The Journey

It started how any good adventure should, with booze, women and brawling. Having had my share of all three I grabbed my trusty ruck, this particular piece of equipment vital in all my travels now as it had been christened with blood and sweat in Iraq. Still a bit groggy from the night before, I strapped my sack to the back of the bike, filled with the few essentials I thought might come in handy, an extra change in clothes, a couple good blades, my toothbrush and some deodorant. Set to go I headed north out of Cheyenne leaving last night’s events behind me and putting the road beneath me. With some cash in my pocket for gas and a cigarette between my lips I rode into the wind with a healthy appetite for the unknown.

I wasn’t for sure on my final destination, but the Sturgis events were but a week away so I thought I would stop in and see how the set up was going. The big blue sky ahead of me had but a few white puffy clouds to interrupt the sunny start of what should be a beautiful ride. However quickly I had started this little trek of mine I had made sure to check the weather forecast for the next few days, it would be a race to get ahead of the oncoming storm for sure, but that only added to the already pumping supply of adrenaline flowing in my veins. With this in mind I set the pace at a steady 80 mph over the high plains of Wyoming.

Scooting along with only a gust of wind here and there as this state was so famous for; I stopped in Wheatland to wet my whistle and top off the bike. To my slight dismay a few more oil leaks had reared their ugly little heads in the last few miles but nothing to start me a worrying too much. The day was still young and I wanted to drink in Sturgis by dusk, so I whipped out the ol’ allen wrench tightened a few loose bolts and left some rubber behind as a way to let the next guy know it ain’t over till the fat lady sings. I continued to speed north all the while keeping an eye on the brewing storm above the mountains to the west, the rain was coming and I wanted a hundred or so miles under my belt before it hit.

Not too much later I found myself having a frothy brew at Sam’s Happy Place, in Casper. From the way the locals told it, this was the place to find scooter tramps looking for a watering hole this time of day. Turns out I wasn’t steered wrong, for mid day the joint had a fair amount of business and the beer was cold, so it suited my tastes just fine. With a wooden modern mountain man feel to the inside and o’ course several signs indicating that if you didn’t like what you got you could help yourself to the door, I lit a smoke inhaled and took a swig from the bottle sitting in front of me. There was the buzz of who did what last weekend, what changes would need to be made to ones bike before going for the long ride and of course which of the local girls had got caught without her shirt on last night. All in all it was a pleasant side stop, but I had the road on my mind. I looked about for someone that might know a shortcut; it wasn’t hard in a small bar like this, simply look for the guy with the most bug carcasses on his vest. Finishing my beer, I lit another smoke and headed over to a table of what I hoped would be some road hardened hombres. With a minimal amount of bullshit exchanged I got what seemed like the quickest route and headed out.

The storm was starting to swell almost overhead so I stepped it up a bit, cautious of the ever present long arm of the law. With a heading of NE along some smaller highways through a few bum fuck nowhere towns, I was well on my way again. Of course the storm caught up with me, why wouldn’t it, it was Murphy ’s Law of riding. So with a little fore sight I broke out the rain suit and headed for the tempest, throttle open.

The rain pounded me with cold hard droplets of hate, not quite hail but not the soft drizzle you would romanticize about either. The windjammers shield on the Yamaha ’81 1100 XS, was quickly becoming opaque with the dark clouds and the torrent of rain they brought with them. Wyoming is notoriously empty, that fact bore down on me now as I desperately searched for anything to hide under. I had dropped down to 30 mph now, visibility was no more than twenty yards, the idea to pull over and wait it out nagged persistently at the back of my mind. Deep down something pulled me through the near flood conditions, a desire to keep going no matter what. After all, would we have read about Alexander the Great if he had pulled over half through conquering the known world and said, “This is just too tough”?

Twenty minutes later I pulled through the drenching madness, and as I passed the oncoming traffic, they looked upon me as if I were the thunder god himself, stepping through a turbulent barrage of Frigga’s wrath to the clear blue before him. It was at that moment I knew it had been worth it, for what are courageous deeds without someone to witness your moment of glory?

Keeping myself afloat on the slick pavement until the next roadside oasis proved little problem. I found out, after a bite to eat and a drink to wash down the greasy mass, that Sturgis, my goal for the night, was but a couple hours away. With a full belly and my rain gear back where it belonged, I continued on down my path toward the believed Mecca of bikedom. The ride, thus out, held little of interest, though seeing this side of the barren wasteland that I had accepted to be this state; I was surprised to see more and more trees and scattering amounts of jaw dropping scenery.

