Ending at the beginning and beginning at the end.

The fortune that I pulled out of the cookie at the "Super Buffet" on Paul Bunyan Drive, across the parking lot from the Bemidji Best Western, said, "Try deviating from routine this weekend."
Considering that my routine for the last two weeks has been to ride a motorcycle towards the beginning of the Mississippi River, I decided to take that advice.
What a peculiar day. By about 10:00 this morning, I was soaking my feet in the middle of the Mississippi River, about 20 feet from where the thing officially begins. This is a far cry from where I was on the 15th, crossing the massive river on a ferry just a few miles from where it dumps into the Gulf of Mexico.
What a bizarre sensation. I felt accomplished. I felt good. I felt like getting the heck out of there as soon as I could.
It occurred to me, at about the same time that this photograph was taken, that the point of this trip for me was not to go to the headwaters of the Mississippi River; it was to go home. "Home" is a concept I've lost touch with in the last few months. Right now, I can picture it clearly, and it looks just like my kids. I've never been away from them for this long, and I'm not in any particular hurry to do it again.
The rest of the day didn't get a whole lot more "normal." Brian and I rode out of Itasca State Park together. We had discussed riding into St. Cloud, and maybe onto Eau Claire together. After shooting down Route 71 for a few miles at a brisk pace, Brian's GPS and I had a disagreement on preferred routes.
I was ready to cover some miles and cover them quickly, and highway speeds and wind are less troublesome on my Concours than they are on Brian's Triumph, so we split off somewhere. It was oddly unceremonious, given what we have been through in the last couple of weeks. We shook hands, agreed to have dinner in a couple of weeks to reflect on the experience, then we took off. I saw him veer off in my side view mirror a couple of miles later.
I've got to admit, it took me a few miles to get used to not looking at that yellow jacket.
It was fun to be off on my own, though. I've spent way to much time in the last few years (the last 11 or so) following someone else's lead, and it was nice to choose my own course and set my own pace.
I was skirting some pretty nasty looking storm systems, and I got a little damp riding through a couple of pop-up storms along Route 10 heading towards St. Cloud. It wasn't until I got to St. Cloud that the scariest looking front rolled in. I just kept telling myself I was going to get past it, and it was going to move northeast across my trail.
This was not to be the case.
A quick sidenote: if you are trying to get from St. Cloud, Minnesota to Eau Claire, Wisconsin on Route 95 from Highway 10, you have to have some inside information. The exit you need is marked as "23," not 95, even though the road map makes no mention of 23.
I discovered this bit of information at the rest area about 5 miles below where I needed to exit. By this time, the sky was a particularly blackish shade of blue, and the storm - which now included promises of hail and a tornado warning - was heading straight east, right along my intended path.
Of course, all of the motels in St. Cloud are on the other side of the city from the rest area that I was in, so I turned around and rode right back into the coming storm. I got about halfway to the 23 exit. That was when it started raining so hard that I couldn't see past my own windscreen, so I pulled into a gas station to wait it out.
I didn't notice the foot-deep puddle at the edge of the gas station lot until I was soaked to the knees. Needless to say, I attracted a few comments when I walked, dripping wet, into the gas station. I drank some coffee and had a darn good raspberry-filled doughnut while I waited on the rain, though, and I had a couple of really nice conversations with some folks.
When the rain finally let up, the guy behind the counter offered to get me a towel to wipe off my bike seat before I took off. People are kind. I love discovering that. It makes me want to be more kind.
I headed back into town, followed a detour from 23, and found myself riding by a downtown Best Western. Seeing that more ominous storm clouds were gathering, I swung in and secured myself a room.
The fact that there was a bar/restaurant on the premises was an added bonus.
Check in, unload and cover bike, check H&R blog comments, shoot a couple of emails, take a shower, and go get some food.
Oh yeah, and look at pretty girls. I've noticed in the last 4 or 5 months that, all of a sudden, the world is simply crawling with attractive ladies again. Weird how that timed out.
I went back to my room and, frustrated that the sky was clear and the weather perfect for riding, tried to figure out what I was going to do with my pent up energy. Pacing around my hotel room just didn't seem like a good solution, so I went for a walk.
When I stepped out of the hotel, there was a perfect rainbow spanning the sky. It was huge. I couldn't look at it all at once; I had to turn my head and appreciate it in pieces. What an amazing thing to see, especially considering the role of chance in putting me somewhere that I could see it. I must have stood and gawked at that thing for 5 minutes before it started to fade and I took off on my walk.
I kind of hoped to find a tattoo shop. I promised myself that - if I finished this trip - I would find a way to pay for a commemorative tattoo, which will also serve to cover up the tattoo of my soon-t0-be ex-wife's pet name, tattooed on my left arm.
Gentlemen, no matter how "in love" you are with your lady, forego tattooing her name on you. I guess I should have gotten the hint when, shortly after getting the tattoo, Ellen said to me, "What are you going to do if we get divorced?"
Silly me; I thought she was making a funny.
Alas, tattoo shops in St. Cloud close at 8:00, and it was already 8:15. So I just took a stroll down St. Germain Avenue, which is a happening little stretch of road. There are a lot of little shops and bars on that road. I did a little shopping at a record store called "Electric Fetus," and just walked until I ran out of stuff to look at.
I kept saying to myself, "You are in St. Cloud, Minnesota, and you got here on a motorcycle." Who's life is this, anyway?
What an eclectic group I witnessed on St. Germaine Avenue, though. There was a little crowd of what can only be described as heavy metal hippies kicking a hacky-sack on the sidewalk, a couple of grunge-goth girls yelling something incomprehensible aross the top of a car, a crowd of young urban professionals enjoying beers at a sidewalk table, a morbidly obese woman who was - for some unimaginable reason - shaking out the contents of her purse onto the sidewalk with two very drunk men looking on. It was an interesting walk.
I wish I would have known that St. Germain Avenue was so close when I first got here, I would have liked to walk it when all the shops were open.
I came back to the hotel, installed the plastic meditating monk-on-a-spring that I purchased for my motorpsychle, and wondered what I was going to do next.
I opted to grab my book - The Lost Continent by Bill Bryson - and head back to the restaurant where I could sit outside, drink a beer or two, and read my book.
What a great experience. There is something to be said for being the anonymous, shaven-headed guy in the corner table, sitting by himself and laughing out loud as he reads a book.
Especially when you are in St. Cloud, Minnesota for no particularly good reason.
It's nice to "deviate from routine." I've got to make it a point to do it more often.

