“I think we’ll have another slice of pie”, as he cuddled with his new wife having swapped out the old wife 2 years before meeting and falling head over heels for this, his second. Quite an upgrade in the looks department and a biker to boot I thought. Their love was still fresh, and tart and hinted of renewal like the last bite of summer blueberries lying on the plastic plate.

What the hell I thought sitting back down into the tattered rattan chair and scanning the hillside as it disappeared into a thick tangle of trees and vines. My mind clouded by the meal of greasy cheeseburgers, limp French fries, and diet coke chilled by ice smelling of sulfur. This trip may become a motorcycle ride if we could stay away from the inns and dives always offering the best of something. The best blueberry pie in this case, the best hot coffee in the previous and the absolute best biscuits and gravy at the one before this.

On this trip I moved at a pace set by others. Instead of long hours leaning into tight turns at speeds that challenged my skills I melted into cheap restaurant furniture trying to avoid the stares of strangers. Me in my rough-cut leathers, red flannel shirt, heavy boots and black head scarf with images of long dead pirates. All 280 lbs, gray beard, clean shaven head and nose red from to many rounds at the bars I spent most of my time in at home my blue jeaned bottom strained the over-stretched woven cane. The lovers still embracing shared every bite of food, speaking together in soft voices just loud enough to acknowledge my presence but broken and coded to avoid any interruption. Glancing over her shoulder the departing waitress looked right though me focusing more on the Boston Fern hanging over my shoulder than expecting an answer from me. “You want anything”? In one of those moments where I chose to select my words carefully instead of tossing the quick witty remark that would aptly describe my feelings I stared back at her, burning a hole through the plastic lens of her glasses. Point made and point taken, the waitress retreated to her red stool by the bar.

“You sure you don’t want a piece of pie? You really need to try the pie, you don’t know what you’re missing, and this really is the best darn blueberry pie I have ever eaten”. “Yes”, a softer, definitely female voice offered, “you really should try the pie”. “No guys, I’m fine, just ready to get back on the road and back to camp before it gets dark” I replied. “We’ll only be a moment longer,” she added. “Joe loves good pie and I must admit this is some of the very best pie I have ever eaten”. “Judging from the damage he did to that first piece I’d have to say it must be pretty good pie” I offered.

Conversation distracted the attentions paid to each other long enough to produce a break in their embrace. Leaning way back in his chair stretching his arms toward the fading sun a huge grin filled his face. “Does it get any better than this,” he beamed, “that’s what I love about these motorcycle rides, the time we spend together as friends”. For a moment I could see why Gay fell in love with my friend. He valued the people in his life more than anything else, often putting the needs of his friends ahead of his own needs. “Yes, I’m so glad we have spent the last couple of days together”, that soft delicate female voice whispered. “You really get to know people when you travel together” she added.

The waitress returned with the warm blueberry pie. As she laid a new plastic plate in front of Gay, her left hand extended the plate full of pie towards Joe. His eyes grew with anticipation and then disappointment. “What, no ice cream? I’m sorry, did I forget to ask you to add a scoop of that vanilla ice cream? Would you mind adding a bit of ice cream, it’s not to late is it?” “No Sir, I’ll be happy to get ice cream for you, stay right where you are and I’ll retrieve it right now for you”. Flashing across my closed eyelids, like the credits of a movie ‘stay right where you are’ bore into my brain. Fifty-year-old fingers protruding from my gloves tried to massage the words out of my head to no good purpose. Stay right where you are she had said, damn, we sure ain’t getting out of here until we get the pie thing right I replied with words that never passed my lips.

Opening my left eye just enough to fein a headache I noticed the pie begin to sink under the weight of the thick dough crust, forming a pool of blueberry innards that inched toward the edge of the plate. Strictly the passive observer I watched as the plate filled with warm blue ooze, and wondered how the vanilla ice cream would change the color of the white paper tablecloth as it was added to the pending overflow of mashed blueberries.