The sun had begun to flirt with the horizon as I pulled my bike into the small, still and quiet town of Sturgis. It was early yet as the rally would not start for a week, but the eye could not escape notice of the mounting invasion of this seemingly unsuspecting villa, that is until I hit the strip. T-shirt vendors and memorabilia stands were as prevalent as buzzards before the battle of little big horn. The tourists, myself included, had already began to gather round the few blocks that would surely be jammed tire to tire in only a few days time. Not quite knowing what to make of the growing pandemonium I decided to check the local watering holes, a man can find solace in the confines of smoke filled corridors and a decent brew. It was in a hole in the wall place called the Oasis; I gathered my thoughts as I listened to the man in black sing to me about a Sunday morning coming down. For sure I would need a place to bed down for the night, my wallet was screaming I was broke and my throat bellowed how nice another cold beer would be. I listened to my gut of course; I could always find a patch of grass to call home for the night. So I got fuzzy wandering from one tavern to the next, conversing with bartenders, bikers and locals alike. Though I must admit I was a bit disappointed at the lack of bedlam of the place, I knew the events were a week away, but somehow I had imagined this small town as a last bastion of the outlaw frontier. A place society had yet to grasp with its politically correct claws. There were no topless woman, drunken bar brawls or outlaw stand offs in the middle of the street as my boyish imagination had hoped. So with this heavy burden of disappointment lying on my shoulders I hopped back on the bike and rode a little ways out of town till I found a suitable patch of grass under a lone tree to call home for the night.

Awakening to the buzzing drone of a thirsty mob of mosquitoes, they seemed fairly appeased with their find this morning and did their best to drink me dry. I surveyed my surroundings, only vaguely remembering how I had come to be in this particular cow patch this morning. So with last night’s festivities still slurring my movements to some extent, I proceeded to swat at the bloodsuckers and pack up the bike. The sun was yawning over the hills, and a morning haze hung thick in the air giving the valley a glow. In the morning quiet, the bike roared to life letting the stirring beasts know the king of the road was awake and ready for another day of beating asphalt, however I needed some coffee.

The old man at the gas station register looked tired, in a way that you could tell sunk down to his bones. The look on his face told me I was just another number, and only the beginning to a long day. Coffee in hand I stepped out into the cool morning air, it was a perfect morning I remember thinking to myself. That was before I started inspecting the bike; oil had coated almost everything below my seat. A look at the sight glass confirmed my fear that it had all but completely leaked out. Once again I laid my leather on the ground to put something between me and the bone chilling concrete, the allen in my hand I went to work tightening everything I could find. There were several small leaks; it seemed as if the oil bled from every pore of the engine block. I found the deepest wound to be in the oil pan, a bolt had stripped and the fluid dripped from here like a leaky faucet. This was certainly not the start I was looking for today, but what the hell this is Sturgis right? Surely there would be some wrench monkey to put this mess back into some kind of working order. I have never been more wrong. My pockets were near dry, no one who touched bikes, would touch a rat bastard of a bike that wasn’t a Harley, and this was only to be the start of my trip. Sturgis had never been the destination simply a stop on the way, yet here I was, looking like I may never get out of this town. Unfortunately I would not be able to take the bike, in its current condition, on any of the many beautiful runs in the surrounding area. With a little help from a fellow road warrior whose bike was also frowned upon for not being a “Pure Bred” I was able to limp the bike up the interstate to Rapid City where I might find someone a little more willing to help with my current predicament.

