled up, greeted me on the Indiana side. By 4.30, I had reached my destination. (see Restaurant At the End Of the Universe.) After hours of waiting there for Craig, I hit the road once again. I felt as if I was becoming a member of a greater world. But I had not, however, managed to rendezvous with Craig. After riding ten miles up the Interstate and catching a brief nap at a rest area, I proceeded onward. When I came to the crossroads at IN26, I swung a right. The allure of seeing James Dean's hometown of Fairmount provided the needed spark to revitalize my roadweary body. There and back to the Interstate, I must have ridden through half a dozen places, complete with names and signs, which were hardly recognizable as towns. Later, I pulled off the four-laner alone for the last time, at a greasy roadside diner. There we finally linked up. We stuck the bike in the back of Craig's U-Haul truck and drove the rest of the way to the Chicago Suburbs, that night. The next morning we made it to Milwaukee. We ate breakfast at Denny's near the airport. After Craig had taken his turn riding my bike around some of Milwaukee's backstreets, I finally made it for home. I did not yet realize what was in store for me before the end of that summer. ...NEXT... When Craig and the carnival moved on to the Iowa State Fair, I welcomed the ride. Flat, uneventful and mostly upon roads I had done before, Iowa proved to be a gateway. After another night spent in the back of the U-Haul truck, I pointed the Sporty south with absolutely no destination in mind. After a morning run through Missouri, I arrived in rural Kansas. The spaces were wide open and the sensation of freedom and oneness with the road was fantastic. I stopped off at a small town general store for directions. It was Sunday and almost everything else in the town was closed. It was there that I struck on the curiosity factor, that is, people asking about my trip. Where was I headed, they wanted to know. But all I really knew at that moment was where I had been. The future, the blacktop over the next dusty hill, was as much a mystery to me as it was to them. I eventually made Oklahoma by sundown. I made camp that night between two trees, near a reservoir. In the distance I could hear the report of target practice. The next day still rates as my ultimate endurance ball-buster. About six in the morning, I loaded the bike and rode into Tulsa. A quick breakfast and a tank of gas later, I was in Arkansas. And I would be in Arkansas, either climbing the mountains behind semi-trucks or dodging construction, until about ten that evening. I rode through the night, taking breaks when I needed to gas up. In Southern Illinois, I rode about forty miles with members of the Outlaws MC. Soon thereafter, in Decatur, a local cop told me where to go for a cup of coffee at 4am. Two hours and countless cups later, my hands were thawed and my brain was basically functional again. The last 150 miles were done by sheer will. Once home, I vowed to never to ride like that again. ...THEN... A few months later, Craig decided to leave carnival life and return home. Again, we agreed to meet at the Lebanon McDonald's. I reached the rendezvous point around 10pm. Minutes later, Craig arrived aboard the 1977 Honda CB550 he'd purchased earlier that summer in Nebraska. The next morning, after I took the classic 550 for a whirl, we pointed our bikes toward the northwest and began the ride home. I had never before traveled the backroads with a companion. The presence of a second rider gave the trip a new sense of sharedness. I knew I would be able to look back one day and trade reflections of that trip. We spent the day on state and county highways, passing through towns I'd never heard of. Meal breaks meant sharing stories and trading thoughts of our perspectives from the road. Although I had to wait for Craig and the overladen Honda more than once, I knew that after we got home we'd ride together without the load. ...SINCE THEN... Since that sunny day in late '91, Craig and I have not yet ridden together again. ...1993... I recently asked Craig which of our other rides he would most like to see in print. His immediate response was the time four of us climbed aboard my '86 Harley, with sidecar, and went tooling around into the sticks. Besides Craig and myself were his cousin, Chris, then 16, and my son, Alek, then just 5. We left Craig's mother's place with what I thought was plenty of gas. But the combination of four passengers plus high winds sucked my tank to reserve in no time flat. When we arrived at Craig's farm abode, I informed him of our fuel situation. He promptly set Chris to work, with a length of hose inserted into the gas tank of a rusty Ford pick-up. That bucketful of fuel got