The End of the Road

11 months ago...

The porch doors slam wide open as I staggered back into the apartment demanding with gritted teeth muffling a strained shout,

"WHISKEY. NOW."

Just moments ago my bike and I lost traction mid-turn and was crashing helplessly on our side into the raw earth like a meteor whose life was about to be extinguished. The road literally disappeared into a jagged bed of rocks akin to the harsh surface of Mars, further obscured by curiously unlit lamp posts. Because of this, the street-turned-unannounced construction project couldn't even be seen in time but I sure as hell felt it. The impact was definitely dramatic with all the debris rocketing into the air however the most poignantly memorable segment of the catastrophe... was the bitterly long and unceasing slide through the bulky sediment.

Instinctly, I strained my neck towards the black sky as consistently as I could to avoid taking any damage to my head. My left hand could no longer hang onto the handlebar as the torrent of rocks got under my grip, sending my entire arm trailing behind. Simultaneously, I witnessed briefly before wincing, the immediate disappearing act of my remaining mirror and lights. When the rumbling finally came to a stop, Chance was partially buried, practically one foot already in the grave - at least mine seemed to be. Before the dust could settle after a due sigh of relief a sharp pain suddenly erupted from my pinned left leg.

I frothed at the mouth to restrain an undignified interjection. Instead of screaming, a personal reflex normally only seen from me in sparring bouts kicked in. I channeled the excruciating sensation into self-flagellating motivation like some Norse berserker to endure the feaverish effort of tearing myself out from underneath the wreck. Once freed, I tried to scramble to my feet but faltered. That's when I looked down.

Right over where my knee would be was a large, gaping tear in the jeans - no a hole, for the tough fabric was shaved clean off with nothing but a few stray threads fluttering about. My heart had already sank at the sight of my steed in pieces but the ominous warmth streaming down my leg threatened to drop my resilience straight to the ninth circle of hell. I dared not investigate further in order to keep my wits about me and shock at bay.

No time was wasted in pitifully struggling to erect my faithful companion. She had never felt heavier. We both collapsed back into the rubble and my pain intensified. My self-directed anger then shifted towards my circumstance, causing me to furiously throw my glasses into the darkness. Scornfully looking around, I watched the traffic crawl to a stop as rolled-down windows begged to know if I was in one piece. Their concerns fell on deaf ears for at this point I was preoccupied with inventorying what the hell had just happened. One, the rock-lined road had no illumination. Two, there was no signage of warning. Three--

Before I could curse the city's shoddy infrastructure aloud, a hand from the very friend who was complaining about the subject just minutes ago helped me up. Michael didn't even know where begin with words alone so he simply set to purpose by helping me get Chance back on both wheels. Even with an extra pair of hands I still writhed in secret anguish to lift with my shaky legs. An attempt at humor made that couldn't believe how I managed to pick her up on my own twice before was only met unamused. I was too disturbed by the extent of the damages my ride had just revealed to have suffered.

Besides the readily-apparent loss of many of the front components, there were concerning gouges and dents in the tank, engine block and exhaust pipes, and the industrial-strength steel bolt improvised as her shifting peg broke clean off. That wasn't the worst of it, though. The shifting lever itself was locked up and behind a prominent barrier on the engine casing normally acting as the hard ceiling when shifting up. I shuddered trying to reimagine the sheer force required to break past it and dreaded the internal wreck the gearbox itself had to be in. Then, just below it, a liquid made itself apparent. The bleeding oil cued me to what was likely just the tip of the iceberg but also reminded me of my own affliction which was going to need attention as soon as possible.

"I'm going to walk her back," was the first thing that I could articulate through my seething speech, still fighting the impulse to wail out in agony.

Now it was clear to the both of us that my thought processes were compromised and mental shock was winning me over.

"Not gonna happen," he stoically contended. "We're at least five miles out and, no offense, you don't look up to it."

I did take offense since my rationalization shifted the blame back onto myself while the impulsive idea of pushing 450lbs for miles would serve as penance for my mistakes like some cross to bear. Stubborn as an ox, I shrugged off his comment and limped down the wake carved out of the ground towards the point of impact dozens of feet away. As if salvaging my shattered dignity, I fervently gathered as many pieces of the bike as possible. Near the miniature crater at the street corner did I notice my keys poking out from the ground. Unbelievable.

Once he realized where the keys had gone just as I returned, Michael pounced on the necessary next step which was to test to see if Chance could even start. I was growing increasingly irate at the entire fiasco, thus rashly dismissing his suggestion and insisting that the machine can't start unless the gear is set to neutral. Thankfully one of us still kept a cool head, for my saint of a buddy reminded me to try holding the clutch in while hitting the ignition...

