This begins a serial account of the three-week motorcycle trip I took in June and July. I hope the icon showing me looking sort of cool will visually separate this series from my usual posts, which usually portray me as anything but. I'm publishing these posts hereโwith a few photos and videosโfor the enjoyment of any who are interested, but I realize they're off topic and don't expect them to be read by most of my Writing Boots audience. โDM
At 5:00 a.m. on Saturday,
June 27, I opened the gas valve, set the choke, turned the key and pushed the
starter button.
organizing itself to convince me I was making a mistake with this trip.
she would wake up, the five-year-old Scout reached for me from her bed and, over and over, screamed โDaddy!โ until I
simply had to walk away. Cristie and I sat on the couch gaping at idiots
talking to Larry King about Michael Jackson, who had died a couple days
earlier. I imagined but didnโt say that this is what people must do the night
before they report to prison.
in the dim bedroom light, pushing my lips into her cheek deeply. The comfort felt crazy to leave.
through the city, the cool blue predawn light made everything look greenblue
and shiny as if it had been scrubbed overnight just to convince me I was on the
Yellow Brick Road, headed in the wrong direction.
bridge, the sun sat perfectly on the surface of Lake Michigan, bobbing like a
lost toy ball.
than to gain by attempting to ride a motorcycle thousands of miles on country
roads from here to Nova Scotia in hopes that in none of the infinite moments between now and my theoretical return
would a deer jump out of the woods, a board fall off a truck in front of me, a tire burst, a rookie mistake send me into the back of a car.
departure, at a family dinner out, my wife said quietly while Scout was in the
bathroom, โPlease come back.โ
coming from my college sweetheart and my wife of 15 years, that it almost felt
that the trip was over, and I was already being welcomed home.
the last couple of weeks before I left, a subtle finality came across all of
us: No, this probably isnโt the last
time weโll see each other. But, maybe it is.
could neither ignore nor blithely accept that chance. This tripโmy owning a
motorcycle in the first placeโwas in defiance of my father. โIโm still
fascinated by Harleys new and old,โ my dad confessed at the end of a magazine
essay he wrote when I was a kid. โI guess Iโd never own one because it would be
a terrible example for a son I donโt ever want to go near a motorcycle of any
kind. Heโs got a good head on his shoulders, and Iโd like to keep it there.โ
That
my dad died six months before made my rebellion a betrayal. (Dad would soon take
his revenge.)
In any case, in the last two
weeks I had taken Scout to her first Cubs game, she and I had slept out on the
back porch one night, we had played together in a Fatherโs Day baseball game. I drank her in as I morbidly
wondered, and in some cases believed I actually knew, what she would remember
of these last days with her father.
Terribly melodramatic I
know, but thatโs how it felt, and it mixed happily with spring-out-of-bed-at-first-light
excitement that I was feeling for the first time in a long time. And also new:
the eerie absence of that grinding, floating, someoneโs-gonna-get-me, somethingโs-terribly-wrong
anxiety thatโs been at me for the last few years now as the shrinking publishing
industry and then the global economy have made me fear constantly for my
livelihood.
I told myself this adventure
and the change it was making inside me made me someone more worthy of being missed, and would make me someone more worthy of having back home at the end.
I also decided that, if I was
going to be selfish enough to risk Scoutโs life along with my ownโIโd bought
life insurance, but State Farm doesnโt provide a new fatherโmy part of the bargain would be to write her an honest account
of the trip and a candid self-portrait of her dad, at 40 and still searching. Maybe
she can read it when she is 40, in lieu of going to the time and expense and risk of
taking a three-week motorcycle trip away from her own family.
By the time I got off the
highway and jumped on Route 6 south of Michigan City, Indiana, what I
was leaving faded into the morning fog and I started to make myself at home, in
the journey.
The bike was still shiny as I stopped for a hamburger in Bowling Green, Ohio, bound for Cleveland.
David – sometimes, in the hands of a less talented writer, the description of an experience like this could sound self-absorbed and over-the-top. Luckily for us, you are a talented writer, and so this first chaper of your journey was heart-felt, poignant and touchingly sweet.
Looking forward to the coming chapters, particularly since I know you lived to tell the tales!
Thanks, Kristen.
“self-absorbed and over-the-top”
I’m quite used to riding on the hairy edge of this!
I can seldom find a storyteller who is able to hold my interest, but you’ve hooked me. Your humor and wit combined with your ability to paint a vivid picture are rare and enjoyable. I’m looking forward to reading more entries David.
Also, I like the flag on your helmet, Easy Rider!
love it, want to read more! want a live debrief too. still some post-visionquest reunions to be had~
Lsis
@ Dean: Thanks for your kind words about my storytelling, which depends, I find, on the quality of the story!
Yes, Lsis, and it’s our turn to host. When can you get your big thirst over here?
“don’t expect them to be read by most of my Writing Boots audience”
How could an interesting tale, told by a master storyteller, not be read by your audience?
So we won’t read Beowulf, because most of us do not take interest in dragon fighting?
Well, Yossi, I appreciate that. But I’ve lectured on blogging (and blogged on lecturing), and one of my points is that a blog is a collection of people gathered around a common interest BEYOND who the blogger is and what the blogger has to say.
What my blog followers have in common is an interest in communication, more than an interest in me.
So by saying I don’t expect everyone to read my motorcycle diaries, I’m acknowledging that I’m being mindful of the Thing All My Readers Have In Common: an interest in communication, not an interest in me.
Does that make sense?
Great writing, David. i can’t wait to read more. Is there possibly a book in this?
Thanks, Eileen. Yes, I hope to compile these into a book for Scout to read when she’s big … and, hell, maybe I can find a wider interest for them, we’ll see.
Love it. Welcome home.
David- You know your dad would have been reluctantly (the motorcycle) and profoundly (your writing) proud of you. I love your writing style… some of it reminiscent of Tom, but definitely your own. I was right there with you as you wrote about saying goodbye to Scout, Christy and the life you love, but still pushing on and out. I can’t wait for the next installment.
Connie
Every human being communicates. We all use body language and spoken and written word to communicate. When we are with peers and not in competition, we communicate naturally. To speak of ourselves as Communicators as a profession and a daily job, is to speak of entering an artificial environment where communication atrophies, such as the market trading arena or corporate hierarchies, and bringing back that natural communication.
You’re telling a story. It’s an exercise in natural human communication. It’s an interesting story. You’re an interesting person. We’ll all gather round the fire to listen.
As one wise man said about Diplomacy, “telling the truth comes naturally. Diplomacy must be learning the art of lying.”