Tablecloth catastrophe was averted when the ice cream in it’s own deeper bowl was placed on the table and Joe’s plastic spoon retrieved half a scoop of the blue and then half a scoop of the artificially colored yellow. The spoonful of sweetness brought a smile to Gay’s face as she enjoyed the treat. The food brought them closer again, he moving his chair to be nearer to her, she swinging her left arm around his shoulder.

“You know, we almost missed this place, I’m so glad we stopped, aren’t you honey”. Her response was a smile not quite wide enough to expose what I was sure where blue stained teeth. “I’m sure glad I put new brakes on the Goldwing;” he offered to the table, “we really had to lay down on them to make that turn into the driveway”. “Yea Joe, that was quite a maneuver, I saw your brake lights just about the time I looked up from my speedometer. That would have been hard to explain to the police, biker killed trying to get a piece of pie! I’m just glad you made the turn to the left and got out of my way cuz I had this vision of flying over my handlebars and ending up in Gay’s lap.” “Sorry brother, didn’t realize it was that close.” “Seventy miles an hour to a dead stop in the middle of the highway kind of got my attention but what the hell that kind of stuff happens all the time, right Joe.” Just thinking what this lunch could have cost me made my hands sweat.

“You guys about ready to hit it? I’d really like to get back on the road,” I said as I slowly pulled myself out of the deep, cane chair and pushed my hands toward the ceiling. Stretching all 6ft 2inchs felt good after the long lunch and I was looking forward to getting back to why I came on this trip. Putting the rubber to the Arkansas asphalt between Hot Springs and Russellville. Another couple of hours of verified great motorcycle road, then an hour or so to the campground. I was looking forward to the cool air and smooth highway to clear my mind. A deep yawn that ended up sounding more like the roar of a caged lion blew any chance I had of remaining anonymous to the rest of the diners and startled Joe and Gay.

“Ok, I can take a hint” Joe laughed, “let me hit the men’s room and pay for lunch; we’ll meet you outside.”

The pathway to outside and freedom was cordoned with working folk and tourists trying to get a bite to eat before returning to the tasks they had planned. An elderly lady sitting with friends and sipping iced tea from a heavy tumbler averted her eyes and pulled her purse closer as I neared. I tried to think as she was thinking. Pulling the purse closer, was that an instinctive response to fear, the purse acting as a shield or was she simply making room for me to pass? I sensed her lowering her voice and mentioning to her friends that the roaring lion in leather was getting to close for her comfort. I could see her veined fingers clutch the purse even tighter. Her back stiffened as she leaned into her friends seeking the safety of the group.

Bending over as I passed her I paused, just a slowed step actually but staying long enough for her to look up at me out of the corner of her eye. I knew she was trying to ignore me but she was trapped in the open like an injured fawn, a meeting she couldn’t avoid, a confrontation she hoped would be fast and painless. Before she could ask what I wanted, before she could protest my invasion of her personal space I leaned deeper, a knight’s bow to his queen’s grace. My lips parted, a wide smile showing my cracked, smoke stained teeth as our eyes met.

“Mam , don’t forget the blueberry pie, I understand that it’s quite good”.

After nearly 3 years of begging and pleading, when I was 10 years old my mom finally broke down and bought me a used motorcycle. It was a 50cc Honda, with 3 gears and a shift pattern of N-1-2-3 with a cable clutch. The first time I laid eyes on it, I knew then it was the most beautiful motorcycle in the world: I had to have it. Lucky for me, my mom was willing to part with the insane price of $40.00 cash to get it for me.

I was a skinny little runt back then and my older brother at 14 outweighed me nearly double. That little bike sure had spirit, though. It would pull my brother and I up the steep hills around the house like we weighed nothing, as long as we attempted those ‘hill climbs’ in first gear.

I had my first experience at being a mechanic with that bike. I would pull old shifter cables off the neglected bicycles in the shed and use them to jimmy-rig a working clutch when my cable would break. I didn’t know much about preventative maintenance. Couple squirts of oil on the chain and sprocket, gas in the tank, and I was ready to ride. I managed to pull the carburetor off once or twice. Take it all apart, soak all the parts in gasoline in an old plastic pan, and put it all back together so it would run again.

