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.