How the Journal Began
In 1990 I started taking short motorcycle trips –usually 4 or 5 days to states surrounding Illinois. I would read about a locale and then explore the area. My first trip was on a Yamaha Seca 750. The bike was given to me by a friend. It had been sitting in his garage for several years. For the next several years, I took numerous trips through Illinois and Indiana.
During each trip, I would try to write about the places that I visited and my thoughts and feeling along the way. “Would try” is the key word in that sentence. Some trips I managed to eke out a couple of lines, other times nothing. Most of the early journals are lost which might have been for the best. The following is an example I found recently.
During each trip, I would try to write about the places that I visited and my thoughts and feeling along the way. “Would try” is the key word in that sentence. Some trips I managed to eke out a couple of lines, other times nothing. Most of the early journals are lost which might have been for the best. The following is an example I found recently.
Travels with Mike
August 3, 1993
I hope Steinbeck won't mind me stealing part of his title. Wait, wasn't Charlie a dog?
I have been telling myself for a long time that I should keep a journal of the trips I take on the bike. I have never done that until now. I wonder how long I will keep this up. If anyone ever reads this, you will soon discover how boring these trips are to someone other than me.
I started on Wednesday morning, July 31. I was a bit reluctant to go since I had just finished the Mac Race the week before, and I had gone on a 5 day bike trip to southern Indiana in the end of June or early July -already I can't remember. I better get this on paper before it fades too. Anyway, I decided to head to Iowa. I knew that the terrain around the Mississippi River would make fun riding and gorgeous scenery. My goal was to get to Galena, IL and then to Dubuque, Iowa. From there I had no idea where to go. I didn't have a map or any information about the state. The beginning of the trip I took the highway out of the Chicago. I hate highways. The speed is part of my hatred toward the highway, but it is also the cars. It also makes me feel constricted, even when there are no cars. The scenery is boring. The highway allows no options, you have to go to a destination, not enjoy the ride. It is the ride that motivates me to do this for I have no destination in mind. Harry Chapin said in one of his songs, “It’s got to be the going not the getting there that is good." I need to remember that more often when I am not on the bike.
The weather was cold this morning so I ended up putting on my rain suit to keep warm. I knew I looked silly, but I am not a Harley man. I do have conflicts with image at times. How much of the adventure is a romantic ideation with motorcycle travel, vs. the discomfort? Do I really think I am Bronson? Early TV program, I must have watched in my formative years. My I do wander. Pun!!
I did arrive at Galena. It is in a beautiful area, but the town was packed with tourists. I know I am a tourist, but I am pure at heart and low on money so shopping does appeal to me. No place to put purchases. I stayed about 20 minutes, enough to ride some of the steep ridges and look at the houses. I was off to Dubuque.
It has been a beautify ride with the rolling hills and picturesque valleys. Seeing farms after farm with their scents of nature made me thirst for more. It is warmer and I feel the thrill of the road with its twists and turns. I cross the bridge over the Mississippi River and as always, I am taken back by its grandeur. How insignificant we are, yet how powerful we feel. I went to the visitor’s center to figure out where I am going to sleep tonight and to peruse the locations of my next day’s adventures.
That was all that was written. So much for keeping a journal, as you can see Travels with Mike is no competition for Steinbeck .
August 3, 1993
I hope Steinbeck won't mind me stealing part of his title. Wait, wasn't Charlie a dog?
I have been telling myself for a long time that I should keep a journal of the trips I take on the bike. I have never done that until now. I wonder how long I will keep this up. If anyone ever reads this, you will soon discover how boring these trips are to someone other than me.
I started on Wednesday morning, July 31. I was a bit reluctant to go since I had just finished the Mac Race the week before, and I had gone on a 5 day bike trip to southern Indiana in the end of June or early July -already I can't remember. I better get this on paper before it fades too. Anyway, I decided to head to Iowa. I knew that the terrain around the Mississippi River would make fun riding and gorgeous scenery. My goal was to get to Galena, IL and then to Dubuque, Iowa. From there I had no idea where to go. I didn't have a map or any information about the state. The beginning of the trip I took the highway out of the Chicago. I hate highways. The speed is part of my hatred toward the highway, but it is also the cars. It also makes me feel constricted, even when there are no cars. The scenery is boring. The highway allows no options, you have to go to a destination, not enjoy the ride. It is the ride that motivates me to do this for I have no destination in mind. Harry Chapin said in one of his songs, “It’s got to be the going not the getting there that is good." I need to remember that more often when I am not on the bike.
