Thursday, Jul. 23, 2009
Checking Off Items on the Saddlebag List
Wikipedia describes “The Bucket List” as a 2007 comedy-drama film … starring Jack Nicholson (and) Morgan Freeman … The story follows two terminally ill men (Nicholson and Freeman) on a road trip with a wish list of things to do before they ‘kick the bucket."’
I think we all tend to keep a list of things we’d like to do in one form or another. Hopefully, at only 44-years-old and in reasonably good health, other than the obvious need to lose eight or ten (or 65) pounds, I have plenty of good years ahead of me so I don’t call mine a bucket list. Mine’s more of a saddlebag list. It’s a collection of rides I would like to take on my motorcycle, some of which I have already completed and some of which I am still dreaming.
The first ride I wanted to check off my list, and was able to do so, was less than five miles long. It was from the parking lot of the Harley-Davidson dealership to my driveway. In 2002 my wife Sissy and I got our Harley. This was something I had dreamed of for decades. There is nothing like the feeling of firing up a rumbling Harley-Davidson and knowing it’s yours. One helmet sticker reads, “Fifteen thousand dollars and fifteen miles don’t make you a biker.” Whoever came up with that one must not have felt the same thing I did that day. I get that you have to earn your stripes, but I was no longer just a wannabe.
Of course, the big rallies were all on the list. My dad, brothers, and I take periodic trips to Daytona Beach during Bike Week as a reunion of sorts. We’ve been doing it for more than 20 years, but it usually involved my dad trailering a couple of bikes down to share. We got our Harley in November of 2002 and that spring I took my first road trip, riding solo from Myrtle Beach to Daytona Beach. It was a good learning experience and I earned a stripe or two. I learned about fuel mileage when I almost ran out of gas in the middle of nowhere, braking in the rain when I almost slid into the back of a minivan, and I learned not to put anything in your front pocket when you’re wearing chaps if you want to be able to get to it.
Years later my dad would call and suggest a scouting mission to Sturgis, S.D. I’ve been able to make that ride twice and in both cases the old saying “It’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey” rang true. The couple of days we actually spent in Sturgis were no match for the near-cross-country epic ride we took getting there and back. (The cross-country trip is one on the list that Sissy and I haven’t made yet.) There were rain storms that forced us to huddle under overpasses, winding mountain roads, desert stretches in 109-degree heat, mechanical failures, and a lifetime of memories with family and friends that can never be erased.
Riding in the annual Rolling Thunder ride was another on one that we’ve done more than once. It’s a protest ride that takes place in the Washington, D.C., area every year to remind people of issues surrounding U.S. military Prisoners of War and Missing In Action and a chance to pay tribute to all those who have served our country. Hundreds of thousands of people participate. The day centers on honor, and tribute, and sacrifice and it was one of the most moving experiences I have ever had. If you can ride this one without getting a lump in your throat you are living in the wrong country.
Other notable rides we’ve taken include the Tail of the Dragon, which is a twisting mountain road near Deals Gap, N.C., that boasts 318 curves in 11 miles; and, a group ride to the rally in Laconia, N.H.
There are still plenty to check off though, starting with the coast-to-coast trip I mentioned above. My brother Mark and his family are in California. I’d love to ride there and have him jump on his Ultra Classic and cruise California. Sissy and I have talked about riding to and around the New England area in the fall; she still needs to get to Daytona so I’ll be headed back there; and we love to dream about touring the country in our retirement. There is so much to see that I don’t even normally think of actual destinations. I just picture the two of us riding beneath a forest of giant redwood trees, along a rocky shoreline, sitting on a picnic table in the shade at a rest area looking at a map, or climbing off the bike outside some random, retro-looking diner in full leathers as some old farmer looks out the window at us and nods hello over his coffee.
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