Here's the first half of my story about driving from central VA back to MN. Feel free to critique and make comments. I'll put up the rest when I get to it. It's a work in progress and isn't proofread or honed.
This is also posted on my blog,
Behind Bars along with other stories in a similar vein.
http://behindbarsmotorcycle.blogspot.com/ You would be doing me a favor by checking it out.
When it comes to motorcycling, I tend to stay within my 'home radius.' This means that during any bout of weekend riding if I see a $3 cup of coffee, I can balk indignantly like any normal human being and be home grinding beans before I fall asleep. Short trips are easier and less intimidating than long ones. Once, I started planning a longer trip with my friend Hugh. We would go from Virginia through the plains states to Minnesota, up through Canada, and back again. But, Hugh stopped taking his meds, and I stopped thinking it was a good idea. His driving became a bit erratic, and besides, how far would a poorly maintained 70s Honda really go? You can only get 2,000 miles out of an oil change... short trips were the safe bet. I always regretted skipping that trip. It seemed like a great way to see the country while simultaneously dabbling with alcoholism. But, as the expression goes, better safe than sorry.
That was a couple years ago. Recently, as I was blearily making my way through my morning cup, I happened across a bit of news on Facebook. My friend Hugh, who had recently moved to California, had committed suicide. For all the wonders of our modern social network system, I can tell you that Facebook is a terrible way to learn of the death of a friend. Knowing his trouble with depression, it was understood suicide was an option. The thing is, you never really understand that that means. I was left shaken. What happened, what caused this? What could I have done, and eventually... what is going to happen to his motorcycles? I talked to some of his other friends and also his brother. Hugh's brother and I swapped stories and talked, and I eventually decided to save as many of Hugh's bikes as I could afford. 1.(Another) poorly maintained Honda cb550, candy apple red, 4 into 1 pipes and rotten tires, and 2. A 2006 BMW F650GS, a black, lightweight, high-seated BMW dual sport with exhaust pipes that run high right under the passenger seat, and rotten tires.
That's also how I ran out of excuses. Like the expression, I was safe, but I was also left sorry, genuinely sorry 'Raptorman' and I never took that trip. A few weeks after learning the tragic news, and only days after getting the paperwork for the Beemer, I told work I wouldn't be in the following week. Some business can only go unfinished for so long. Monday morning I would leaving Virginia, track through West Virginia, Ohio and the plains states to Minnesota, where I'd be able to stay with friends and family, after which I could head back through the upper peninsula of Michigan (instead of Canada) and return through through Ohio and West Virginia. Easy. I had about four days to plan, and of course, no camping gear or bags and the Beemer's seat was only good for about 20 miles before it felt like it was made of bees. This was going to be a real, short notice, half baked, Homage to Hugh.
My wife came home on Thursday a bit upset after reading my Facebook updates. Why was I looking for a place to stay in Ohio and Indiana? Was I going somewhere? Why was she the last to know? Truth be told, it was a shoot from the hip affair. My vague Facebook profiles were about as well informed as I was. It seems Facebook is just a terrible news medium. Sorry, Hon, I just decided today... you're welcome to come along, but uh, pack light, really light. Also, I need to see about a tent. Kelsie declined my generous offer, and suddenly a riding partner struck me as a nice idea. As for digging up a riding partner, here's trip tip # 1: people with running motorcycles have jobs. People without jobs tend not to have enough money to rebuild blown motors.
Saturday we shopped Wayne Cycle in Waynesboro, VA. They had some Fieldsheer soft side saddle bags for relatively cheap, which improved the packing scene. I also got outfitted with deep discount rain gear (all of it in my size, tall and skinny... this never happens) and an Airhawk seat. With somewhere to put clothes, I took Peter Egan's advice and stuffed the new bags full of worn underwear and stained jeans, clothes worthy of throwing away along the journey. No laundry, more space for the inevitable souvenir crap, and if everything went right there wouldn't be much to bring home. I started designing intricate bungee webs to tie all of my bags and camping gear together and pondering the benefits of each variation. Save decent rubber I was trip ready.
