Bright and early the next day we bid Nate and company adieu. At this point I parted with my audio system too since all it was now was dead weight. It took some effort and practicing to not be shy about my excitement to share in another adventure like old times. We didn't high tail it out of Chicago immediately but warmed up to buddy up over breakfast at a place that I apparently could not miss out on.
The line to get into this place wrapped around the corner of the building. It took about twenty minutes just to get inside but Mike reassured that we lucked out as the last time he had made the pilgrimage with Nate it took damn well over an hour!
This joint was Hot Doug's and at the counter is Doug, himself! It was featured in an Anthony Bourdain episode but the place was hopping before the Travel Channel spot.
The dogs came in all possible delicacies. Having developed a taste for alligator, I went with the Game of the Week: alligator sausage with the works! It was glorious.
With our bellies full and tongues thoroughly satisfied, Mike and I were ready to take to the streets! I hadn't shared the road since Utah!
Getting out of the city would be challenging with the toll roads but I had an idea to navigate westward without shelling out a dime. By the way, note the mirror on the right in the last shot. Before and after!
Somewhere between me scanning to my left then returning to my right, my dangling mirror finally fell off! It took me a second to realize something was different about that side of the bike as I comically tilted my head like a confused dog. A limo that had been tailing me irresponsibly close finally sped past and Michael later told me my mirror fell off and hit him! Ah, karma.
So we weren't off to a grand start! My maps lied about a non-toll route! Taking side streets westward would chew up most of the day but my partner didn't seem to mind. We were always good about getting lost anyhow so what better way to get reacquainted!
I stumbled across a fellow biker taking refuge in the shade of a gas station. When I mentioned that we were planning on taking the Great River Road north, he gave us a waypoint to aim for. Apparently there was a great biker joint and museum in Savanna, right along the water!
The excitement finally got the best of me and I expressed it via some silly stunts inspired by Easy Rider, one of which involved me standing on the seat. Sadly, Mike's camera was not filming at the time and I don't see myself feeling that bold again anytime soon!
Since the day was shifting towards the other side of the globe, we reasoned that Savanna would be out of the way and the museum would be closed by the time we arrived. Instead we angled our tires a bit north for a city that neither of us could pronounce: Debuque. Daybookay? Duhbyukuh? Either way, we were finally approaching the Great Mississipp!
Debuque seemed to be a historic town split by the river, with one side in Illinois and the other Iowa. It didn't seem to sport any lodging off the main highways in or out, however, so we agreed to double back to a town about twenty miles back that seemed to beg us to stay awhile. We at least did dinner at a Chinese restaurant very much akin to the one Michael and I would eat at in downtown Seattle. The only difference here was that there wasn't a single Chinese person working there! At least we could ask our waitress how to pronounce the name of this hamlet on the water (Deh-byook).
When we cracked open our fortune cookies I couldn't help but laugh. It was one of those disappointing cookies that didn't give you a fortune but rather state a fact or a cliche yet this one seemed fitting.
"Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery."
But Mike's no copycat. Nah, he just knows archaeology is the only degree with any romance left in it and that Triumph Bonneville's are the sexiest machines ever to grace the road.
The ride back over the bridge and into the thick woods was frought with insects now that it was twilight. Galena featured many old homes, lots of which were bed and breakfasts. When we passed a sign pointing out Civil War General, Ulysses S. Grant's home, it became apparent why a town in the middle of nowhere had a tourism industry. That said, all the lodgings were demanding way more than the two of us were willing to cough out. As Mike pointed out, the prim atmosphere maintained by the businesses seemed to give off a retirement destination or honeymoon-vibe so either we luck out or camp out!
A quirky bed and breakfast with character would have to be passed up for a hotel chain. There was one but we walked out scoffing at the rate. Across the way was an interesting-looking Irish pub that turned out to be a fancy hotel to boot! If it weren't for the presence of her manager, the sweet young lady at the front desk might of cut us gents a handsome rate but we kept on riding. Even a smelly motel at the outskirts of town wanted to milk our wallets!
We made our way downtown past some flood gates and found one more hotel in town. It looked to be the oldest and ritziest but I thought it couldn't hurt to inquire.