The weather was cold this morning so I ended up putting on my rain suit to keep warm. I knew I looked silly, but I am not a Harley man. I do have conflicts with image at times. How much of the adventure is a romantic ideation with motorcycle travel, vs. the discomfort? Do I really think I am Bronson? Early TV program, I must have watched in my formative years. My I do wander. Pun!!
I did arrive at Galena. It is in a beautiful area, but the town was packed with tourists. I know I am a tourist, but I am pure at heart and low on money so shopping does appeal to me. No place to put purchases. I stayed about 20 minutes, enough to ride some of the steep ridges and look at the houses. I was off to Dubuque.
It has been a beautify ride with the rolling hills and picturesque valleys. Seeing farms after farm with their scents of nature made me thirst for more. It is warmer and I feel the thrill of the road with its twists and turns. I cross the bridge over the Mississippi River and as always, I am taken back by its grandeur. How insignificant we are, yet how powerful we feel. I went to the visitor’s center to figure out where I am going to sleep tonight and to peruse the locations of my next day’s adventures.
That was all that was written. So much for keeping a journal, as you can see Travels with Mike is no competition for Steinbeck .
In 1995 I bought a Yamaha Virago 1100. It was used and had 5,000 miles on it. For the next three years, I continued my short trips, but was able to expand the distance with a bigger and more comfortable bike.
During all of my rides, I never traveled more than 5 to 6 hundred miles from home. Throughout the entire riding season, I would only put 3 to 4 thousand miles on the bike.
While I was recovering from surgery for prostrate cancer in December of 2007, I discovered more early journals. My guess is that I wrote it in 1995 or 6. I remember the trip, but forgot that I wrote them. This was before I started emailing my journal home. I am amazed that the feelings I had at that time still drove me to explore more and more of the country in later years.
During all of my rides, I never traveled more than 5 to 6 hundred miles from home. Throughout the entire riding season, I would only put 3 to 4 thousand miles on the bike.
While I was recovering from surgery for prostrate cancer in December of 2007, I discovered more early journals. My guess is that I wrote it in 1995 or 6. I remember the trip, but forgot that I wrote them. This was before I started emailing my journal home. I am amazed that the feelings I had at that time still drove me to explore more and more of the country in later years.
This first entry is not dated.
I have discovered why I travel by bike. It is such a freeing feeling. It’s an adventure. The joy I feeling cruising the back roads is overwhelming, but there is more. It’s the people that I have met that make it so exciting. Maybe it is my openness to the adventure because I am momentarily free from the trappings of my own life or because I ride alone, but whatever the reason, people are very friendly toward me.
Yesterday I meet some great people. I stopped at the John Deere Village near Dixon, IL. It is a historic recreation. I walked around for several hours. When I stopped at the blacksmith shop, the blacksmith asked me if I was the biker. I didn’t look like a biker and that is not how I thought of myself, at least not at that point, but I was pleased for some reason. We talked for about 40 minutes. I learned about his daily life as a blacksmith and about his hopes and his dreams for the future.
Later that day, I was in Bishop Hill, IL. Bishop Hill is another historic site preserved by the State of Illinois. I stopped in a bar and a couple of state workers asked me the same question. “Are you the biker?” From them I learned the frustrations of people who love what they do, but have inadequate funding. As other people came in, I was introduced to them. It was as if I was a long lost friend. I asked where I could camp and was told I could camp in the town square. One of the guys made a phone call. A moment later, he came back to tell me no one would bother me. I pitched my tent in the town square.
The next morning I was up early and sat in front of the only diner in town. I was dying for a cup of coffee. I saw people going into the diner, but the sign on the door said closed so I sat on the curb and read. An older couple stopped to talk. They invited me in, explaining that it was a birthday breakfast for a friend. I was introduced to several groups of people and was now part of the celebration. Once again I was amazed at the warmth given to a stranger.
Yesterday I meet some great people. I stopped at the John Deere Village near Dixon, IL. It is a historic recreation. I walked around for several hours. When I stopped at the blacksmith shop, the blacksmith asked me if I was the biker. I didn’t look like a biker and that is not how I thought of myself, at least not at that point, but I was pleased for some reason. We talked for about 40 minutes. I learned about his daily life as a blacksmith and about his hopes and his dreams for the future.