It was there, at a mutt bike power toys shop, I got my first true taste of the comradery between bikers that I had heard about so much. Up until now I had gone it alone and dealt with my problems the best I could with the little knowledge I possessed, yet here I found a soul not so quick to judge a man by the name on the side of his bike. The bike and I were in bad shape, my gas cap gasket had fallen apart at my last stop for fuel, leaving me with a lap soaked in gas, a viscous headache, and plum out of ideas. Of course no one at the dealership knew where exactly to find this mysterious component, the gasket, so vital to keeping my rides lifeblood contained, so with a heavy heart I was about to give up hope on this soul searching journey I had set out on but a day ago. Then as I was comiserising about what to do next an older gentleman, perhaps in his late 40’s, asked the clerk next to me who was riding the XS sitting in the parking lot. I turned and admitted it was me expecting another look of disappointment for riding something so old with little more than a sentimental value about it. I was surprised instead to see a grin spread across the man’s lips, in his eyes I could tell he was sizing me up to what I thought might be something of his former self in younger years where he might have been on this trip instead of me. The man had a bit of a tinkerer visage, with grease and oil stained hands, dirty jeans with the knees nearly torn out, a cutoff tee-shirt that was probably older than me, a grey unkempt beard with a balding mess to match on top, and of course a set of youthful blue eyes beneath the starting onset of wrinkles that told of a life well lived. He asked me about the bike and reveled with glee in my adventures thus far. It was a bonding experience and one that will keep me on the road for many years in hopes that I will find other wayfarers of his ilk and perhaps one day become one. As it turned out he had the gasket I had found so elusive, more than willing to help he brought me the spare he had at his abode. With that I bid him farewell, I had offered money or some sort of compensation, but he would not accept. Dan, as the man had introduced himself, requested that I pass on the favor when the time would come. Therefore keeping the fellowship between riders one of pure heart.

Chivalrous ideals swirled in my mind as the wind ruffled my hair; I was on my path to enlightenment once again. Something about the air smelled sweeter, the passing scenery more colorful and after consulting a map I decided to forsake the fast track of the interstate for a livelier and slower paced highway. I was high on life and decided to celebrate, I busted out a bottle of Irish whiskey I had been saving for the last few days and swig after swig I drank to the delights of the open road. This part of the world unlike my own endorsed some forms of gambling; wanting to test my new found luck and luster for life I hit a few of them up on the way down the road. At each stop I drank a little more and ignored the absence of lady luck at my side as I gambled my meager pockets away on down the road.

I can’t say how far exactly down the highway I had gotten but night had fallen hours ago. My bottle of whiskey was nearly dry, in the back of my mind a persistent thought pleaded I bed down for the night. I was well too far into the groggy shallows of intoxification to abide by niggling thoughts though, my mount begged to be set free. We had ridden so far for so long restrained by the petty laws of speed. It was time to unleash the fool hardy youth struggling inside me to let go of societies grasp on my sense of lawfulness. A symphonic roar of oiled steel grinding against its limits echoed out into the darkness as I buried the needle of my speedometer far past the gauges capability. The lines in the center of the pavement blurred together beneath my head lights, “the yellow brick road” I smiled to myself. I was alone on this stretch of earth, which was a comforting thought. Somewhere in the middle of the endless dark I found a small town with enough street lights to tell of a small farming population lost in slumber, preparing for another day in the fields I had just passed. Under one of the few lights I pulled the bike over to light a cigarette, hazily aware of my immediate surroundings. The one thing that did not escape my notice was the slowing patrol car passing me. Thinking back on it the sheriff might have smelled the whiskey on my breath from inside her cruiser. Early in the morning long before the suns light would warm the earth with its glow, I found the pulsating lights behind me mesmerizing. Red and blue screamed at me accusing me of the crimes I knew would find me guilty; lady luck had left me in the ditch when I shirked my mantle of common sense. Teetering I stumbled across the line following the officers instructions, slurring my excuses I grasped at anything that may keep me from the inevitable doom I had raced so desperately towards. Alas I was cuffed and I watched with heartfelt sorrow as my bike disappeared from view inside patrol car, engulfed by the omnipresent night.

The silver lining was that no mosquitoes claimed my lumped mass for an easy meal that morning. The bed was also a bit softer than the pasture I had squatted for the night before. I spent most the morning staring at the engraved names on the wall contemplating adding my stupidity to those who had shared my fate. The attending deputies apologized profusely for the food they served as if I were a famous rock star stuck in a roadside motel with no room service. It all went down the same, though I would have liked to believe the meals were free, I knew I would pay for them in given time. It turns out I wasn’t all that popular in the system, or perhaps lady luck smiled in my general direction. Probably both, but in the end they let me out on bond for whatever was left in my wallet. Thirty dollars bought me my freedom that day, and I was even given a ride to the impound lot my bike where my bike was being held for ransom.