Chance sparked back to life!

A shred of sensibility returned to me at the roar of her pipes despite sounding alarmingly ill. I suspected she must be stuck in third gear at the least so carefully using the steel horse as a crutch, we tested if she could still drive forward. To my brief relief, she managed to pull forward a bit. It wasn't an impossible task but it would require some tricky clutch and throttle work, especially underspeed in traffic.

"All right," I said in a tone that conveyed a glimpse of humility, "I'll ride her home."

With that, I waited for Michael to run on back to his cycle before saddling up myself. I took a couple stressed breaths to psych up for the now daunting task of simply getting a leg over the bike. I'm at a loss for words to describe the guttural sounds I made during that brutal process. This was going to be a rough ride.

Keeping her balanced while power walking back onto pavement was no more demanding of self control than once up to speed. Starts were slow since the gears weren't going anywhere but once the wind started beating on the forefront of my exposed flesh, I lost all composure and didn't care who heard or saw me shouting like a mad man. It was hard enough just trying to stay on task with coordinating my hands on top of trying to remember the way home. Michael was behind with the good intention of keeping an eye on me but my escalating distress caused me to bark back a bitter order to take the goddamn lead.

I could tell my breakdown of character frazzled him because we got lost in no time. Never had I raised my voice in such a menacing way towards him, intended or not. So much for making amends with our friendship, I thought. Riding around aimlessly for a while with that guilt seemed to take my mind away from the wound. The dwindling sounds of my hollers and growls were being overtaken by the clattering and grinding of Chance's insides. My pointman eventually seemed to shrug off my misdirected anger, found our bearings and got us home.

I hobbled my way straight for the washroom while trying not to track blood on the floor. As I manically picked stones out of my fleshy knee under the shower, my demands for what remained of my liquid courage to pour on my wound as well as down a swig to numb the pain were denied.

"The alcohol will thin out your blood and the wound will be hard to coagulate," chimed in Kyle who was scurrying around with Michael, gathering makeshift medical supplies.

"Great", I laughed to myself, "No insurance and the best I can get away with is two Boy Scouts."

It was the first genuine guffaw out of me since we had left earlier in such high spirits. I directed the two to my first aid kit but they abruptly took the reigns not a second later. I'll skip the gorey details and keep the graphic photos to myself but I'll say that the jeans weren't salvageable, I should've gotten stitches at an emergency room and my self-induced chuckling throughout the patch up process was partially out of emasculated anxiety. Regardless, the mood in the room lightened up once the first bandage was secure and the pain killers set in.

The first sighs of relief came shortly after having a laugh about the bang up job with the duct tape. The bleeding was controlled for now and if I had any say, Michael and Kyle earned an upgrade to their medic badges. Laying there on the couch with my leg propped up seemed to send the blood back to my brain - at least that's what my pride would tell me. Still, once passions had settled, I managed to drop an understated appreciation for their help and an apology for how I handled the eventful night. The guys spared any continued mushiness but I could tell they knew something else was going on - that my anger didn't stem solely from the recent bad case of road rash and a banged up bike.

It must've became apparent in a curiously cathartic look that came over me just before insisting on resting my eyes for the night. I vividly remember the sensation but it was different than when I had an epiphany. There was no excitement, no urgency to articulate it in this written word, no vows to be made... Just peace. The long-enduring adrenaline had left me now, passing the baton of repression over to the deep sleep that I willingly surrendered to, keeping my woes, particularly those beyond the physical, at bay...

Despite being bed-ridden for a couple days, I came off more at peace than I ever did before. Changing my bandages and recleaning the wound several times a day was never anything to look forward to. Limping around was a chore. Getting reports from Michael about Chance's condition was never good news. Nevertheless, my unusual disposition of content never seemed to leave my face. Once I was able, we went to the movies to catch the latest Batman, ate gyros every day, discovered my new favorite drink of Somalian tea, enjoyed a couple barbeques, made new friends with the neighbors, attended a block party, played the role of Michael's wingman, philosophized love with Chris, bore witness to the possibility of Kyle getting laid, had a serendipitous reunion and subsequent party with friends I had only known online as a kid, spent more time catching up with my girl back home... Boy, for a moment there the road seemed like the last thing on my mind.

Then one day out of the blue, I turned to each of my friends and calmly suggested,

"...It's time I go home."

Bewildered at the statement, each one expressed in their own way my obvious need for both Chance and I to get fixed up before heading anywhere. With each conversation I had to clarify sanguinely,

"No... Not with Chance... by myself."