us back to the outer limits of civilization. ...1997... It was six more years before I returned to Lebanon on two wheels. The interim saw me traverse the midwest, from Ohio to South Dakota to Texas. But I was reluctant to make another run to Lebanon. The memories from '91 had crystallized into mental legend. Time has a way of doing that to our recollections. When I left home on the morning of 7/4/97, I still had no immediate plans to go back to Indiana. Instead, I set out for Minnesota, where I had traveled just six weeks earlier. Less than one hundred miles into the ride, a steady rain caused me to consider an alternate destination. Two hours later, I was south of home and on my way back to Lebanon. Again and again the thought crept up in my mind, the reality could not possibly match the memory. Would I be disappointed after six years? When I crossed the state border this time, it was nearly 6pm. I began to wonder where I would spend the night. About ten miles south on US41, I believed I had found my campsite. As I pulled off the road, two enormous birds took flight from the opposite side of the clearing. What I had made out to be a free place to spend the night was West Central Indiana's roadkill depository. What the birds had been so interested in was a large pit, full of brown water and deer carcasses. I eventually made it to sleep at a nearby fishing resort. I slept soundly that night in my small tent, amidst the sounds of Independence Day. I pulled out early the next morning and rolled the last twenty miles to Lebanon. Little had changed in six years. The newspapers in the box outside McDonald's told me that Jimmy Stewart was dead. The jukebox inside the restaurant still played classic hits. When I sat down for breakfast, it occured to me. I had come back and I had come alone. But it had been a good trip, very good. On the ride home, I remembered what Sam Elliott said, "As long as I am on the road, I'm never alone." When I came home Craig showed me that he'd purchased a Kawasaki 1000. He yearned to get back on the road. Well, maybe. It still hasn;t happened. ...1998... After more than four years on BMWs and assorted other bikes, in April '98, I returned to American Iron. One of the first overnighters I took on the 68 FLH was a ride to Southern Minnesota. I had visited a campground there the year before in Winona and decided to make my return. I also decided to make it my 10-year-old son's first overnight trip. We took old US61 the better part of the way up the Mississippi. At one particularly desolate fuel stop in Iowa, we wandered into a combination roadhouse/greasy spoon/convenience mart. At the counter sat what appeared to be a regular of the establishment. Perched aboard a revolving stool, he ate fishsticks out of a plastic basket, dipping them in a large tub of tartar sauce which would see many more customers before it would see a washing. Had it not been for Alek's nervous feet (yes, Pirsig's son, Chris, had them, too), the ride up Highway 61 would have been just perfect. Late in the afternoon, less than 100 miles from Winona, a light rain began to fall. Weather reports we caught at our last Wisconsin fill-up predicted high winds and thundershowers. We arrived at our destination having endured nothing but scattered sprinkles. Hours later, in the middle of an otherwise restful night, I was awakened to thunder, lightning and wind which caused half of our dome tent to collapse. Early the next morning, we packed up and pulled out. And that morning was especially sweet. For years I had gone to bed early while on the road. I had always wished for a louder bike with which to make my exit. That bike had finally arrived. We roared out and headed back toward home. The second in a continuing line of Winona runs had been a memorable success. ...COMING SOON... There have been other trips between then and now, and they too shall be played out right here... 1999 was the year of mechanical recovery for myself and my bike. For the 1968 ElectraGlide, it meant a new top-end. She's now running MUCH better. For me it was a further internalization of the difference between reality and hype. What is good, Phaedrus? Well, I'll tell you what I found somewhere south of good. Oh how I do go on! I attempted to revisit motorcycle publications of note. But these had all followed corporate Harley-Davidson, chasing a path laid by rich urban bikers in the name of "das Kapital"... THAT tirade aside...In '00 the '68 was re-wired and roadworthy after a session in hell at Workman's H-D. The wiring job ran into other complications and the final repair bill tolled the death knell for my active pursuit of such nostalgia. I quickly sold the '68 and stepped up to an '82 FLT, minus fairing and tourpak. ...In July '00 