Along for the Ride (Part I)

Late one night in Minneapolis, on the very same porch that I've been writing from, Michael lounged to cool off from one of the hottest days of the summer. I was inside, squared off with the fan, battling not only the heat but a stubborn case of writer's block as well. This was often where the two of us could be found or at least rarely on the same room unless company was over.

Slowly, one of his ear buds was plucked from his ear as something began to reel in his attention across the street. Doubt lingered just long enough to justify his imagination was running away with him but then the shattering of glass, billowing dark smoke and twisting flames prompted him to his feet. His first reaction was to run inside and shout to me,

"Bonne! The building across the street is on fire!"

At first, his tone was indistinguishable from the countless other times he cried wolf as the irreverent joker he was. Nevertheless, I dashed for the porch to find my eyes alight with what indeed was a burning building just yards from where we stood. The two of us didn't waste another heartbeat and hopped the wall to sprint towards the blaze.

Michael and I slammed our hammered fists onto the doors and walls yelling for signs of life! The choking smoke was black and volumous as it pumped out of the quickly disintegrating windows with trailing arcs of fire clawing for the air outside. For once, the humidity had dropped significantly this night, making the surrounding atmosphere ripe with oxygen to fuel the spreading inferno. One could not even see inside any of the openings into the apartment for they had become scorching exhaust ports so all we could do is try and listen between our banging and yelling without inhaling the increasingly poisonous air.

We were first on the scene but soon other surrounding apartments started waking up, opening their windows and hesitantly making their way outside to investigate what all the shouting was about. Remembering my firefighting training still fresh from my last line of work, I turned around and barked to an onlooker to call 911. I trusted my buddy to keep on trying to get a response from the inside while I vaulted back into his place to get my jacket in case the door had to come down and we'd need to storm in for a rescue.

Now, the adrenaline saturating our veins momentarily put aside any notion of heroism and the two of us simply acted on the inherently human impulses of what needed to be done in the presence of a threatened life. As obsessed as we were with vainglory and big talk at all hours of the day, in these critical minutes, it is safe to say that our two silly egos took a step back.

When I returned I was relieved to see that Michael had managed to get the attention of a bewildered tenant who was more perturbed by his racket than the fire that was reaching for her floor. She had quickly made her way out through a back exit, though still very annoyed. I rushed around the building to locate a similar rear exit to the burning unit.

The smoke was much thicker back here yet all the windows appaeared vacant and nowhere near the fire. When I looked closer the windows were actually covered by dark draperies and none seemed to give away the source of the fire. It was a chore to stay low while checking all the doors for a way into the affected apartment. Just as I began feeling the second exit with the back of my hand while looking for a draft below, coughs and shuffling in the shadows caught my attention. An old man and a pair of dogs were struggling to get through the heavy door shrouded in the dark underneath some stairs. I stumbled onto a grill in my haste to reach him then forced the door open. He, too, seemed rather aloof about the situation as I guided him out into the street, doing my best to keep him calm but extract information at the same time.

In whatever tone could possibly sound reassuring I explained, "Your apartment is on fire!"

"Mine," he asked, suddenly concerned. "No, I'm just over taking care of these dogs--"

"Do you know if there's anyone else in the building," I cut him off and to the chase.

The terrified senior came to his senses and revealed, "Y-yes, there's a squatter somewhere on the bottom floor!"

One of the bystanders took him and his dogs into her arms and guided him towards the growing crowds at the intersection. The bad news was relayed to Mike who was still diligently shaking up the building of all its possible inhabitants. It was certain that someone was unconscious in there and needed to be dragged out. I dissuaded him from busting down the front door which seemed prime to release a ball of fire to and injur us as well as flood the building with more oxygen. While still trying to think on our feet, a young girl ran up to us on the porch with a small fire extinguisher to which Mike scoffed at. It was futile at this point to save the apartment but then it occurred that it could assist with getting to the squatter and out if there would be enough agent left. We both knew what had to be done.