No one really knew how to respond to this sudden change of heart. The reluctance was unanimous with Michael being the most disheartened of all. Seeing as how long my recovery would take and the now-multiplied resources required to get my motorcycle up to speed, on paper, he knew he couldn't hold me back. Although I could tell he was fighting a once-shared sense of duty to hold me to my dreams, in the face of allowing me to forsake my journey, it would end up being him to give me the green light with an airplane ticket home.

It was settled. My faithful companion to the very end was to stay behind and await my return... whenever that might be. The uncertainty forced my guilt close to the surface from then on, causing my final days away from home to be more bitter than sweet. In a strange reaction to the silent shame of declaring retreat, I avoided approaching the crippled hunk of metal across the street ever since the accident. From time to time I would glance just to make sure the leaking oil wouldn't land my tenant a fine, but never more than a sorry glance. In retrospect, I suppose it was another way to repress the devil on my back not yet introduced in this story seemingly coming to a premature end. Out of sight and out of mind, as they say, but no matter what you do, I find such never leaves your heart.

Finally, on the day before I would fly home, I got up earlier than usual. The apartment was refreshingly cool and the subdued light pouring in through the windows put me in an irrational state of nostalgia. It looked like rain clouds outside - a first for the new month of August. Tomorrow would be the 99th day since I hopped the train.

Hobbling out onto the porch, I finally took a good long look at my motorcycle with the quiet road between us. The long silence was broken by the first pitter patter of rain. I felt compelled to reach out and feel the water bounce on my hand. Then, once a fair puddle collected, I wiped my face and ran my hand through my hair to shake off the lingering lethargy. The cool sensation was particularly more than refreshing. Perhaps a dormant reserve of endorphins were tickled or I was appreciating what it felt like to be baptized again but in an inexplicable way, I felt that I had Chance's blessing - though not just then. I seemed reminded - reassured - that this was always the case from the very first mile.

By Chance, I was inspired with the confidence to jump the tracks of a life in resignation.

By Chance, I was bestowed the resolve to chase down my demons instead of outrun them.

By Chance, I was granted the freedom to seek and survive character-defining adventures and misadventures, alike.

By Chance, I was provided the opportunities to establish new, life-long friendships as well as reconnect with the old, tried and true.

And it was, without a doubt in my mind, by Chance that I was entrusted with an unforgettable story to tell, learn from, and carry on with for the rest of my days.

In the end, it was never sheer luck that brought me to this unforseen crossroads in my life, but rather... two wheels with a heart of gold. A rough and tumble guardian angel of inspiration and locomotion that has carried me beyond as far as it physically could. Though the trip up until now traversed within the borders of the red, white and blue, the mileage was enough for a trip halfway around the world. The odometer seemed to better portray the substance of the journey that took place within me. I don't believe I'd be here had it not been for your tugging at my sleeve, shouldering my whims, entertaining my "why nots," catapulting me beyond perceived comforts and safely spiriting me away from all that would snuff out my flame. We're friends, you and I, and you owed me nothing but gave me everything in the 20,000 miles we've shared all these years. Gratitude is all I should ever convey to you.

So, there I stood, confident in whatever I needed to do next needn't be prefaced with an apology.

My melancholic disposition took a step back and granted me a moment to do my friend one last gesture.

"Thanks for taking the fall," I said under my breath, acknowledging a secret that we'd keep just between us for the time being. There was a stifled "adios" then the dusty, weathered blanket was draped over the honored old horse one last time, heralding a well-earned epoch of slumber.

That was the last I ever saw of Chance, the bike that made its own luck.

Then the downpour commenced shortly thereafter.

The road did come to an end but my journey was far, far from over.

 

Daedalus and Icarus

Early August, 2012--

Things were really looking up now!

A package that I had reluctantly approved of having sent was warmly welcomed. I confess, the box didn't spend a moment on the doorstep let alone touched the ground for it was eagerly snatched from the mailman's hot hands.

It can't be said what I was more anxious for: my coonskin cap or a plateful of homemade cookies! My family sent both, along with a raggedy, old, favorite shirt, an emergency gas card and news that my lady would wait past her allotted stay in the country just to see my return. The care package would be my first physical contact with home in over three months so I harbored no shame in deeply inhaling the contents, hoping a nostalgic aroma would add to my mounting excitement for the final leg home.

As intoxicating as it was, I had to remind myself to stay in the moment. What stood between me and home was a conservative estimate of 5,000 miles and inevitably a handful of misadventures along the way. Anyone with a basic understanding of United States geography would raise a hand here to point out that its just over 3,000 coast to coast. However, seeing as how I've clocked that much within the Southwest alone, I knew better than to assume I would travel as the crow flies. In fact, the route to the Pacific Ocean I've settled with once took over a year to complete!