This is Brian riding under some really, really big sky. Even when the scenery is boring, it's beautiful.

I was actually angry.

This was just almost too much for me. I don't like war. It seems like with all the time that humans have spent on the planet and all we have accomplished, we might have found a better way by now to solve our problems than to brutally kill each other. Don't you think?

This is a shot of Walt and Brian riding on the Natchez Trace Parkway. That is one pretty road. I wish it ran along the river all the way to Minnesota, and that the speed limit on it was 75 instead of 50, and that it was only open to motorcycles.

This is a tombstone at the Grand Gulf, Mississippi cemetery, which is the only real remnant of the City of Grand Gulf. The rest of it fell into the river.

Supper in Walt's garage. Thats Walt on the left, his brother-in-law Troy, "Big Walt," and Brian. If you want to know who the heck Walt is or why we were eating in his garage, check out the Herald & Review Blog. http://www.herald-review.com/2ridetheriver/

Throwing some pictures on here. Check out the Herald & Review Blog for Words

This, ladies and gentlemen, is the prettiest washboard player in the whole world, or at least to my knowledge. I'm not sure I've ever seen anyone having a better time playing music. Ever. And she was playing WASHBOARD (and playing it well, I might add).

The band is called the Bonoffs, and they play at the Old Opera House on Bourbon St. every Thursday through Sunday. If you are in New Orleans, go see them.

I'm Working On It, People.

Ok. It's damn-near midnight, and I'm lounging at the 3-V Tourist Court in St. Francisville, Louisiana. My stuff is spread all over the room, and we're rolling out in the morning. Today was our first day of riding, and it was fantastic!

However, I'm freaking exhausted, so this post is basically just an excuse for why I am not posting. I am terribly sorry, but if you are just starved for tales from the road, check out the "official" blog that I am writing for this trip at: http://www.herald-review.com/2ridetheriver/

The first post is the one entitled "And they are off." The one called "The first day," is actually the second post.

Some of Brian's pictures are up, too. Be sure to check them out.

I'll be trying to post something intelligent as well as some photography of my own tomorrow night. However, since I will be in a tiny tent in the middle of Mississippi instead of a swank, air-conditioned house, I will make no promises.

It would be easier to make this blog a priority if all (both) of you would post comments, begging for more......no, seriously.

How I Managed to Get Myself Into This

The e-mail Brian sent me in early February began simply, "If you cannot ride a motorcycle or cannot get access to one, do not read any further."

Though I still had a motorcycle endorsement on my license, I hadn't owned or ridden a motorcycle in over a decade, and I certainly didn't know anyone foolish enough to loan me one, but I read on, and I'm glad that I did.

In his e-mail Brian went on to describe his plans for a photograph- and story-fueled trip running the length of the Mississippi River on motorcycles with no itinerary other than a desire to stay clear of interstates, a starting point, an ending point, and – I found out later – an obsessive desire to stop at every Dairy Queen between those two points.

He was looking for a fellow rider, someone to call 911 in the event of some back-road incident, no doubt, but also someone to record the trip in words that would complement the photographs that he would be posting on his photoblog.

This was probably the least likely project for me. I have always been guilty of being a homebody, of creating a comfy little nest and not moving far from it. As I read the description of the trip, my uptight internal taskmaster produced a blockade of you-can’t-go-becauses, most of which centered on home remodeling and other domestic responsibilities.

Of course, what this knee-jerk voice failed to take into consideration is what I have failed to mention so far, that, since since Christmas night, when my wife opened up a painful, multi-day conversation with the words, "I'm not happy," I have been preparing for divorce.