As I began making my way around back again to find a safer way in, my stride slowed to a halt at the relieving sound of sirens. At this point the two of us had done what we could and it was time to pass the scene onto more capable hands. As three fire crews began setting up the stage for the fire suppression and rescue we gave our last hand with crowd control and humbly disappeared into the masses.

We watched the scene unfold from the corner. The two of us didn't say a thing until the man we would have been carrying on our backs was hoisted out on a stretcher. Even with an irreverent onlooker running across the street to capture the recucitation for YouTube, subsequent boos and his arrest, Mike and I seemed to hold our breath until the victim, himself was breathing again. Into an ambulance he would be spirited away to a hospital and be treated for nothing more than smoke inhalation.

Despite that good news, we still stood out there and watched them put out the fires in silence. It was limited to just the one apartment. A group of familiar faces were being briefed on the other corner about where they could stay for the night and what what they could expect over the next few days. News crews were arriving along with droves of bystanders constantly updating one another with what they think might have happened in what sounded like a game of telephone. An hour or so would go by then the street slowly emptied. Eventually, next to the crews buttoning up and the eager journalists patiently waiting for an interview, we were the only ones standing on the corner. Only then did I notice how drenched in sweat and how watery our eyes were on account of the smoke we had endured. What a rush...

Mike was first to speak up as we retreated to the porch.

"Been a while since we had a scrape like that, huh?"

I was still lost in myself and had to have him repeat himself a couple of times. I couldn't believe that a month ago I had joked that one of the bucket list items for this journey would include rescuing someone from a burning building. Though I was spared that specific task, it was alarming to know it was moments from happening.

"I remember," Michael started again, "when Search & Rescue said you'd likely be dead on that glacier in New Zealand!"

I scoffed then.

He continued, "I remember when I thought I was going to die from sickness - I still don't know what it was for the life of me - but you nursed me back to health. I remember when..."

My old friend carried on reminiscing about our misadventures one sidedly until the memories became more poignant.

"I remember when I had to move away in high school and you kept kicking down the for sale sign in front of my house to keep us from leaving. I remember when you said you were going to disappear for a while someday... Maybe the last six years was when you disappeared."

My ears perked up knowing he was completely sober this this time. It's not often that I could hear his thoughts unguarded. He was right. I might have found myself on this trip but I still wasn't anywhere to be found for someone I once called my best friend. If I had been sitting on the porch and saw the fire first would I have recruit him for the job or headed off on my own (or even called to his roommate)? Despite the issues that set us apart and adrift, I'd say Michael was always be the better man in our friendship and even lack of. I would actually come to realize that the night before the both of us set off from Chicago...

Somewhere between the fourth and sixth ginger ale and Jameson round at the bar, Michael excused himself to the men's room, leaving his friend Nate and I alone for the first time. It was amusing to see this eloquent fellow slurring his speech but when the subject of our conversation turned to our mutual buddy, I put down my drink and was all ears.

"He just loves walking into a room with his motorcycle helmet in hand knowing that the guys are wondering what kind of bike he rides and the girls wonder what exotic places he's been. He's always talking loud and proud about the lunch he had in Paris or the nap he took on a beach in Hawaii - often on his phone for the world to hear! The guy never lets you have your moment of glory because he's always ready with a story to top yours, which are probably fish tails! To my memory, I can count the number of times he's admitted to being wrong all on my thumb! Mike's one arrogant son of a--"

Of course alcohol has a funny way of coloring one's memory so Nate's tirade is paraphrased, however not for content but word choice. By golly, I sat there so bug-eyed not only to have heard such a confession but also find out I was not alone in my assessment of his ego-driven personality.

"...But you know what," Nate paused to finish his drink and slung his arm around the man of the hour who had just returned, "I fucking love this guy for it. All of it! He may not be the best man at my wedding but he is my best friend for life!"