Top speed of that mean machine was likely less than 25 miles per hour, yet the first time I was able to ride it for myself, I was flying. It was as if I had inherited the world. The huge world was brought into closer perspective when I had that motor and those two wheels under me. A 60 minute walk through the woods to an aunt and uncle’s house was reduced to 15 minutes of a most joyous ride imaginable. I would call ahead of time, and my aunt would have warm cookies fresh out of the oven when I got there. A quick card game or two, and I would climb back on my steel horse and gallop away. More often than not, I would take the long way home and it was still an hour for the return trip.

I remember once in my travels, I stumbled upon an old, neglected cemetery while traversing a newly found dirt road miles from home. One of the names upon the stones I read in somber peace that day had a military insignia chiseled out before the departed’s name. I remember standing ramrod straight in my best impersonation of attention, snapping forth my best attempt at a salute, and thanking that fallen soldier, that had perished many years before I was even born, for the opportunity for my freedom. I’m sure anybody watching then would have laughed at my futile attempts to be “grown up” that day in the woods, but it was that day in the woods when I realized I was growing up.

Moments later, I threw my leg back over my motorcycle, kicked it to life, and headed down that dusty road thinking to myself, this is what life is all about. Now, nearly 30 years later, I have an electric start. I have a helmet, gloves, and an armored jacket that I wear for my protection. I have, more importantly, come to realize that, thanking that Unknown Soldier, riding away on my motorcycle and looking for life’s next journey…really is what life is all about.

I sold that machine to a friend about 2 years later for $20.00 so he could get it set up for a nephew of his. It had served its purpose with this young child and it was time for it to go help the next adventurer. My older brother, now 18 and having joined the military asked me not longer after if I would like to take care of a brand new motorcycle he bought and kept at the house while he was stationed away. Of course, how could I refuse such an offer, but that, I’m afraid is a story for another day.

Yesterday was the first real ride of the season in Central Minnesota. I’d been around the city twice before in recent weeks on warm afternoons, but this time I went 150 miles and found some good, tight curves. The weather is finally, genuinely warm. Not the fickle, fleeting kind of March warm that disappears with the sun. The road has been heated by the sun, so my tires stick, and the air is warm too, so my muscles stay relaxed and ready. The scent of old leaves thawing slips through my helmet as I ride.

My motorcycle had been in a sullen slumber in the little shed in my backyard since New Year’s Eve day. Ok, I was the sullen one. I no longer own a snowmobile, which had been my winter rush. Three or four years of nowhere near enough snow saw to that, so I sold it. I couldn’t justify having a few thousand dollars worth of playtoy rusting in the garage. I had now lacked any form of good old-fashioned speed fix for over three months. (Dodging sloppy drivers on icy roads doesn’t count.) Yesterday, my cravings were satisfied, at least temporarily.

I live in a land of cornfields and lakes. Around the cornfields, the roads are squared and uninspiring. A sport rider usually likes curves. Around lakes, the curves can be plentiful. But so can cabins and their associated vacationer traffic. Speed in these areas isn’t a good idea. So I ride half an hour to the only curvy road that’s somewhat isolated from urban areas and typically has light traffic.

Truth be told, it’s not really a curvy road. It’s a typical northern road, but the corners are closer together. Instead of riding half a mile and turning at the end of a cornfield, this road seems to have been built after all the local farms were well established. At least that’s my best guess. For something like twenty miles, the corners come frequently. They’re almost all ninety degrees, but they vary in radius, and some are strung together in pairs. It’s pseudo-curvy, a good approximation of the roads I’ve ridden through mountain canyons in the west and southwest.