Behold, the trail pioneered by Meriwether Lewis and William Clark with their ragtag team. One does not simply "head west" without some pomp and circumstance! Other routes considered were among the many branches of Oregon Trail, though they tend to have a more southern loop and there was no way I'd be missing out on Montana country, the infamous Sturgis motorcycle rally, and a couple promising ranching opportunities via the WWOOF network!

As for Michael's decision to throw in for the trek, he still wasn't sure because he was in lieu for a promotion at work. Whether he joins me or not won't deter Chance and I from hitting the road in another week or so but it'd be fitting to have a partner for a route forged by a legendary duo. Besides, I'd say there's no better way to break in his new Bonnie than with a considerable amount of off-roading and river fording! No pressure, though, mate. At the very least, he assured me, he'd fly out and meet me at the lodge on the other side of the Great Divide.

He was referring to my newly established end point of my journey: Paradise Inn, Mt. Tahoma (a.k.a. Rainier), elevation 5,400 feet. It's, in my opinion, the crowning piece of Pacific Northwest history - next to my hometown of Tacoma, of course. The lodge has been on the volcano since the turn of the century, nestled a few thousand feet below base camp for those who've endeavored the climb to the peak. Most of the year it's buried in snow and it's traditionally dug out with the mountain's mid-summer thawing. The interior walls are dotted with large, intriguing photographs of the very place you stand in. Truly, nothing has changed in almost 100 years aside from the style of clothing depicted by the adventurers and their admirers. It's become my place of retreat, refuge, and reconciliation thanks to its remoteness from civilization and closeness to the sky.

Every year for five years I've gone up with a core circle of friends, enjoyed a misadventure, recouped and recounted the day's tales before one of the grand fireplaces. We always aim high for base camp and are always turned around due to being poorly equipped with what might as well be wings made of wax. It's always at the height of the hike, in attitude as well as altitude, where something goes catastrophically wrong and we flee down the mountain... Nevertheless it's become an amusing tradition. It hasn't been visited this year so I believe it would serve as an apt "end of the road" where I can find rest and celebration with good company.

So it is my earnest hope that all friends, family, and especially readers that are able, come welcome Chance and I home at Paradise! It's only about an hour from the cities and about a half hour drive up the mountain though I would highly recommend making a vacation of it. Spend a night or two in one of the rustic rooms for I imagine much of your time will be spent exploring the Eden-worthy area and simply drinking the pure, fresh air. If you're there before we are as schedules aren't exactly something we've been accustomed to for some time now, I'd encourage you to get to know one another especially in the role you've played for this writer and his ride. It goes without saying that I'll be playing host to an endless number of story requests from the quintessential, asymmetrical position next to the roaring fire - smoking pipe in hand still up for debate. And who knows? Maybe I'll even entertain another attempt at base camp with anyone fool-hardy and/or daring enough. How symbolic would it be to finally reach the infamous Camp Muir as a last hurrah only to imply that this... and everything that has lead up to it is only the beginning?

But again, my head is in the clouds when it should be on the road! I will make a formal invitation with definitive dates, details and directions once I reach the eastern foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Just keep early September in mind, folks!

In a few days I'll be introduced to Mark and his cycle store which would come to be my temporary workshop to outfit us renewed wings that'll spirit us away. The rear wheel donated from my first busking gig was just waiting for a pickup which we decided would be put off until either Michael or Chris was available with their cages - I mean cars.

By the way, I reluctantly rose to the occasion to drive Chris to the airport early one morning as a token of gratitude for supporting me at First Thirsday. I hadn't driven since I left home and it was a manual! How bizarre it felt to travel down the freeway and not have the wind in my face! To my surprise, at least, Chris was impressed and I managed to drive home on my own without a hitch - even backed into his tiny appartment parking space! You bet I was blowing on my fingernails walking back to Mike's! I later learned the lights were left on.

Anyhow, in the meantime all I could do was serenade the streets and make that dough! Today I staked out a famous corner in Uptown right outside the hippie grocery known as The Wedge. All of Michael's friends, especially Emily, absolutely endorsed performing there as it's served as the beginnings for a handful of Minneapolis' rags to riches musicians - relatively speaking. In my time here I had already seen many unique characters plying their trade from kazoo wizards to comedic magicians. A scruffy young man singing the classics next to his dilapidated bike should fit in and stand out at the same time just fine. Like I mentioned before, with an audience of hipsters, you want to be as weird as can be.

The corner had my stamp of approval and tomorrow will serve as day one out there. As for tonight, I chose to simply relax. I found a campy motorcycling documentary/comedy to watch from the 70s called Cycle South which chronicles the ridiculous undertaking of three young men who leave Denver and head down to Panama. If anyone plans to make a parody of "By Chance" please do so in the fashion of that bittersweet movie.