Later that day, I was in Bishop Hill, IL. Bishop Hill is another historic site preserved by the State of Illinois. I stopped in a bar and a couple of state workers asked me the same question. “Are you the biker?” From them I learned the frustrations of people who love what they do, but have inadequate funding. As other people came in, I was introduced to them. It was as if I was a long lost friend. I asked where I could camp and was told I could camp in the town square. One of the guys made a phone call. A moment later, he came back to tell me no one would bother me. I pitched my tent in the town square.
The next morning I was up early and sat in front of the only diner in town. I was dying for a cup of coffee. I saw people going into the diner, but the sign on the door said closed so I sat on the curb and read. An older couple stopped to talk. They invited me in, explaining that it was a birthday breakfast for a friend. I was introduced to several groups of people and was now part of the celebration. Once again I was amazed at the warmth given to a stranger.
The journal told about one experience during those early trips that I will never forget. It took place in a shower room of all places.
Usually I am very careful about my possessions especially in the shower room. This particular day as I stepped out of the shower with a towel around my waist; there were two rough looking men standing there. Since I am from Chicago, I don’t always have a lot of faith in people. I normally carry a knife in my boot and one on my belt. Unfortunately the two men were standing between me and my clothes. The one man asked me in a southern drawl if the bike outside was mine. I nodded my head and before I could say anything, he announced, “We’re Okies.” I just kept nodding my head. A million thoughts went through my mind and none of them good. In front of me were two big rough looking guys and my only weapon was a towel. What was I going to do – snap them to death? The other guy spoke up in the same southern drawl and said, “Nice bike.” I nodded my thanks, but had no idea where this conversation was going.
Then the first guy explained that they were camped down the road and installed cell phone towers. They invited me to come down and have dinner and a few beers with them and their families. An hour later, I walked down and couldn’t figure out which trailers were theirs so I walked back to my campsite. A few minutes later they arrive at my encampment with their wives and kids. Once again I was treated as part of the family. I learned about their nomadic life working for a company that moves them all around the US. Between them, they had 8 kids. Would they have reached out if I was driving a car? I don’t know, but I was touched by their hospitality, but coming from Chicago, I was also afraid of it. This was not my norm.
Then the first guy explained that they were camped down the road and installed cell phone towers. They invited me to come down and have dinner and a few beers with them and their families. An hour later, I walked down and couldn’t figure out which trailers were theirs so I walked back to my campsite. A few minutes later they arrive at my encampment with their wives and kids. Once again I was treated as part of the family. I learned about their nomadic life working for a company that moves them all around the US. Between them, they had 8 kids. Would they have reached out if I was driving a car? I don’t know, but I was touched by their hospitality, but coming from Chicago, I was also afraid of it. This was not my norm.
The journal continues with:
I look forward to today. I miss Francie and the kids especially when I am around people and their families, but today is another adventure. Maybe that is why I love life so much. I see it as a long adventure. It brings good times and bad. Both are challenges. You have choices and consequences, rewards and punishments. So often I get caught up in life’s trappings and forget about people. I forget that there are lots of people struggling just like I am. The people, who have befriended me and shared their life with me, have allowed me to struggle less because they have filled my heart with hope.
I wish that I could share this feeling with my children, but maybe these realizations only come from age and hard times.
The final line of the journal states,” If I should die, I can say that these trips have taught me how to live.”
I wish that I could share this feeling with my children, but maybe these realizations only come from age and hard times.
The final line of the journal states,” If I should die, I can say that these trips have taught me how to live.”
If Short Trips are Fun: Long Trips Must Be Better
I decided it was time to give back the bike I borrowed from a friend and get a bike that was bigger. As I said before, I purchased a 1992 Yamaha Virago 1100 in the spring 1995. It was the biggest bike I have ever owned. Buying it was not an easy process.
I had the money saved. I stood staring at the bike and turned looking at the counter. I had my check in my hand. “This is what you want. It is a good deal and it is a beautiful bike.” The words kept reverberating through my mind. “I already have a bike,” but the inner voice countered, “You have outgrown it. Besides it really isn’t yours.” I paced back and forth like a caged lion. I looked at the new bike. I looked at the old bike. Finally I looked at Francie, my wife. She smiled knowingly and told me to go pay for the new bike. At the time I was sure it would be my last bike because I couldn’t imagine wanting a more powerful or heavier bike.