Here corners are marked with the yellow signs that I interpret as saying, “The posted speed limit is higher, but this is how slow we think you should go”. Sure. Thanks. For cattle trucks, maybe. The signs reading 35 get ignored. I roll through them at my normal back road pace. Having been stung a few times before by law enforcement, and being a generally responsible rider, that’s usually within ten of the posted speed limit. These corners get the bike leaned over some, but nothing serious. Heck, I’d lean that much with my wife on the back.

The ones reading 25 get my attention. If I get to daydreaming, they can be dangerous. I slow to about 50 for those. I shift my weight to the inside of the seat and tilt my upper body toward the mirror. The bike doesn’t have to lean as much then, so the tires grip better. It feels good. The forces generated by the lean angle press me downward into the seat. A motorcycle is always balanced, unlike a car, so there’s no feeling of pressure toward the outside of the turn. It’s all down, through the bike. It’s like flying. I smile behind my helmet.

One of the 25 m.p.h. curves catches me off guard. Riding is a release, and with that sometimes comes contemplation and distraction. I find myself entering the curve without having set up properly. I’m a bit too fast, and I’m sitting bolt-upright in the seat like a prim schoolteacher on a piano bench. Not good for fast riding. Adrenaline tingles in my blood. I lean and push on the inside handlebar. My eyes automatically find that fringe of grass that’s greener than the rest this time of year, having been warmed by the pavement. I don’t want to go there, yet I can’t look away. It’s a survival reaction, but it’s exactly the opposite of what I should be doing—looking through the turn and leaning harder.

Suddenly, the books I’ve read and the training I’ve done kick in. Or maybe it’s the realization that the ditch is probably more painful than the road. I decide that today isn’t my day for a crash, and I make a firm decision to remain in control of my fate. I press harder on the inside handlebar and force my eyes away from the shoulder. The machine leans willingly. It was my limitation, not the bike’s, which almost did me in. At the apex of the turn I feel the edge of my boot and the hard end of the footpeg grind the pavement briefly. It didn’t startle me this time, though. I’ve felt it before, and I’ve thought about it many times. On a bike like mine, if you’re dragging bike parts, you’re getting close to the edge of traction. That’s where the thrill lies, but it can be dangerous.

I mentally scold myself for having lapsed in concentration, and yet I smile. It felt good. It was poor form, but it was fun. I’ll do better next time.

The fifteen mile per hour signs are usually in small towns, where the state highway becomes a local street. The hazard lies in the sand left by the plows after snowstorms. It doesn’t get swept up in these little towns, and there hasn’t yet been a hard rain to clear it. I slow to about 25 and scour the road with my eyes, straining to see the sand before my tires are on it.

At the midpoint of the ride I stop for lunch at a Subway. I always feel a little conspicuous removing my safety gear in public places like that. Everyone watches. My state doesn’t have a helmet law, and this freedom is extrapolated by many riders to the point where they don’t wear much protective gear at all. I’ve been down before. I’ve spent weeks changing bandages on skin that wasn’t properly protected. Now I dress for the risk, as most European riders do… head to toe. It’s like wearing a seatbelt—once you’ve done it for a while, you feel exposed and vulnerable without it. So it takes a minute or two to pull of my gloves, helmet, and jacket at a lunch stop. I always feel that those watching are just waiting to see what the guy under all that stuff actually looks like.

People are sometimes curious. They ask if it’s hot with that jacket on. I tell them I’d rather be hot than bleeding. It makes the point. For non-riders, it’s often something they’ve never really considered before. Today, after I return to the table with my meal, the older gentleman who had pulled in behind me asks whether I was chilly on the bike today. I tell him no, it’s just right. I can wear my gear and not get hot. He asks whether I’ve ridden far. I tell him where I’ve come from, and I mentioned the road. He smiles knowingly. He and his wife sometimes drive it for a change of scenery. He says he can see why I’d like it.

After we eat, he wishes me a safe ride. I say thanks, then begin the process of gearing up again. Even this becomes thrilling, bringing to mind what’s ahead. I’m about to ride the same road back the way I came from. And it’s only the first real ride of the season.