Something told me Michael was aware of the subject matter of the conversation despite missing it's entirety for the two of them seemed better friends than we ever were.

Nate's inebriated celebration for Michael's vices only seemed to account for when the man was sober. The rest of the night, our friend allowed the alcohol to affect him in the same way it did for me around that bonfire in Utah and basically be himself at his core for a spell.

While walking/staggering back from the bar I listened to him just let it all out. From his passionate fascination with my brush with revolutionary tendencies to his no-regrets spiel about passing up on ticket to West Point right out of high school...

"You had a lot to do with that," pointing at me, "and I think I'd be a completely different person had it not been for this guy. Don't get me wrong, though; I'd hate to meet that person!"

I never knew that. My naïveté was at fault there even though in retrospect over the yesrs its nearly impossible to dismiss the surprising amount of influence I had on every single friend I ever had during my teens. What I was guilty of was what he said next about feeling abandoned once his family moved him from Seattle to Minneapolis. I had never gone out to visit him. Rather, he would make all the trips back to Washington a few times a year, yet still find no sense of belonging as I just seemed too busy leading my own solitary life. This wasn't news. What he confessed to me next was:

"...I'm not as tough as you think!"

I fell back a bit from the pack. It was one thing for distance to sever the bonds of our friendship but I somehow managed to unintentionally keep us apart by changing into someone he had trouble recognizing anymore. My obsession with being a tough guy was all he ever saw and ever got when he needed a shoulder or just some company. Either I was still as influential as when we were innocent kids or his isolated surroundings made him follow suit. Seeing or simply hearing from him often sent me over the edge judgmentally but I never could make my brooding known because it would reveal my own hypocrisy. I knew, then, that my jaded outlook on life was wrong and being in his presence was a blatant reflection of it. Seeing my fallacy in him was too infuriating, hence his justified feelings of abandonment.

Play pretend long enough and you start to believe the act. Years passed and eventually I couldn't understand why he was the way he was. I had the nerve to tell myself that if only he'd humble himself for once, but what I was subconsciously saying was that if I would just drop the act, things could start anew. Despite the ball being in my court all along, here he was taking the initiative to tell me he wasn't as tough as I thought. My friend, forgive me but I didn't intend to expect us to be so. If anyone is tough, it was you for holding out for a self-centered bastard like myself. In the end, we're really just a couple of boys still trying to find our place in this broken world.

His first drunk message earlier clued me to his buried sentiments.

"...you keep plugging miles on tihs trip, and i got your revolutionqary back. i had dreeams about it, but we stasrt in the middle easst. something about overthrowing terrorisism and then taking on the corruption of the us. that's Us... but yeah, you got this! just keep kicking ass ad maybe if you can take me for the ride, cause i havent accomplished anything owrththile in a long long ong long long time... i dont know which role i takeion the adventure, hell, i hope i'm even in the adventure, buyt i... hope it can be a good one! See ya when if you come to my place. i hope, mabe, yeah. youd better. I' m going to sleep... you should rememeber you in australia, because that's the last time i saw bonne as bonne. or somethin like that. i miss my friend, but you never visit! i dunno wy! its like you left me hanging and man I'm not that tough anymore! if i was, i woudnt be drunk righ tnow. ya see! oh boy, i gotta sleep. yup, michael, go to bd. now. good bye bonne, i hope yo u save ehe wolrd or soemthign. because i cn't right now. yoiu forgot abot me, i think. wait, no, I'm drunk, i cshuoldn't say that..."

I'm sorry, pal, I didn't forget about you. I was just ashamed of myself and you suffered because of it.

By the time we reached Nate's apartment, the only thing keeping me from requesting that sixth round of whiskey - this time hold the ginger ale - to drown my shame was the fact the Michael had managed to find people who filled in the void that was me and then some. I thought if friends like Nate liked him now, my only hope was that they had seen this side of him before because he was a great kid. He was my best friend, after all, and honestly, I wanted to give him back that title. When he uttered to me right before dozing off that he would cut work just so we could share the road I was adamant on taking up to Minneapolis, there definitely was no question about the faith he still had in our friendship and the long way I had to go to catch up.

