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,
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