My host of nearly two weeks and best pal Michael got off the clock earlier than usual tonight and on account of having driven to work only to find not a drop of rain was seen all day, he proposed,

"Wanna go for a ride around the lakes tonight?"

"Lead on, my friend."

He quickly rescinded his invitation out of habit, believing I was still the man who was too busy to be bothered. I threw on my jacket and slipped on my gloves while dissuading his reflex with a grin.

The half a dozen lakes sprinkled around his neighborhood were all outlined by quaint roads, each unique in its contours as the bodies of water they bordered. They were like racetracks though the width of the roadway and the angles of some of the turns didn't invite speeds over the usual in-town traffic. Still, late at night, when you have them all to yourself under the bright blue glow of the moonlight, it is as if you're on your own closed course. With the air slightly cooler after midnight and the breeze tied to your throttle like settings on a fan, you could find just the right pace to feel what I can only describe as bliss.

But that's just comfort. There is something sweeter at play as you make that infinite loop. There's a certain point in riding, especially at night, where you forget you're straddled over an engine and believe you're flying. I felt it the very first time I brought Chance home from the dealer and I was lost in farm country near Mt. Tahoma long after sunset. It's a rather dreamy sensation.

The first time we went on a late night ride around the more twisty Lake the Isles, I confided a wish to my friend that the night before I leave Minnesota, I'd ride around the lake endlessly until the sun rose - watch it like I did so dutifully in my youth... then be gone.

Tonight, however, would just be another night to cool off and let our steeds stretch their legs out a bit. Michael took point since he wanted to show me a lake I hadn't been to before, though he wasn't familiar with the way due to construction detours. Even from behind him I could hear his usual tirade of swears normally aimed at poor drivers now at the Minnesotan roadways.

Amused and in no rush to arrive, I chuckled and hung back a bit to communicate my lack of pressure. Eventually he recognized an entrance to the lake and maneuvered into the turning lane to briefly wait for the light to turn green while I caught up. By the time I reached the lane it was perfectly clear of the turning traffic, inviting Chance to maintain second gear and accelerate onto our private course. Naturally eyeing my point of exit, I noticed Michael on the other side curiously stiff in posture and under speed while fighting an urge to take his eyes off the road, hand off the brakes and motion to me. That's when it happened...

The road literally disappeared.

I was flying.

For sliver of time neither wheels were in contact with the ground and for that brief moment of misplaced bliss the world began to tilt to one side. All seemed muted as I braced for impact and in the void of the impending chaos I thought clearly to myself,

"Only at our highest do we fall the hardest."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Slam.

Chance falls for the third time.

 

On Top of the World

Late July 2012-

How long has it been?

How long has it been since I last exclaimed that titled expression? It used to be among my most associated catchphrases, much like "howdy" or "adios" are as of late. I was never really one to throw words around unless the circumstances were truly worthy of them- even a swear. Folks' ears would perk up whenever I threw a "damn" in... probably because I sounded silly but it roped attention no less. So when such a jubilant declaration suddenly falls from my little book of trademarks, looking back, it really says something about that period in my life. Don't get me wrong; being lit aflame, piloting my first plane and meeting my future wife (not all at the same time) were undoubtedly highlights for dinner parties and the grandkids but until this liberating adventure, it's difficult to recall many, if any, instances that inspired my old interjection. Now as I stand over this table which has shouldered my fervent efforts and mounting excitement for the undertaking at hand, they just seem to rush past my lips:

"I am, indeed, on top of the world!"

But before this particular day is immortalized in word and media, I best not leave out how my time has been in good company in a little Minneapolis neighborhood known as Uptown.

Since we weren't going anywhere anytime soon, I had to settle in for once and attune myself to the rhythm of city living. Though I still looked the part of a man of the road, the community Michael called home was also shared by hipster characters that made my raggedy, antiquated attire and untamed facial hair fit in just fine. I was even complimented on my taped up boot at the groceries. In case anyone is keeping track it now consists of guerrilla tape, masking tape, duct tape, electrical tape and a key ring.

A typical day involved sleeping in past my usual checkout time, writing, a brief workout, eating lunch from what the neighborhood believes to be a terrorist front of a deli, more writing, being dragged out by Mike and/or company for fresh air, some communal porch time with said company, washing the dishes then more writing until late into the next day.

Mike's apartment was a beautiful old building from the 1920s. I'd be joining him in occupying the bottom right section - the one with the doors always open and porch most often occupied.

The usual porch crew would consist of Mike's lady friend and up and coming musician, Emily, his lovable brother, Chris, and his geologist of a room mate, Kyle. That's him at the very end, patiently waiting for his turn of a favorite pastime of theirs.