 

Detour

Dear journal,

I write to you now from a good friend's porch near the northern end of the Mississippi River. Apologies for not keeping current with the daily chronicling but we both knew that practice would fall to the ditch as the trail got more eventful and less lonesome. With over a week's worth of blank pages however, I have no real excuse beyond my first case of writer's block which came as a result of a new revelation that I'm still coming to terms with. Before we explore that, let's get the pages caught up with the miles and rewind back to St. Louis.

The rising temperatures in the simple dormitory eventually woke me from my slumber. The people I had met the other day had long-since made their beds and continued on with their journeys. The silence was broken by a familiar vibration rattling from my satchel. As soon as I took phone in hand I vaguely recalled a dropped call in the middle of the night from my buddy, Michael, who had visited me in Las Vegas some 5,000 miles ago. He was drunk, which at the time of the call, I wasn't all too amused with but once his follow up message online was read, something told me I really ought to visit him as soon as possible.

I'll admit if his place wasn't on the river, Chance wasn't as banged up as he was and my pockets were still lined with cash, I probably would have passed on Minneapolis as a destination or insist on riding out to me somewhere along the way and keep up. For many reasons, I was always hard on him this way but at this point, I thought I'd bite.

His number rang which was foreign as I couldn't recall the last time I had ever initiated a call with him. As soon as he answered he apologized for the drunk calling and messaging then mentioned he would be in Chicago that coming weekend. Seeing as how the Windy City wasn't too far from my river route, I pitched him the idea to meet up there. As smug as I can be around the guy, it can't be denied that a hint of excitement got by me during the call - a vestige reflex from better days.

Once my next destination was settled, I unsaddled everything from Chance to give her a good look over. The chain needed tightening again and some of my gear was still soaked in the bags. It was disturbing just how much the humidity affects my arch nemesis, fungi, for they had claimed my favorite gloves after only a couple days stored away in my beloved Triumph bag which also had a speckle or two of the disgusting growths.

A moment of reverent silenced passed and into the garbage they went. No matter what this trip does to change me one thing will always be the same: my rational fear and abhorrence to mushrooms, molds, and all forms of fungi. I had just about abandoned my vintage rally racer of a Bond car when I found some mold on the ceiling. Before I hit the road, a generous cleaning fee was propositioned to anyone willing to nuke the interior with anything strong enough to kill and prevent any subversive organism to ever grow there again. The more cancerous the solution the better for I'd rather die from a tumor than a respiratory infection. Anyway, the spots on the bag were scraped off once I mustered the courage to salvage it.

The rest of the morning was spent writing at a French cafe with a worldly atmosphere and ensemble. The baristas were multilingual and everyone who stopped in could order a coffee and chat in their native language.

Apparently tomorrow was Bastille Day and they would be serving complimentary gourmet cakes! July sure is a month for independence days. Alas, as quaint as it would be to indulge in Queen Marie Antoinette's naive but sweet advice, there were some famous hot dogs waiting for me in Chicago. In the meantime, I would do a late lunch at a place Tom told me about: Triumph Grill.

From what he said, it was a restaurant that celebrated vintage motorcycles attached to a dealership and a motorcycle museum! It sounded like a Mecca for classic petrol heads like myself so I had to go. While cruising around town looking for it, I had envisioned it to be an establishment hard to miss. The biggest red flag would likely be the signature row of bikes parked out front of many of the biker-friendly joints I've passed on the highways. On the contrary, that indicator was nowhere to be found. Only a small art deco-styled sign, lacking the trademark Triumph font jutting from a nondescript building that would seem more fitting of a club than a biker bar. No harm in being the first to start the row of bikes, I thought, and meticulously parked with just the right angle I hoped others would emulate. Reluctantly, I fed the meter as its often difficult to be rebellious without numbers.