For a 160 year old hotel that has welcomed many prominent guests, even Abraham Lincoln who had made an address from the balcony, The DeSoto House Hotel, named after the Spanish discoverer of the Mississippi River, was incredibly reasonable. We were sold! The old innkeeper handed us the keys and we parked our bikes behind this knower of truths:
We were put up in the Julia Dent Grant suite, just a door away from Abraham Lincoln's and Ulysses S. Grant's. Still, it was the swankiest place I had stayed in thus far.
10 hours later...
We entertained an old woman's flyer on the street to visit her Greek restaurant for breakfast. Later we'd swing by a candy shop and partake in a supposedly filthy habit that I've come under much flack for lately.
Mike agreed; smoking does look cool.
After a quick sampling of Galena it was time to get our feet off the ground and onto the pegs.
Enough dilly dallying! The river awaits!
We retraced the dashed lines back to West Debuque, crossing the Mississippi once again. By the look of the road networks, the Iowa side seemed to hug the river much better thus we opted for the more scenic and twisty route.
There was no telling when we'd see gas again, as I had learned from my last trip upstream. Initially I pulled into a Sinclaire station but snootily looked down my developing handlebar mustache at the 89 octane fuel. Not for my thoroughbred, thank you, very much!
Now the both of us were set to sail for the next 150 blissful miles until the next fuel stop!
If only photos could capture just how hot it was. We pulled into a rest stop to grab some shade and water after only an hour or two of road.
I thought back again to the night at that Chicago bar. Nate said he could never go on a trip alone like me for he feared the solitude and wanted to be able to share the experience. I got where he was coming from, though the feeling of loneliness seldom came. Traveling with Mike did start to reawaken an eagerness to take advantage of the the benefits of company such as always having someone to depend on in a sticky situation or more importantly to goad one into the kind of trouble you'd normally stay out of on your own. That and taking humorous photos that will probably land me a slap in the face when I get home.
And not to mention the literal need of a second hand when trying to pump water out of a well!
There was a most entertaining stretch of twisties that rallied some muscle memories from my time chasing Dead Sea Gulls around the desert. I thought I was cutting through them at a comfortable pace but when Mike caught up he admitted that even he wasn't ballsy enough to take such tight turns at 75mph! As pleasing as it was to witness a window of humility from the guy, out of bashfulness, I insisted he'd be as obliviously crazy had he more time to assimilate with his new black beauty which just doubled its mileage on this road alone.
Our second rest stop of the day was a view point. The view of the river was great but the two of us were more shocked by our dramatic tans! Even I was starting to admit it was a sweltering day underneath the sun in all my miles.
Unfortunately, the river road ahead cut through a town with some horrible traffic to sit through. At one point a van nearly overtook Michael and he ended up leaving a boot mark on the absent-minded driver's door. I saw it happen in the mirror, slowed down and thought to cut the van off while I dug for my large wrench. However, when the driver creeped closer, his expression seemed to be of remorse so the situation diffused before it got any uglier.
My buddy on the black Bonnie expressed a dire need to get out of the heat and cool off for a while. It only occurred to me then that he hadn't done any long distance riding in such sun so the conditions I had been accustomed to were a stretch for him, although it was hot even by my standards. I kept a keen eye out for a good restaurant to duck into and wouldn't you know it, Chance divined us right towards an old saloon on the water in a town called Trempealeau!
The barmaid welcomed us in and instantly asked if we were on a road trip. "Something like that," was often my response these days. When her inquiries unraveled the full story she expressed her elation in calling me a modern day Kerouac and confided that she had just been speaking of going on such a journey. After being recommended to try the historic saloon's signature walnut burger and root beer, the three of us carried on chatting about travel and adventure.
The burger was delicious for having not a lick of meat on it but the patrons of the bar were the most satisfying. The place attracted a wholesome bunch which was hard not to do when they have special weekly events where prominent citizens of the town take a shot at being the bartender for a night all in good fun. Just last week the mayor was serving his own people alcohol, albeit in a comically poor fashion and often not without aid. The folks there today seemed quite taken in with us.
One young lady was writing a book about grass roots, small scale farming and took great joy that I was entertaining the idea of trying my hand in the agrarian work once I set off back west. We exchanged links to one another's writing. Along with the barmaid, an older fellow admired that Mike and I had remained friends since middle school. Then this much older chap walks in, puts his hands on both of our shoulders and asks which one owned the Bonneville.
"You're looking at them!"
"Both of us!"