He was thoughtful enough to leave me this the first morning after I had mentioned my long-time departure from a steady diet and vitamins!

Of course, those nutrients were often negated by joining in on the occasional hookah, trip to the local bar, and even a puff from Miss Mary Jane one day as an experiment to get over writer's block. Wasn't it Hemingway, himself, or who once said "Write drunk, edit sober?"

Besides rescuing people from burning buildings, the distractions indulged ranged from the sacrilegeously overpowered Netflix (in my day you watched whatever was on the tele) to night rides around one of the many lakes this part of the world is known for. My skewed impression of this state had been influenced by the movie Fargo despite the town actually being in North Dakota, so the high temperatures that I had hoped to finally escape only lingered and in full force. As a result, trips to a secret hippie beach would often occur in lieu of exercising indoors.

It's a bizarre feeling motorcycling in shorts and flip flops. After months of sitting, it was a real joy to stretch my muscles out and swim across an entire lake. It was all the more a joy to know I still had it in me! The lakes were a wonderful thing to have in one's back yard but what a shame that it's not worth braving a dip most months out of the year.

That said, it surprised me little how outdoorsy the city appeared to be in terms of joggers, paddle boaters, cult-status bicyclists and even marathon porch-sitters, for these usually-snowed in folks must take great advantage of what few months of sun they have to get out and mingle. With art festivals, block parties and countless motorcycle rallies, Uptown seemed just a pitcher of Kool-Ade shy of being a commune. Not long after settling in the tres amigos saddled up again to attend one of these events known as the Bearded Maiden Rally. We had to go just for the sake of the name alone!

Who says one can't carry all of life's pleasures on a bike?

There were a couple beefed up motored-bicycles that got me thinking outside the box with Napoleon if I ever plan to resurrect that project.

This next guy reminds me of the charismatic machine that Nickolas of the Gulls rides.

Now this won best of show in my heart. I'm not a fan of bobber style customizations but this paint scheme is the most beautiful ever to sit under the Triumph emblem.

But I still adore thee!

I was hoping to score parts the way I lucked out in Utah but the shindig didn't offer much beyond a place to show off shiny machines. The business on my mind since aiming for this northern destination was to get Chance all the proper maintenance for she was well overdue for the 18k mile tune up as a minimum. Let's list what else the beaut was going to need thanks to either road wear or breaking...

Rear wheel, head lamp bulb, brake pads, front disc, brake line, chain, sprocket, luggage brackets, right mirror, possible engine valve or two and saddlebags. Thankfully Nate's fiancé, Kate, has a motorcycle mechanic of a father named Mark with his own shop in town so as tall an order all that would be, he'd cut me a discount. Labor costs wouldn't be factored in either since I intended to do Chance and myself a favor by taking the opportunity to get very acquainted with my machine by doing all the repairs and replacements on my own. I'm sure if Mark's anything like the Desert Doctor, he'll bark at me if I'm doing anything wrong and keep me in line!

There still was the problem of making the money for the journey west as well as for the repairs. Chris mentioned that the biggest biker event is known as First Thursday in which supposedly a thousand cycles will occupy a few blocks radiating from an old pizza shop where the monthly tradition started. The picture he painted got me stroking my chin... The conditions for busking were ripe for the picking!

I had a little over a week to prepare. Getting this journal up to date was a chore for once as I often got distracted with filling Michael's apartment with the sound of potential repertoire pieces in addition to the signature Impossible Dream number. Songs considered were generally traditional folk songs that would give boomers a sense of nostalgia like Danny Boy and Loch Lomond. Other more newer, though still classic pieces included Someone to Watch Over Me and Moon River. Even a few sappy Josh Groban songs snuck out of me during those unofficial rehearsals just because I knew I could sing them well (I still believe he stole my voice). But without a proper stage and demographic, I doubted they could sell and ended up on the cutting room floor. Even my guaranteed tear-jerker trump card, Boccelli, didn't make the cut.

Speaking of which, I would need a catchy sign! A couple days before show time I scoured around town looking for an arts and crafts store. For an artsy town there was only one and they lacked the supplies necessary to fulfill my grand vision. I wouldn't brand myself a perfectionist but my imagination often gets carried away when it comes to image, presentation and overall showmanship so a permanent marker and cardboard was out of the question (unless I was trying to be ironic).

There's a lyric from a song most righteous - the lyrical introduction from the man, himself - "I am I, Don Quixote" which gave rise to the idea I had for signage.

"And a knight with his banner all bravely unfurled"

Why not? A medieval-themed standard would only be apt to accompany an ailing mechanical horse and delusional man on a quest!