Now into the so-called Triumph Grill. I had never frowned at the timely and charming service of a host and waiter before but that was just it: I wasn't expecting this to be some upscale restaurant. It looked as if the owner purchased a night club, threw a couple vintage posters on the wall and picked a random motorcycle brand to associate with.

Everyone was looking me up and down as if I had wandered into the wrong place. Perhaps I did? Nevertheless, I strutted my gritty self at my own pace to my seat in my own empty section where my waitress patiently waited for the next beat of her cordial routine to commence. The duty to remind these martini drinkers what a true patron of a biker's joint looks like came over me so I took my time removing my gloves, shades, and dropped my helmet and satchel curtly. The amount of dust that emerged from my bag put a smug disposition on my face which remained there while I scanned the menu. The urge to ask where the burgers and fries were was suppressed and a smoked shrimp and avocado enchilada was politely requested. Despite my initially off-putting appearance, my manners seemed to give just the right amount of allure to have her go back and whisper with her inquisitive coworkers. Whether she was charmed or sharing what dastardly addition she was going to personally make to my dish didn't concern me more than my passive-aggressive vendetta. At least unlike Jesus at the temple filled with money changers, no tables were overturned. I will say, despite the false advertising and high prices, that might have been the most exotically delicious meal consumed in scores of miles. Considering my Triumph Bonneville was the only two-wheeler parked outside for the duration of the ticking meter, my dinner should have been complimentary on account of the extra prop I provided the restaurant for an evening.

My waitress, well-tipped, was kind enough to point me in the direction of the museum and dealership. The shop in San Francisco spoiled me when it came to dealerships because many of the ones I've strolled through since we're simply just that: dealerships. The last one was next to the Motel 6 I had lost my clothes in and the salesperson didn't seem to care for my plight until I came back the next day with my ride to rub in a legitimately lost sale. I wasn't expecting a real friendly atmosphere here either so I browsed quickly. An older gentleman asked what I rode and, jaded as I was, didn't turn around when the sacred word "Bonneville" was tossed over my shoulders. Suddenly the fellow was asking all sorts of enthusiastic questions, breaking down my rough exterior to my neglected happy-go-lucky core. I don't remember his exact words were to my "quit my job, riding anywhere" spiel but it certainly seemed to break the protocols of professionalism, especially in front of his younger, more composed sales associates behind him. He firmly shook my hand and introduced himself as Mark. The friendly guy invited me to a vintage bike rally that takes place in St. Louis next month and even asked for my journal to keep tabs on me. Before parting, due to what I felt was an unexpectedly overwhelming amount of earnest kindness to endure, he made sure I was going to treat myself to the museum.

Boy, was I in for a treat.

It was tempting to say that I was standing in a vacant warehouse full of cycles I only dreamed of owning but I was mighty proud of my two wheels. It's difficult to say at this point if I would ever want to straddle anything else but it was awe-inspiring, nevertheless, to marvel at Chance's beautiful ancestors.

This rugged bugger, the Motosacoche Jubile might have been my favorite.

This one looks like the motorcycle I tried to build from my dear Napoleon.

I never knew that many early motorbikes hand a hand shifting stick! It is a baffling concept to even imagine but at least it would make crashing on one's side rarely an issue for the shifter... Too soon? Then again, it's not exactly the most sound position to have in a crash especially for male riders. Hence, why the lever is where it is today, perhaps?

Now here was the piece de resistence: the wooden motorcycle.

To surmise the plaque, it was built by a highschool friend many years ago made from things around the farm from the motor to a chainsaw to tires off an old car! Not a dime was spent and supposedly it handled as well as a Harley! The farmer-inventor passed away recently without telling anyone where the spruce goose of a bike went only to find it at an auction where he ferociously bid for it. Now it proudly sits here in a museum among other masterpieces of machinery in honor of his friend.