Now I had a true dilemma, I was out of money and stuck in the middle of bum fuck nowhere. Luckily I still had a few favors I could call in, so with a few phone calls I got my bike out of the impound and back and the road for the most part. Once again I would need to fill her back up with oil; this was getting to be an aggravating routine. I had no one to blame but my own ignorance, and though I had a book on how fix problems on my particular bike, I was in too much of a hurry to consult it. I am sure I don’t have to tell how unwise this was, but I had one thing on my mind, the road and I was eager to get back to it. Ignorance is bliss and very expensive in cases dealing with motorcycles. My first true destination could be reached by nightfall, that in mind I filled the gas tank and fed the beast of an oil reservoir. It needs to be said that ignorance and arrogance do not go hand in hand with preservation. This was my first bike, that’s no excuse but unfortunately the only one I have, I wanted to ride until it died I had however hoped that would be longer than a few months from the day I bought it. In this aspect I was not doing so well, to my friends I was notoriously hard on everything, so it didn’t come as a total surprise that the bike that had set me free was now foaming at the mouth and about to collapse on me. In my mind I had every intention to keep up maintenance on my steel horse. The truth was, no matter the fact I had the manual in my bag I never found the time to read it. This being said at a point where I had nothing but time, so with a few prayers to the gods of machines I sped onto the highway anxious to put this desperate little town behind me and write the whole thing off as a bad night of sheer stupidity.

This portion of the trip was to be marked by road construction, what I had thought to be a pleasant scenery filled route had turned into a disastrous mix of stop and go traffic in the scorching heat. The worst patches were little more than dirt road for miles at a time as I crawled behind the pace car at a snails pace. Miles drug on, by the end of the construction I felt as if I should be to the east coast already. Unfortunately I was still a few hours from the MN border which meant I was a few more from my destination. Determined I ripped back on the throttle and thundered on. It was with few incidents for the rest of the day that I finally reached what I thought would be only my first stop on this journey. Journey, my trek across hundreds of miles of earth with nothing but my bike and an open mind. I hoped to find myself out there, waiting at the end of the road waving me down for a ride. Inner peace and a sense of direction, something that I could hold close, a piece of me somehow lost in the blur of years that had preceded me. Pondering the whys and hows, I drove myself into a frenzy hoping that in some way riding into the sunset might roll the credits so that I might work on a sequel.

By nine o’clock I found myself sipping on a cold beer at my buddy’s house. For better or worse I had made it, Mankato MN, a decent sized (from where I come from anyways) college town of some 75,000 people. My good friend Jon was at work on the graveyard shift, but his wife had known I was coming and was more or less my telephone navigator through the latter parts of the trip. Her name was Brita, and the couple is the poster child of the American dream. With two children, a boy and a girl, they owned a decent house in a good part of town. Jon worked two to three jobs and Brita ran a home based day care. They went to church on Sundays and watched MTV and American Idol at night. I could not have been farther out of my element, yet it was here that I found the tranquility to put the pieces back together in my mind. As I had mentioned earlier I am an Iraqi war vet, coming home from the war left me with little grasp on who I once was and what I had become. Jon was also a two tour vet of the war and we spent our fair share of swapping stories and debating the political stance of a soldier, which we agreed was nil. In all I spent most my time in the basement reading through his mass collection of Punisher comics, playing outdated video games that brought back memories of my childhood, and playing with the assortment of surplus military issue gear Jon had collected over the years. I would like to tell you that it was the ride and the freedom gained of the whole trip that brought me back to reality, but in truth it was in this stone walled basement I found myself sifting through the memories. Picking out the pieces that while still had an effect on who I was, no longer played a role in who I needed to become. The house was over half a century old and the basement told its story, now ancient ways of heating and ventilating were covered over with layers of paint. Plumbing new and old could be used as a visual chronology of the advancement of the today’s indoor plumbing methods. I was almost surprised to walk outside and not find a half rotted aqua duct. This only added to the character of the warm home and the upstairs was immaculately clean and decorated with the latest fashionable patriotic décor, accented with Jon's war medals and awards. Of course, the children had not gone unnoticed and in neat stacks in what seemed like every corner were the tell tale signs of dotting parents. Tonka trucks to Barbie dolls, it seemed to me, who grew up poor, the kids had it all. I was always welcome at the dinner table, and though my own family and friends work more or less as a tribe being that you are no longer a guest after the first visit and expected to fend for yourself, I was treated as if an honored ambassador from a neighboring country. Brita was an excellent cook and if she seemed very opioniated, she ensured that all at her table felt equal, even if they were all equally wrong. It was during this stay with my childhood friend and trusted confidant I realized my path was to turn about and head back. I had left things and people alike that I needed and needed me. It had been a bold selfish move, but it brought to light things taken for granted. So it was with this that I traversed the hundreds of miles across the states to begin the journey, that as the Norns would have it, started right where I had originally left.