I returned to the long ride, the truly long ride, for the first time since 1992. My son, Alek, and I made our way up US 61 to Duluth, then Minnesota 61 to Ontario. Nearly a decade earlier, I had proposed this trip to a friend, Tom. But something was lacking in each of us and the trip never came to pass. Alek and I reached Thunder Bay late on a Wednesday afternoon and, after a brief jaunt through local grocery stores, returned to camp back in the US just in time to beat an evening rain shower. Lacking appropriate clothing, we spent a chilled night in the north woods, the coldest we had endured theretofore. The next day we rode the 650 miles home under blue skies. The spirit of adventure was once again alive. And I now had a dependable road partner. The future looked bright, even when compared with the crystalline past. ... NEXT came the final long ride for some time. During the first week of August 2000, Alek and I set out for Canada once more. We began in Wisconsin Dells on the tail of a family respite at a local hotel. It was a Friday when we left Wisconsin and the roads were packed with folks heading north for the weekend. We rolled to the western shore of Lake Superior the first night. We followed that with a trip from Two Harbors, Minnesota, to Thunder Bay, Ontario, and finally Hadashville, Manitoba. But day two was full of rain and we were forced to huddle in a small indy motel for the night and get an eyeful of local TV. The dark skies subsided on day three. We rolled to Winnipeg and then back to the USA. After hundreds of miles and dozens of sunflower fields, we made it to Bismarck. But that was not without incident. After a stiff headwind pushed us to reserve sooner than expected, we turned off at Buffalo, North Dakota. A sign on the highway promised a gasoline source therein. But it was Sunday and the small town looked absolutely deserted. We rolled up and down the streets until we spied some folks who were willing to sell us gasoline. The next day's ride from Bismarck to Custer, South Dakota, was hot and tiring. But the gradual change in scenery made for a good trip. We camped that night in the Black Hills, near Custer. As was the case a month before, we nearly froze. The next day we tooled around the State Park and visited Mt. Rushmore before starting the trek homeward. We reached Sioux Falls before retiring. The next morning we were greeted by a dead battery. After a jumpstart from a family man who was carting all the kids in a shiny pick-up, we hauled. We shut the bike off just once in the middle of Iowa. Another jumpstart later and we rolled back to Dixon, weary and full of road tales. The entire adventure encompassed over 3000 miles and reaffirmed my belief in the value of backroads....An update...Craig's '77 Honda leans against his mother's garage in a mechanical coma. It has likely not been started since the mid-90s. It is sad to see a bike that played such a role in significant memories deteriorate to this degree... 2001 shall not prove to be the year for making the trips dreams are made of. My health prohibits me from turning the thousands of miles for which my mind and soul are ready and willing. I will return to writing about my memories. And I will return to MAKING memories in '02.... '02 has begun with a bang. The weather turned around FAST. The first week of April was jacket weather in Northern Illinois. But here we are at Tax Day and it's in the mid-80s. I took my first ride with my buddy Wayne, his wife Dawn, and friend Jim. They straddled metric cruisers and, following a battery transplant, I rode my '82 FLT. It was a groovy evening into the countryside. Weeks later, during Memorial Day weekend, I returned once more to Lebanon to see what had become of the very special McDonald's. I learned online that this classic destination no longer stood intact. After asking some locals just what had become of the nostalgic McD's, I learned that a Health Department snafu had led to the store's closure. I returned to my room at the same motel where Craig and I had flopped in 1991. I thought hard about the meaning of Lebanon now that I was riding without Craig and without the special golden arches at the end of the road. Theory tells us that it ought to be about the trip, but this particular destination forces me to ponder. Thanks for visiting Kevin's Place on the Web. Lemme know when you find that most magical, surreal of all two-laners! And remember, don't ride across the Dakotas without spare points! You can e-mail me at kevmel90@yahoo.com
This Life As I Recall
Lebanon McD's R.I.P.
Humor &The Horse You Rode In On
Craig's Ride... Back Then
So Many Miles, So Little Gas
Just Such A Concrete Two-laner...
The Past Life
Mornings on Q106.5
My Most Recent Ride- A Revamped '82 FLT