The limited art store would be ventured three more times that day, with each visit's demands more bolder than the last. Eventually I gave up on finding what I needed from them and simply exchanged paint and markers with each trip as my color vision impairment (shared with Mike and his brother) failed to produce the desired pigment on my banner.

The medium that I procured and cannibalized was a cheap tourist shirt from a local pharmacy. The main pole which originally meant to hoist an American flag, came from Michael's grocery. The cross beams that I envisioned would stabilize the cloth were the toughest to come by. I will say that I was guilty of walking around the neighborhood snooping around yards for just the right short poles but the evening before the rally, they'd reveal themselves to have been sitting right under my nose the whole time - or rather my feet!

In the middle of the night, I unscrewed these perfect little buggers from the staircase that were pinning the carpet to each step in the hallway of the apartment. Sure, when I shared that news with my friend, the tenant who would be responsible for it, he displayed that bug-eyed look that said he forgot about the consequences of regressing to a younger, bolder me. Don't worry, no one would notice since they were dirty and lacked the original eye catching glimmer that took several attempts to reclaim in the kitchen sink.

Chris came over the next morning when I thought I'd have the place all to myself all day to rehearse and put the sign together while the roomies were at work. In the moment that I opened the door, the rumblings of all sorts of two-wheeled engines accompanied his entrance. Apparently the official get together time was 5pm but one thing about motorcyclists that was likely picked up from Easy Rider is we don't wear watches. Turns out this would be an all-day event and I had to scramble with Chris' help!

Duct tape here, chop with the knife there, superglue and freehand writing all over the place and voila! Perhaps my finest ghetto-rigging to date, if I do say so myself! The excitement came over me all at once then with all the panache of a turn of the century adventurer summiting Everest, my old catchphrase was declared!

No time to lose! Chance was saddled up with all my dingy, dusty luggage to showcase some authenticity to my cause with the dismantled poles and banner strapped underneath the Captain America helmet. We sallied forth with a Sancho Panza on a flaming yellow supersport in tow!

Delano's Pizza's parking lot was the stage and the eyes of my soon to be audience were already affixed on us as we rode past. Admittedly, my confidence took a jab so at first, I thought to ride down a ways and park away from the heart of the action. But then I thought back to the first rally I ventured near the beginning of the journey and about how it turned out. With a nod, Chance and I made a 180 and gallantly rode into the lot, coming to a purposeful stop in the very center, pioneering our own new row.

Besides the other cycles that flocked to my left and right, I was met with a handful of admirers within minutes of laying down my kickstand. One older gentleman couldn't seem to articulate how smitten he was that a man of my meager years was riding such a classic machine and beyond putting around town, which my dusty baggage gave away. The nods of approval came so quickly that I found myself much too bashful to sell our story. In fact, I was suddenly overcome with so much coyness that I insisted to Chris that I'd delay pitching up my sign, even justifying a strong desire to flee the scene by "checking out" the other bikes. Intuitive, as I have quickly learned him to be, Chris smirked, ceased to spur and left me to my purported sightseeing to find his fiancé and little cousin in the crowd.

My stalling tour of the expanding grounds revealed that the Drelling brothers were not exaggerating this time with regards to the diverse representation of bikes! For once, here was a rally that didn't seem predominantly cruiser or super sport but rather both and everything in between.

There was the Hayabusa, which I've heard to be one of the fastest two-wheeled beasts around. That said, I also heard that despite being masters of the straightaway, it's not meant to, well, turn.

A classic Ariel made an appearance! Long before settling on a Triumph my research constantly lead me to this company's aesthetic styling.

Speaking of looks, the following motorcycle looked more like a work of art than a machine that served any utilitarian purpose. Personally, I'd never ride it but it would sit proudly on a mantle above my fireplace if that were remotely possible. The attention to detail is astonishing.

The owner must be a pilot. I may have to steal the aircraft safety ribbon flourish for my "wingless plane" of a SAAB back home.

This one affirms my belief that sport bikes are toy bikes. I jest - I still say so but jokingly. I've come to respect anyone on two wheels, even if those wheels look like they belong underneath an action figure or Power Ranger.

Well, here's a bike suitable for the dark super hero in you: the Batcycle. At least that's what I called it.

Of course the cruisers jockeyed their way into some parking spots. I imagine they had to stake their claim earlier in the day since their baffling size would have limited themselves to being parked at the outskirts.

Now, is it just me or is the option of a cup holder indicative of defeating the spirit of motorcycling? Well, perhaps not - bicycles have bottle holders and with good reason but I'd imagine four or five jumbo speakers might bump your ride into the cage category (what bikers call cars).

Representing only one of only three other Bonnies I've seen in Minnesota (counting Michael's), Chance's blue brother from another mother graced us with his presence!