In 1998 Francie’s brother Tony wanted me to bring my bike to his house in Princeton, NJ, so we could ride together. My first thought was to rent a trailer, but it was too expensive. I thought about putting it in the van, but then there would be no room for anyone else. Finally I decided to ride it. It took me three days to get to Tony’s house. It was my first distance ride and I fell in love. I couldn’t get enough. I camped at night, met lots of people and became part of the scenery I was seeing.
The next year I traveled to New Hampshire to visit a friend and his wife. The joy I felt from the year before was not a fluke. I loved every minute of the ride. From this trip a monster was born. This desire, this need to be on the open road has taken me thousands of miles through three quarters of the United States and every province in Canada except the Northwest Territory and Labrador.
You will notice there is a pattern to my trips. They are always during the latter part of July and the beginning of August. I race on a large sailboat with my wife Francie. We are part of a 12 person crew. It is a large time commitment. We sail at least once a week; there are weeks that we will race 3 days. Each year we do the Mac Race. It is from Chicago to Mackinac Island, MI. The race is 333 miles long. It is held during the 2nd or 3rd week in July. The boat usually takes a week to come back from the island and the following week there is no race. I miss only one race and have close to three weeks to ride. By this time of the summer my wife is glad to see me leave for the first few days.
I had the money saved. I stood staring at the bike and turned looking at the counter. I had my check in my hand. “This is what you want. It is a good deal and it is a beautiful bike.” The words kept reverberating through my mind. “I already have a bike,” but the inner voice countered, “You have outgrown it. Besides it really isn’t yours.” I paced back and forth like a caged lion. I looked at the new bike. I looked at the old bike. Finally I looked at Francie, my wife. She smiled knowingly and told me to go pay for the new bike. At the time I was sure it would be my last bike because I couldn’t imagine wanting a more powerful or heavier bike.
In 1998 Francie’s brother Tony wanted me to bring my bike to his house in Princeton, NJ, so we could ride together. My first thought was to rent a trailer, but it was too expensive. I thought about putting it in the van, but then there would be no room for anyone else. Finally I decided to ride it. It took me three days to get to Tony’s house. It was my first distance ride and I fell in love. I couldn’t get enough. I camped at night, met lots of people and became part of the scenery I was seeing.
The next year I traveled to New Hampshire to visit a friend and his wife. The joy I felt from the year before was not a fluke. I loved every minute of the ride. From this trip a monster was born. This desire, this need to be on the open road has taken me thousands of miles through three quarters of the United States and every province in Canada except the Northwest Territory and Labrador.
You will notice there is a pattern to my trips. They are always during the latter part of July and the beginning of August. I race on a large sailboat with my wife Francie. We are part of a 12 person crew. It is a large time commitment. We sail at least once a week; there are weeks that we will race 3 days. Each year we do the Mac Race. It is from Chicago to Mackinac Island, MI. The race is 333 miles long. It is held during the 2nd or 3rd week in July. The boat usually takes a week to come back from the island and the following week there is no race. I miss only one race and have close to three weeks to ride. By this time of the summer my wife is glad to see me leave for the first few days.
Miscellaneous Meaningless Meanderings Become
Motorcycle Journals
The journal was born out of a necessity to keep in contact with Francie, my wife. With the short trips, I would call home every couple of days, but as the motorcycle trips became longer in order to stave off worry more frequent communication became necessary. Since cell phones were not common yet, I bought a calling card and used a pay phone. How old do you have to be to understand that sentence? To keep expenses down, I became motivated to write about my day, stop at a library and email Francie.
By the time I started taking cross county trips, many of my friends and my family asked if I would include them in my email list. Rather than just letting Francie know I was safe, I began thinking about how I would explain to others what I had seen and experienced. During those long hours riding across the plains, ( I never did this in the mountains) I would create clever, picturesque images and humorous lines to share with my readers only to have them all evaporate the moment I had an opportunity to share them.
By the time I started taking cross county trips, many of my friends and my family asked if I would include them in my email list. Rather than just letting Francie know I was safe, I began thinking about how I would explain to others what I had seen and experienced. During those long hours riding across the plains, ( I never did this in the mountains) I would create clever, picturesque images and humorous lines to share with my readers only to have them all evaporate the moment I had an opportunity to share them.
The following journal is my first trip to the West coast. I sold the Virago and bought a used 1997 Kawasaki Vulcan 1500 in October of 1999. It was bigger and heavier than my Virago making it a perfect cross county motorcycle. I bought it with the intention of driving to Seattle to meet Francie while she was visiting her college roommate. We would then go to Vancouver to see my college roommate.