The local bike shop, despite their apathetic stance to my schedule, (central Virginia to central Ohio by nightfall) managed to get new tread mounted by 10:30 Monday morning. The trip rubber would be Bridgestone Trailwing 80/20 on/off road tires. Not perfect for all the mountain climbing and highway driving scheduled, but better than running on the remnants of tread past, or worse, waiting until Wednesday. With the wheel mounted and bags bound together in an intricate web of colorful bungee the trip officially started just a few minutes before noon.
I stopped at the first stoplight on the way out of town about 12:15. Trip tip #2: If you can smell toasted neoprene, it's already too late. In the parking lot of 'Our Lady of Perpetual Resilience' or similar church, the bag situation began to grow dire. Upon reevaluation, it looked as if a stoned spider had dropped acid and laid technicolor web all over, and the bags had already sagged onto the pipes. A few white haired ladies were, apparently, doing laps of the parking lot as I rebuilt the web and shifted the bags. Half convinced the new system would work I climbed back on the bike to finally ready to leave my zip code.
As the trip went on, the Blue Ridge Mountains grew until I was climbing and trees were all that could be seen. In western Virginia the BMW really came into it's own. At only 425lbs wet, the bike easily chewed up Appalachia. The new tires even took the fight out of the turns as the road became all corners. Even fully loaded, the bike popped right over the hills. The mountains rose and fell into West Virginia and passed through about a hundred little towns, just speed bumps to remind you of where you are. Before this trip the only things I knew of West Virginia were gleaned from gas station bathrooms and the back country knowledge of “Deliverance.” But, in the real world If you own a motorcycle you need to find somewhere to go on the other side of Appalachia, it's worth the trip. The whole day disappeared in a flash of downshifts and leanings.
The first night's camp was in the Hocking Hills region on southeastern Ohio, where I surveyed the day's damage. My saddle bags were slowly decaying, I had torn off a mounting strap at a gas station while lifting the bags. (Because, of course, the gas tank is at the rear and the bags had to come off at every fill up.) and I almost tore off one of the handles by jerking the whole rig off the bike at the camp site. According to calculations, the bags would be thrown away before the last of my clothes. Trouble. With camp set up, I dwelled on this eventuality, but was interrupted as a mother and her kids approached. “It looks like you're on an interesting trip, we brought you a bedtime snack.” She handed me s'mores. As I took the plate, confused, the woman added, “Oh, the milk is also organic, in case that's important.” Her kids ran off to their site like I was a monster. I managed to get out a thanks as she waved and toddled off. Stunned, I ate my bedtime snack. The next morning I took extra time loading to keep the remaining straps attached to the bags, and the remaining bag from dripping away under high heat. With everything meticulously tied together, I carefully backed into a tree on the way out of camp, cracking my tail light lens. I wonder what will be left by the time I get home.
Past Ohio is faring country, all wind and corn. All I can say is avoid Indianapolis, bring some music, and the food at Hardee's hasn't gotten any better since the last time you ate there. If you've never been to Indiana, the crossroads of the nation, I can save you some trouble. Like much of the midwest you feel as if you're riding on 'no' street expecting to cross 'where' avenue at any moment. Depending on where you're at, sprinkle in alternating bean and corn fields. This will get you to Minnesota. I appreciate and love the midwest, where I was born and raised, but it is not a place for small, dual sport motorcycles. After two days of grinding through the glacier-flattened states, I finally arrived home.
Going home is great after you haven't lived there for a while. I found my dad at the country club, though he hasn't golfed since his back was blown out in the middle of 18 holes some years ago. I walked in and stood right next to him at the bar. It must have been five minutes before he even realized who I was. Startled and smiling, he bought me a couple of beers and asked about the trip. His friends recounted some rather vivid stories and after 1,300 miles I felt like a war hero. The real star back in Minnesota, as well as through the rest of the trip though, was the AirHawk seat I picked up in Waynesboro right before leaving. It absolutely transformed the hard BMW seat. I have a theory about the Germans and their seats. It goes that Germans either come schnitzel softened enough to use a hard seat like this, or are thin, efficient, engineering types who view discomfort as weakness. My dad, his bad back and his '84 Virago have the same distance problem I had when I set off on my trip. After bout 20 miles pops is all but used up. But, I tossed him that seat before riding on Thursday and he managed to get through 150 miles of without much ado or excessive stopping. He even called me today to get the information so he could get his own.