Stumbling across this next one was an honor. It was the motorcycle featured in the movie One Week which I had recently shown Chris and enjoyed a deep conversation with.

In retrospect, it's eerie how much my adventure paralleled the fictional young man's. No, I don't have cancer, I'm not getting married, nor am I Canadian (all any time soon, at least) but the quiet desperation, dare-inspired bravado, eluding doubts, questing for meaning in the face of uncertainty and an ending of which I will not spoil for either the movie nor my own tale - all have become surprisingly relatable. I am getting ahead of myself, though.

By the time Chris and company caught up with me the event was in full swing and if there was a time to rally this rally to my cause, it was now. Suddenly being on top of the world seemed a bit too high for comfort as the bravery I was supposed to be gathering during my time stalling was distracted by the aforementioned sentiments! Boy, oh, boy...

Well, if courage couldn't come from within, my confidant Chris pointed out that I could find it a couple blocks away... in a liquid form.

Recalling my performance around a particular bonfire, or at least what I could remember, it didn't seem too far-fetched a plan. Yes, it would taste absolutely horrible but if I didn't drink too much I'd still maintain decent control over the volume of my voice, remember all the lyrics and ditch the inhibitions that was keeping me from getting on with it! Albeit, considering my inexperience with alcohol, finding that perfect amount to imbibe will be the tricky part...

I had never been in a liquor store on my own accord before, so naturally, Chris was kind enough to take my shaking head under his wing. At first it was overwhelming but once I took in all the fancy bottles, amusing names and had nearly every single one of my honest questions answered, it became rather exciting! It's like a candy shop for adults.

Now, my tutor didn't fancy himself a professional singer by any means so I recruited the opinions of one of the store's employees.

"Excuse me but I'm looking for a very small bottle of something suitable for a person who just needs... a little nudge to perform by himself in front of a lot of people. Taste is no issue but it can't coat my throat or strip it of lubrication--"

As I continued tailoring this magical elixer that may not, at this point, exist, I realized how whimsical I was starting to sound but the young man in an apron could tell I was quite serious. His nods of consideration and momentary pause of contemplation assured me my needs would be personally met.

He answered with a question, "I take it you'll be singing out there," pointing to the amassing crowd in the streets. Nodding some more he continued, "I'm in a band so I feel ya. Let me show you what I've got."

With that, this long-haired rocker of a fellow, whose name slips my memory (bare in mind I drank after this), intelligently explained the properties of a couple choice drinks that wouldn't hamper my singing ability. Believe it or not but I settled on a Jameson whiskey quite honestly for the bottle size, price and it was the devil I knew. Once the clerk rang me up his curiosity got the best of him and began to politely grill me for my story. He was so enamored that he highly suggested that I make an appearance at a house party and wanted to help network. At first I thought it a strange place to busk but then again, this is a hipster town and I'm sure their musical tastes and venues must be quirkier than I. He had my most sincere thanks. Now to work!

I was wishing I had the charisma of Popeye with a can of spinach but I had to psych myself up to manage a swig of the vile stuff. My support crew followed me into an alley with a bottle of water to wash it down and Chris kindly taking the reigns with the camera. Janice, his fiancé, was a darling and sympathized for the torture I was about to lay down upon my taste buds. Between brave gulps and pitiful complaints, I felt compelled to bark at my friend's little cousin that he not remember or take after me in this regard.

I'll admit, the affair was rather comical.

Fast forward ten minutes...

The banner was sailing, my Captain America helmet hung off my handlebar with some cash already sitting pretty inside, my posse was cheering from the sidelines and there I was as loose as a goose with a can of spiked Coca-cola in my hand and a song in my heart! Now I wasn't singing just yet! As influential the whiskey was, I was still in the right mind to feel out the crowd and pick just the right moment to belt it out. In the meantime Chance and I were just having a ball drawing attention with our story alone.

I certainly did sing before the sun set that day, though it was far from my best as I didn't take into consideration that I'd be competing against the roar of a couple dozen cycles at any given time. That and I might have had more to drink than I should've because some lyrics completely went out the window, hah! But my spirit was definitely in it and I managed to make $170 dollars! Not bad for my first busk!

Well, I should be more specific about that amount. One generous fan of my circumstances donated me a new Triumph Bonneville T100 rear wheel which retails to $160 - easily the most expensive part that needed replacing! The other ten bucks was Chris' change in my helmet to point people's pockets in the right direction. I ended up giving that back appreciatively, though it was returned to me over a treated dinner to celebrate.

Now that I knew it was possible to sing my way home, I stayed up late that night planning not only my next venue but also a unique route west and the perfect place to make a triumphant homecoming.