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THE NEW MOON MONITOR

MOTORCYCLES AND ME

I     had the most excellent motorcycle adventure of my life last week, thanks in     part to the internet making it possible for my daughter to make a Harry     Potter pen pal in Sudbury, Ontario, many years ago. This is the same     daughter who recently turned 18 and wrote For     Dust I Am. Three     days after graduating from high school (two Saturdays ago), she embarked on     a one-day, 12-hour solo road trip to Sudbury to pick up her BFF and bring     her back to Viroqua for a week. My wife and I are of the mind that when you     turn 18 you are an adult and you get to decide what you are going to do or     not do, so we had no choice but to allow it. We provided the car (2012     Subaru Impreza), she paid for the gas.

Beatrix     is pretty determined and adventurous, and while she was confident she could     make the 12-hour journey in one day, I felt some obligation to be at least     a little bit protective. I have a motorcycle and I use it to take short     trips with friends once a year, but it has been a long time since I have     taken a multi-day solo adventure, and I saw this as the opportunity to do     it. She agreed to allow me to escort her (from a distance) to the Canadian     border, and while she was visiting with the Sudburians, I would remain a     few hours away in the Algoma     District.

Because     a 12-hour day on a motorcycle is completely out of the question, my plan     included a one-day head start, leaving Memorial Day afternoon and riding up     to Lappen’s camp on the Pesthigo River, near Crivitz, Wisconsin. It was a     250-mile day on the motorcycle, in and out of unexpected rain for the last     100 miles, ending on a wet and sandy road into the woods to eat and drink     with close friends I haven’t seen in years, and sleep in a spare pop-up     camper. Stories around the fire included Mike’s connection to relatives who     survived the Peshtigo     Fire in 1871, and his most recent     assignment, as CEO of Milwaukee County Behavior Health Services: overseeing     the total closure of the Milwaukee County Asylum for the Chronic Insane.     Both topics, and especially the latter, are very intriguing as material for     a book project in the future. We talked about that possibility.

Tuesday,     Day 2

Staying     up late talking to an old friend about endlessly interesting things makes     me feel hungover the next day, and that’s not the best way to wake up on a     day that will include a 325-mile motorcycle ride. My daughter left home at     6am, and I was expected to meet her at 1pm in Escanaba, Michigan. After a     good camp breakfast of eggs, bacon, blueberries, and coffee, I started     feeling a little sharper and ready roll, but apparently not quite clear     headed enough to remember the route, because I missed a turn on the way,     and my 1.5 hour ride became a 2-hour ride. Add that Beatrix was ahead of     schedule, and needless to say she was a little short with me when we met,     and had no time for idle chit chat. I gave her a solid 5-minute head start,     as we pressed on without delay from Escanaba to Sault Sainte Marie, again     in and out of (lighter, thankfully) rain, to cross the border.

Crossing     over the Soo     Locks and St. Mary’s River into Canada is a sight to     behold, and things like incredible bridges are much more remarkable from     the seat of a motorcycle than from behind the wheel of a large automobile.     And you may ask yourself, “Well, how did I get here?” but you know full     well, because you’ve been actively engaged in riding, out in the weather     for the entire journey.

I     watched Trixie pass the customs window from a few cars behind, and as she     carried on straight east for another couple hours to Sudbury, I turned     north on Highway 17 en route to my lodging, the Sawpit Bay Resort, about an     hour further down the road. The reservation was made over the telephone a     few days earlier with a bad connection due to work on the phone lines,     according to the woman on the other end. When I asked if she needed my card     number to reserve a room, she said, “No that’s okay. Just come. There will     be a room for you.” Upon arrival, I found the place to be pretty desolate.     Almost abandoned by appearance. No cars in sight, except for the one that     might have belonged to the owner. As I approached the office, I learned by     hand-written sign in the window there was no tv, no wi-fi. When I walked     in, I learned there was also no credit card machine, and I was asked if I     could pay cash. The whole scene was a little weird for a road weary and     damp fellow nearly 600 miles from home. But when the proprietor extended     his hand and accepted my $35 cash for the room I was grateful and went to     check for bed bugs. All good. Bed felt like it would be plenty comfortable,     and cozier than the pop-up camper I slept in the night before.                        

After     unpacking my gear, I walked across the highway to take some time staring at     Lake Superior. Really nice.  Done for the day and looking forward to a     good long sleep.                       

Just     a little bit about my motorcycle. This is my third motorcycle. Each one has     been a Moto Guzzi. Guzzis are Italian motorcycles, notorious for their     transverse V-twin engines and shaft drive (like an automobile). These     motorcycles are strong like a tractor and easy to understand, which makes     them ideal for the amateur motorcyclist who wants to maintain his own     machine. Aside from the practical aspects, the aesthetics are superb to my     eye. And they’re not terribly expensive. I found this 1979 1000SP on the     internet a few years ago for $3,000, and had it shipped to Viroqua from     Baltimore, Maryland. Recognizing its age an my limited ability to fully     restore the engine, I bit the bullet and paid the pros at Retrospeed in     Belgium, Wisconsin, to fully rebuild the engine two years ago. And this is     why I am able to have the confidence to take a 45 year-old motorcycle on a     5-day, 1,500-mile adventure.