He didn't realize there were two out there and suddenly we were his best friends in the whole world. The coot was thrilled to know that they were still making the old beauty. His eyes seemed full of stars as he reminisced to us about his first Bonneville from when he was our age. He even came back outside in the blistering heat because he wanted us to do him a favor and let him listen to our engines take off. I shook his hand before we did and saw probably the happiest face I'll ever see on these roads. I doubt I would be far off in saying he may have even shed a tear of joy as we rumbled back up the river.
We weren't far from Minneapolis now. The other side of the river was no longer Iowa but Minnesota. This also meant we were nearing the northern terminus of the Mississippi. Content to have made it this far up roads that snaked and switchbacked all the way up from New Orleans, I took up Mike's offer to jump off and onto a freeway he was familiar with.
The one and only time I had been in Minnesota was for training in my first job. My friend took great advantage of the opportunity, hanging out every single day after work for the week I was in town. Then I disappeared again, never to come his way except for now.
We stopped over at a park I once participated with him and his friends for the state's national past time of frisbee golf. Michael called up his brother, also a long time friend of mine, to come up for a ride and escort us home. He arrived in a heartbeat in his bumblebee-looking supersport motorcycle. It was good to see him again, now all grown up, managing his own Starbucks, getting married and with a baby on the way. To think, the last impressions I had about the guy was a Spice Girls poster up in his room back we all attended the same Catholic school.
At first he kindly let Michael and I lead the way but holding back all that horsepower in his crotchrocket could took more restraint than I knew he was capable of. And I, like a dog chasing a cat, was stupid enough to keep up!
His trademark grin met me at the stoplight just blocks from their place. It was true, he was crazy, but I had to hand it to him; I appreciated the fact that he used his turn signals when speeding past people at 100 miles an hour! I do stupid stuff but I, too, at least tell the rest of the road where and when it's going to happen. Even though I shook my head a few times in the chase, I was proud to know that Chance, with all her worn parts, lugging all this weight, managed to keep up with a supersport.
Michael soon caught up and we tres amigos parked in front of what I would call home for a while. The brothers bickered a bit about their relative speeds to my amusement, but I managed to come to my buddy's defense saying he'd be right there with me with a broken-in engine.
Apparently the majority of his apartment were motorcycle fanatics so we'd always a have a claim on parking at the corner.
Inside I was not only greeted by his roommate and a long time online friend of mine, Kyle, but something else familiar. It was something I've seen twice before. The last time was during my last visit and before that back at his old place in Washington when we were just kids.
I was touched to see it back then but all the more now. It was an old bulletin board that once held reminders for chores, due dates for assignments and other annoying things unbefitting a kid prone to exploring his backyard with an even more rambunctious best friend.
Pinned to it now were a collection of favored fortune cookie messages, baseball tickets, super models he still holds out for dating, self portraits of regretful hairstyles, and other cherished memories that have been made a priority to drag everywhere with his transient life. The artifacts on the board that caught my attention were a couple drawings I had done and parted with as gifts back in our youth when I used to fancy myself an artist. Even I didn't have any of my own doodles anymore. To think, he had kept them all this time.
Over the next week he would provide me my own room, keep me fed, and during my bouts of writer's block, provide me with ample entertainment to keep me from going insane.
One day we got back from the theaters after finally seeing Snow White and the Huntsman (which was the plan back in Vegas). Instead of turning in for the night, we headed over to one of his favorite coffee shops, though I suspect purely out of infatuation with one of the baristas. The said host was there that night and chatted with the two of us. Once I started to notice the macho tone coming out of my bud, I chuckled to myself with the realization for the visit and quietly removed myself from the conversation, only to answer one more question by the young lady:
"Are you two related?"
It sounded preposterous and Michael fumbled around for a reaction but I looked at her square in the eyes and confidently replied with a smug smile,
"We might as well be."
So far this journey has shown me who I am and who my friends are. I speak not only of Michael but of those who have come along in spirit and kept me on my way. So obsessed with my own agenda to better my life, I've been blind to the enriching company of which I keep - or rather who have kept me. I hope to come home much more appreciative of those I've taken for granted so that it doesn't have to take a burning building to get a grip on who I can count on and who have always been counting on me.
One morning I asked the Casanova about his work schedule again,
"Hypothetically-speaking how much time can you can get off?"
"A couple weeks? Why?"
"Good enough. Michael, how would you like to throw in with me for the ride west?"
