Trail’s End

I made it back home at dusk yesterday. I traveled 466 miles from Jonesboro, AR to my home in London. Altogether I  rode 4371 miles on this 11 day trip. As you know I cut the trip short by a week so I can attend my son’s commissioning ceremony. There will be other trips, other destinations, but only one swearing in day.

I rode through familiar territory all day yesterday. I have duck hunted in Arkansas in this area over the years so I know the places where I have hunted but that is not at all to say I really knew the area. The towns are larger and the farms are more developed than it all appears when all you have on your  mind is shooting ducks. I left Jonesboro early and rode east toward home and soon found myself back in rice fields and the wind that accompanies these vast areas of open ground. Thankfully it didn’t last long and I was able to enjoy the rising sun and the lush green crop fields of Arkansas before moving on over into Missouri which, in that area, is also heavily agricultural. Having been in the southwest where water is a precious commodity and desert is the norm, the grass and crops in these  Mississippi river valleys were almost neon green  in their appearance.  I crossed the Mississippi near Dyersburg , Tennessee.

I want to give the Mississippi River its due. There are other rivers in this country for sure. The Rio Grande, Missouri, Chattahoochee, Cumberland and the Ohio are waterways that are prominent in our literature and culture but all of them lack the sheer size and scale that gives the Mississippi its enduring grandeur. I have crossed her many times and every time I am in awe of her size. Now do that on a motorcycle at 65 mph in a crosswind on an elevated bridge and you come to respect the river even more.

Once I crossed the border into Kentucky I was home. My wife is from Mayfield so far western Kentucky has been home for me since 1977 even though I live in London.  I rode to Mayfield and cruised by Susan’s old street before riding over to the building which formerly housed the Merit Clothing Company. The Merit was for many decades a manufacturer of men’s suits, both their own label and for other, more famous brands in the men’s apparel industry. Susan’s father was the Executive Vice President, Secretary and Treasurer of the Merit and worked there for 45 years. My first suits as a young lawyer came from the Merit and were manufactured in this building complex in downtown Mayfield. It seemed only right to get a picture of  the old Merit with my GS since they both, in their own way, carried me some considerable distance from where I began two very different journeys in my life.

It was getting on toward the lunch hour as I left Mayfield. I knew where I wanted to eat and I hoped they would be open. I was in luck and found Belew’s in Aurora, Kentucky doing a brisk business. Belew’s is a hamburger stand where the girls, yes, only girls, come out and take your order and then bring you your food. They even walk out to guys riding GS’s and take their orders. When I arrived the parking lot was packed with cars and a larger contingent of some sort of Jeep enthusiasts club, the kind where the owners throw tons of chrome and  oversized tires on the outside and then fill the inside with leather and stereo equipment, it being their intention to strut in their Jeeps but never really put them to the test. You know, a lot like Harley riders. Speaking of which, I had not been there for more than a couple of minutes when in roared a Harley contingent and they were typical in every conceivable Harley way. To a man they were all dressed like clown pirates at an amusement park, sporting black leathers, chains and bandanas. Just one or two  helmets, and plenty of sleeveless t-shirts to, of course, show off all the ink on those biceps. I spoke to a few of them but got no replies. I guess I just intimidated the hell out of them what with me dressed like a great big banana in my yellow coat and yellow helmet.

Which brings me to Harley biker manners. When I was out west ALL riders waved to each other. We spoke at gas stations. We were interested in each other’s gear. I don’t know why, but once I was in Kentucky the waves stopped and the surly “I wish I had been at the Waco biker shootout to be a badass” attitude blossomed. My theory on the good western manners has to do with geography. Things are so spread out in the western states, gas stations and repair assistance are so hard to find, that bikers know they need to rely on each other and are just glad to see someone who might be of assistance to them. Then come east where things are so concentrated and you are never more than five or ten miles from gas and it’s suddenly easier to cop an attitude.

The lack of manners issue extended to the western Kentucky Jeep enthusiasts or at least one of them. I had parked my bike in the parking lot just like everybody else. It was hot. I was tired. I had, as baby Hoss Cartwright had pointed out the day before, a genuine case of the sore-ass and I had been riding hard for three days. In short, just because I looked like a Chiquita banana I was not someone you wanted to mess with. That’s when fancy Jeep redneck who was parked behind me stuck his baseball cap covered jug head out the window and said to me “Hey buddy. Move your bike. I want to pull through there.”

Now…my bike as loaded weighs about 650 pounds. I’ve just taken off my armor and helmet and ordered.

I looked at Jeep boy and his woman and did what any proper southern gentleman would do. I said “No.”

And then I stood there.

Jeep boy got the message and moved on another way.

 I wasn’t about to let the parking lot encounter ruin my Belew’s burger and chocolate shake. I thoroughly enjoyed them and then it was off toward Bowling Green where I would refuel and then hit the final leg for home.

I stopped at an IGA convenience store on the western side of BG to fill up. As I was doing so a Harley comes roaring up. The rider was about my age. He too, like the other Harley guys, works in pirate movies and is invincible since he had no protective gear on unless you count the vest he was wearing  over his bare chest. He proceeded to fill his bike up. In a few moments he peered around the island and spoke.

“Is that a BMW?”

“Yes.” I replied.

“I thought so. My dad had one of those.”

And so it goes. My relationship with Harley riders is a work in progress.

Fortunately I did not have to speak with other Harley riders on the two and a half hour ride home from Bowling Green. I encountered one last brief rain shower in the final five minutes of my ride home and then it was over. I pulled in to the driveway and there were Susan, Elliott and Sydney to greet me.

So here I am. The “I’m Still Here Tour 2015” is at an end. I traveled over 4,000 miles in eleven days and had a great time. I met interesting people and rode some really terrific roads. As you might expect, I have some more intimate personal reflections as a cancer survivor which I will share with some of you when the time is right. As to my friends in the world of BMW bikes, I’m going to do a follow-up piece on my experiences with equipment and the bike – what worked, what I liked and what I did not. I want to take a few days and reflect on that before I speak on the gear that got me through.

So, you may ask, “Was it worth it? Would you do it again?”

The answer to those questions is yes and yes. Look, riding a motorcycle is not for everyone. You have to WANT to do it and if you want to get back alive you will follow-up the want with a ton of preparation, practice and training. I did all of those and I used all of my training at some point on the trip. As to the worth of the thing I will say that this was a physically demanding undertaking. It required stamina, physical strength in maneuvering a big bike around and a lot of coordination and self-confidence. Most of you have those things and take them for granted. Cancer patients do not. We are not what we once were or at least we worry that we are becoming less of who we were, that we are being diminished by the disease. In truth age diminishes us all but that is a slower progression than cancer can be if left untreated. In truth, I have never had a bad day since being diagnosed with prostate cancer but the worry is always there, the fear of the thing is always floating around in the back of your mind somewhere. A trip like this served for me to assert my own existence on my terms, to say to the disease that came to kill me “You may take my life but you will never ever take the living of a full life from me. I will live it up until the very end and the disease be damned.”

I hope to do other rides like this in the future. My new British friends invited me to do a next year’s ride with them and I just may do it.

This blog started out as a way to just keep a few of you in the loop. It has evolved into something more as writing can and often does. Some of you know I write a lot. This little blog has given me an idea for another project. We’ll see where it goes in the coming months.

Be safe and bless you all. I’ll see you on the road…

Brian