Wednesday,     Day 3

The     day I’ve been waiting for: 325 miles of remote Ontario. Sawpit Bay Resort     to Wawa, Wawa to Chapleau on Highway 101, and Chapleau to Thessalon on     Highway 129, highly regarded as the primo road to ride in the Algoma     District.                         

The     best thing about riding alone is the freedom to stop and take a break     whenever you are moved to do so. Passing a very large stone on Highway 101     between Wawa and Chapleau, for example. Aside from visiting with my old     friend, Mike, another mission invented for this adventure was to find and     capture stones in photographs for the upcoming book of stone-themed poems     by David Steingass. Every once in a while I would pass something, think     about it for a mile or so, and decide it was worth turning around and going     back.               

With     gratitude for the solitude, I took advantage of this freedom many times to     photograph stones for the book… 

…and     vistas for this newsletter. Like from this bridge over the Mississagi     River, for example: A     few thoughts on the zen of motorcycling, even though it’s all be said     before by better writers. I remember the first ride on my first motorcycle     (1972 Moto Guzzi Eldorado) in 1995. I remember being on the highway going     60 miles per hour heading west out of Milwaukee and looking down at the     pavement beneath my feet. I remember realizing that I was going very fast,     that the road was less than twelve inches below my feet, and that I was     essentially sitting on the engine that was pushing me forward. That’s a lot     to digest. And then realizing that I didn’t feel like I was in any danger.     I felt perfectly safe. As long as the machine did what it was designed to     do, and I kept my hands on the handlebars and didn’t intentionally ride off     the shoulder or into oncoming traffic, everything would be fine. That’s     actually something you think about on a motorcycle. I do, anyway. It’s     dangerous, so you have to be on your A-game.

I     still feel that way when I am riding. It’s not constant, but it’s like     this: In between long meditations about whatever happens to be on the mind     (because there is no audio input, other than the engine), every once in a     while you come back to realizing you are moving very rapidly through space,     and you think about how the spark plugs are firing and alternately pushing     the pistons in the cylinders down to drive the cam which transfers directly     to the rear wheel, about how many miniature explosions are happening     between your legs, and how gravity and the gyroscopic potential of a     2-wheeled vehicle allows you to travel gracefully over the tarmack. On this     particular trip it went a step further for me. Maybe it was the duration of     the meditation, but I began to think about how grateful I was for the     opportunity to experience what I was experiencing. This turned into     gratitude for everyone who helped make it possible. That goes for the     obvious family support, but further to every single person who has helped     me do anything at all up to this point in my life. Everyone who has     influenced the way I think. Maybe even everyone I’ve ever met. As in, the     act of doing this is the result of every single thing that has come before     it. And furthermore, gratitude for the civil engineers who made these     incredible roads and bridges, gratitude for the designers and builders of     my motorcycle in 1979, gratitude for the people who made the tires on my     motorcycle, the person who figured out how to wire the electricity,     gratitude for the people at Aerostitch in Duluth for making a riding suit     that makes me feel safe, gratitude for the internet for helping me plan my     adventure, gratitude for all the people who are working while I am riding:     the people who are working at the gas stations, at the oil refineries (and     thoughts about how this adventure requires the burning of fossil fuels that     are contributing to the climate crisis), the people working at the border     crossing, at the restaurants, the motels…everyone, everything. Absolute and     complete gratitude.             

All     in all, between my departure from Wawa and arrival in Thessalon six hours     later, I honestly saw no more than a dozen other vehicles on the highway,     and two moose. I have never before enjoyed so many uninterrupted minutes of     riding through such beautiful, seemingly untouched land, and my arrival at     the Carolyn Beach Inn on Lake Huron iced the cake: Pakistani owners, an     attached restaurant with Indian dishes on the menu and samosas for an     appetizer, delightful conversation with my server, and an elegantly simple     room with a view of the lake. What an incredibly fortunate day. All I can     say is thank you. Yes, even you   

The     adventure continued on day four with a ride to Marquette, Michigan, taking     a detour through Tahquamenon Falls State Park, and concluding with a visit     to St Peter’s Cathedral,  paying respects to the Venerable Bishop Frederic Baraga.     The fifth, and longest day, included a stop at UW-Stevens Point to talk     with Brad Casselberry about the possibility of adding books by The     Heavy Duty Press to the William C. Bunce Artists’ Books Archive. We     had a nice visit and now there is a stronger possibility they will buy some     books from me in the future. That’s great news and more reason for     gratitude.

There     is no great pleasure in riding a motorcycle on the interstate, as     remarkable as the interstate system may be, and that happened to be long     stretch in the middle of day five. Also not much pleasure between Stevens     Point and Tomah (via Wisconsin Rapids), but the last stretch from Wilton     through the Kickapoo Valley was pure pleasure and a wonderful final hour     before arriving safely home at 7pm Friday evening. 

Credit to The New Moon Monitor, July 2024

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