So pleased was I by the exhibit that I dropped a buck in a donation box as an "offering to the god of speed."

After that I simply got lost riding all over St. Louis - in a good way. I was in no particular rush to get back to Huck Finn's and strangely, this was a city that wasn't choked with traffic or difficult to navigate. Never did I think I could ride around a downtown for a joyride's sake the way I would on an open country road.

Chance and I happily did circles around the famous Gateway to the West. How fulfilling would it be to set off from Independence, Missouri and follow one of the many Oregon Trails or even Lewis and Clark's original route back to my doorstep? Though I'd need to jump a bit late onto either pioneering routes from up north in Minnesota, it tickled my thoughts for a while. To think, I'll be chasing the sun home soon. Speaking of which, it was getting late.

We meandered our way back to the hostel and got her pre-loaded for tomorrow's ride to Chicago. My limited attired needed washing after a fairly sweaty couple of days so I dashed over to a nearby laundromat. I had never been to a public one before so the concept of "last load" was beyond me despite the motherly owner giving me a scolding at the door. I withheld my temper and began walking away but she humbled me with her sassy reluctance and let me in. I was grateful in a shuffle-my-foot-grumble-a-thank-you sort of way.

I caught wind of one more storm that was reaching north so the plan would be the Interstate 55 (or what I've come to call my Storm Road) all the way into the heart of Chicago which coincidentally originated in New Orleans. It would cost nearly all the day to get there so an early start was called for. For better or worse, my only company that night was a German couple who didn't seem very talkative so it was early to bed too!

As one would guess, the interstate wasn't all that entertaining. There wasn't much to even recall beyond what the photos could describe.

We did manage to outrun most of the storm, suffering but a minute of a downpour in it's shadow.

The hinge in my right mirror loosened and became useless. Hm, what else... Ah, yes, the crop dusters were fun to watch. They were the only job I would consider getting a commercial pilot's license for.

Six listless hours later, we were in Chicagoland and if the growing cityscape didn't clue us in, the six lanes of some of the worst drivers I ever had to share the road with definitely sounded the alarm. At one point a split second decision required me to skirt by a car within inches, rotating my left handlebar mirror inwards to avoid getting clipped!

Locating Mike's bike wasn't very difficult; she looked just like mine, just black and new.

I had arrived. Mike was visiting one of his recently engaged friends, Nate and Kate. Their place seemed to be in a safe neighborhood but out of habit I locked Chance up before making my way to their doorstep.

The boys, in their H&M branded attire came out to greet raggedy old me. My first words were, "forgive my appearance," to my old buddy and his friend sporting a look of bewilderment. Nate was a young man, just a couple years my junior, who looked and sounded like someone you'd grow up calling your childhood friend. Boasting a sharp witt and justified opinions, rarely dissuaded by trends but no stranger to common sense, his often intolerable sarcasm was tempered by a unique love for Nintendo and Bill Murray. His Life Aquatic-plated iPhone clued me into what may have brought these two foils together in a friendship that blossomed from working at the same clothing store just a couple years ago.

Before any chit chat of my ride up was even entertained, Nate guided me into his home and handed me a stack of brand name pants to try on. Apparently Mike had briefed him on the loss my my clothing and my new host had prepared me some bottoms to have a go at before donating them to the Goodwill. As I began finding my words to thank him, I glanced at his wall and instantly knew that I was in good company.

Any friend of Wes Andersen is a friend of mine! Oh, and of Mike too, of course. Then there was Nate's dog, Cricket, who was everyone's friend. Apparently they were to have a themed wedding inspired by the recent Moonrise Kingdom film!

I ended up taking a pair of straight-fitting corduroys and some paint-stained jeans. They weren't my usual bootcut style but the fact that Nate was a rare 32x34 was good enough. I did constantly take on the country-folk persona and poke fun at the two city slickers for this specific pants style which had quirky names at H&M. The two seemed to communicate in a jokingly abusive way so I had to learn the language quick.