Brian’s suggestion was totally absurd: spend two weeks on the road with no set route, no itinerary, no more gear than we could pack on two motorcycles, and – apparently – no real point. However, after six weeks of sitting around, helplessly watching my 11-year marriage crumble, this plan seemed a whole lot less stupid than it probably was (and, I should point out, probably still is).

It only took a moment after finishing Brian’s e-mail to realize that this was something that I had to do. I was “in.” Fortunately, as a teacher, my summers are relatively free. My lengthy honeydew list of home-improvement projects had recently been wiped clean by my pending divorce, and, since I had planned to spend the summer on these remodeling projects, my “social calendar” was wide open.

With the emotional and financial support of my family and the encouragement of my co-workers, my students, and my friends – particularly Brian and his wife, Patty – I was “officially” committed to spending two weeks on two wheels, chasing stories up the current of the Mississippi River.

Of course, I had four months to not chicken-out and to gather the necessary supplies, most notably a motorcycle to ride. I scoured the internet, newspaper classifieds, local bike shops. My brother Zak, a tireless researcher, launched a separate search on my behalf. Brian actually contacted the head-honcho of Triumph USA, securing for me the use of a new Triumph if I did not find a bike of my own.

I test rode one bike, a 1970s BMW that would have been an excellent choice (if only for the role of the BMW in Robert Pirsig’s novel of motorcycle travel, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance). I learned from a bit of research on vintage BMWs, however, that they require constant attention to keep them running their best. I was wary of entering another high-maintenance relationship, even if it was just with a motorcycle, so I kept looking.

Ultimately, my non-stop searches of Craigslist paid off. A bike that fit my needs appeared for sale in a community just a bit over an hour away.

The bike, a 1999 Kawasaki Concours, was not the kind of bike that I ever imagined owning, my dream bike being something more along the lines of a Harley Fat Boy, BIG and LOUD like an angry bulldog on steroids. The Concours looks more like the result of a romantic evening involving your grandpa’s Goldwing and your frat-boy cousin’s crotch-rocket, and it purrs like a 1,000cc sewing machine. But the bike was affordable and reliable, can easily accommodate my 6’ 5”, 220 lb. frame, and has built-in luggage. Perhaps most importantly, it’s purple, so I feel like Prince when I ride it.

It didn’t take many hours on the bike to start feeling at home again. In fact, time on the bike was so much like therapy that I started thinking of it is a motorpsychle. I could almost feel bits of nagging self-doubt, anger and paranoia (the consolation prizes of a failed marriage) fly off my shoulders as I rode. However, with years since I had ridden and only a couple of months to practice before an extended trip on unfamiliar roads, I took Brian’s advice and signed up with him for a refresher course in motorcycle safety.

Split between a conference room and the tarmac at a regional airport, the class stretched itself from the promised 8 hours to 10 hours long. It was informative and useful, but not always fun and sometimes grindingly dull.

At one point, during one of the classroom portions of the class, the participants were paired off and assigned a question to answer out of the textbook. The question that Brian and I were assigned was, “What are the two primary effects of alcohol?” As everyone else was diligently scouring their textbooks for the answer, Brian leaned over to me and said, “When it’s our turn, you should say that alcohol makes you want to dance with the wrong kind of women.” Amen, brother.

Believe it or not, this wasn’t the only valuable lesson that I learned from the course. Safety instructor Gil, half of the knowledgeable and friendly husband-and-wife team that taught the class, made sure to repeat the number one rule throughout the course: “Look at where you want to go, because you are going to end up where you are looking.” He also told us, just prior to the riding portion of the test, about the acronym FIDO.

“If you screw something up,” he said, “don’t dwell on it. Don’t stop and worry about it. Just learn not to do it again, then Forget It and Drive On.” He also added with a wry smile, “Some harder-edged riders use a different word for the ‘F.’”

It didn’t occur to me until later that – as we were learning to completely change directions in a small space and how to safely come to a sudden, abrupt stop – Gil very well might have been speaking directly to me with the voice of god. This realization further confirmed what I had already begun to think, that this trip is about a whole lot more than just riding a motorcycle from Point A to Point B, it is about discovery. Discovery of what? Who knows? Isn't that what discovery means?

A discussion with Brian about a riding technique called countersteering, which requires the rider to turn the bike’s handlebars in the opposite direction of a curve in order to turn, cemented this line of thinking. After heading out and experimenting with the technique, I wrote this poem:

On Countersteering

As you approach the left turn,

you turn right, lean left,
even though your gut, your guide,
will scream otherwise.

The bike follows you,
even as its own front tire,
spinning, points elsewhere.


In more ways than one, my journey is about to begin. I’m not certain what the path is going to bring, some good and some bad, I imagine. Even if the rest of the trip is a complete washout, though, I’ve already learned something: As long as I keep looking at where I want to go, I’m not going to end up stuck where I am.

And, of course, to be careful about who I dance with when the drinks are flowing.

We’ll see how it goes.