After a well-needed shower, I was handed a Wii controller for a round of a modern sequel to a classic game Mike and I used to play: Mario Party! Inevitably, I came in dead last since I lost the hand-eye coordination and patience for a crazy virtual version of Monopolgy at this point. The nostalgia was worth it, though, even if my long-time friend from middle school still played as Toad, the mushroom-headed character.

Just before bed, Nate's bride to be came home with her two drunk friends in tow from a concert. In the order that they stumbled in: Kate, the most level headed, thoughtful, sweet and my favorite of the bunch; then there's Amy, the high end photographer, possible old flame of Mike's and lover of cats with a negative-oriented outlook on life; and Tyra, also soon to be married is the fun-loving platinum blonde model who seems very self conscious with or without a glass in her hand. All were also coworkers at the Swedish fashion store. There might have been a time when I would fit right in but for the time being, I simply smiled and kept to myself until I dozed off for the night.

The first thing I asked Michael when he came to consciousness was when he had to be back at work, assuming he would join me for finishing the last stretch of the Great River Road over the course of a couple days. He had taken an eight hour route by interstate to get here and also assumed that I'd be joining him for that back.

He replied, "Well, I've got to be at work the day after tomorrow..."

To which I responded without missing a beat, "I'm pretty set on the Mississippi so I suppose I'll just meet you at your place whenever I get there."

It was so like me to be headstrong in my independence and not even consider the sacrifices he had made to ride all the way here as opposed to flying for free. His disappointment faded into the bustling chaos of his former coworkers storming the living room, ready to get going on the day.

The undertone for day two in Chicago could be summed up as a momentary hiatus from my trip, for it basically entailed tagging along as Mike and Nate's third wheel. I didn't mind even if it was difficult to relate with the conversations between the boys regarding jobs, flying, fashion, cuisine and women. My life at this point had been simplified to gas, food, and shelter. I would mostly remain mute even if the discussion turned to motorcycles and movies since my mind was plenty focused on the road ahead. Well, there were a few distractions...

Nate took us "mantiqueing" to a couple distinguished shops which seemed to be where Wes Anderson must get all the props for his films. It seemed to be an eclectic cross between the traditional ivy league collegiate lifestyle, mid-century militaria, and the timeless maritime culture. The collection seemed legitimately catered to men of a bygone era and not so much capitlizing on the rising trends in the hipster subculture.

Later, the patient Cricket who had been home all morning was treated to a walk and a trip to the beach.

I had never heard of beaches that weren't predominantly on the coast but here at Lake Michigan was a genuine beach! It wasn't an ocean but I appreciated the uncanny comfort it gave me. It was bizarrely warm and the lakebed extremely shallow for what seemed like miles. Even with the life guards in row boats yelling from across the way to "bring it in," whatever "it" was, there was no spoiling my afternoon of bliss. Well, there was my broken flip flops, following suit with everything else I had brought for the trail.

To all our amusement, Cricket's water play quickly helped me forget about the impending blister-inducing walk I'd have back to Nate's apartment.

We didn't have any toys for him to play with but the little furball was quick to improvise...

Then we came up with a game!

All in all, it was a fun afternoon. The evening would have us barbequeing, watching standup comedy, hitting up a bar and catching Bill Murray in Groundhog's Day. After a few drinks it was safe to say I had warmed up to the city lifestyle and the brief departure from the open road. Despite Nate's insistence to buy my sixth round of ginger ale and Jameson which seemed to be the boys' favorite drink and instant ticket to commaraderie, their loosened tongues begged me to sober up and listen intently. What I would hear would make me realize many things about my friendship with Michael, all of which will be saved for its own chapter coming up next.

For now, just know that before we retired to bed, even in his unusually drunken stupor, my dear friend managed to mumble,

"I'm calling in sick and I'm coming with ya."