Pushing the Envelope

To Ride Or Not To Ride, That Was The Question…

By Ron Davis

   I was torn. I had a four day weekend and an offer from my son to guide me to some of his favorite early season trout streams. He lives in La Crosse, Wisconsin, on the Mississippi; I live on the other side of the state. I could take the pickup and really load up on gear, even throwing in a care package for him, OR take my F650 which would mean barest essentials, great mileage, and well, you know, more fun. So what was the problem? It was Wisconsin. It was March 18. The weather man looked uneasy. The steel gray sky looked like snow.

   I hemmed. I hawed. I piled my gear in the garage. I decided, well, why not load up the bike, just to see if it’s even feasible? Two travel rod tubes, waders and boots, fishing vest, net, rain gear, one change of clothes, camera, three granola bars, a second-hand copy of Gierach’s Trout Bum, toothbrush and deodorant, plastic. Packing looked do-able. I looked at the sky again, old oatmeal gray. The dash-mounted Formotion thermometer was nudging 35 degrees Fahrenheit. It was 1 p.m., not going to get any warmer. I could call and see what my wife thought, but there certainly was no mystery there. Better to call her after I arrived. I threw on the tail bag and opened the Givi’s. I was committed.

   How many times have you started a trip thinking, “Is this really wise?” And “What exactly am I trying to prove?”  It was one of those. I shifted up tentatively. I rolled on the throttle, countering, “What’s the worst that could happen?” I suppressed the persistent image of me and a shiny red motorcycle sliding off a banked turn into some snowy pines.

   I had, after all, done stuff like this before. When I was in college, tired of being wheel-less all winter, I had hitched home to get my Honda 350 out of dry dock one March. I had to set out on the 100 miles back to school by six the next morning to make my 10 o’clock news writing class with Dr. Polk. Everything was covered with a heavy frost. My mother looked doubtful, my dad appeared smug, as if convinced his initial suspicion about me had finally been confirmed: I was, indeed, an idiot.

   Either I was dumber then, or the gear wasn’t as good, because, despite duct tape around my face shield, a winter parka, and sorel boots, I began shivering almost as soon as I got on the highway. I started pulling over every 20 miles or so to pry myself out of the saddle and beat my arms together. Windshields were for sissies then, fairing didn’t even exist. I’m sure I considered hitting the coffee shops or even turning around, but Dr. Polk was legendary for accepting no excuses short of hospitalization, not to mention holding students who cut class up for public ridicule. By the time I coasted stiffly into my apartment’s parking lot, I was shaking violently, but at the same time feeling strangely peaceful, detached, and more than a little confused. (“Hypothermia” hadn’t entered my vocabulary yet.) I stopped, put my feet down and just stood there, straddling the bike as it continued to run, trying to remember complicated things like how one would go about turning off a motorcycle, or how, having turned it off, one would get off the bike without having it fall over on top of oneself. I looked down with wonder to see the inside calves of my rain pants melted to my jeans, the result of hugging my legs in so tightly to the headers.

   As if trying to move through heavy syrup, I remembered the function of the sidestand, silenced the engine by stabbing at the kill switch, and began fumbling for my apartment key. Making a trail of clothing to bathroom, I turned the shower to hot and curled up on the floor of the stall. A half-hour later I was still shaking, but could sort of remember who I was and why I wasn’t going to get an “A” in News Editing 255 anymore.

   But now, something like 300 years later, things seemed positively luxurious compared to that jaunt on the Honda. I was snug in layers of fleece, gore-tex, and Kevlar, and heated grips and grip guards kept the feeling in my fingers. A 17 inch windshield lifted the wind chill up to the crest of my helmet. Had I gotten softer or smarter?

   But there were still those clouds, those clouds. Wispy threads of what I knew were snow squalls were feeling their way down, lower and lower. At the 70 mile mark I felt I had earned a piece of homemade pie and a couple cups of black coffee at Connie’s Country Café in Babcock. I was the only one in the little place, which was fine since my pants, coat, helmet, backpack, gloves and other gear took up two tables. I’d recommend the apple ala mode (they warm it up for you without asking).

   Suited up and outside again, I pressed the starter and simultaneously flurries appeared. “Flurries I can deal with,” I said into my helmet, as I settled in for the 60 mile dead straightaway down 173. I screwed down the Throttlemeister at 62 and settled back. Straightaways like this one foster a certain Zen-like state for me. You’re trapped with your own thoughts, forced to get reacquainted with someone you may have been neglecting for a while. Among other revelations, it occurred to me what a change in roles this weekend presented. My son would be the host, feeding me, shepherding me around, saying things like, “Fish here” and “Do you need to take a nap?” Basically, he would be more like the parent, and I the wayward kid, showing up on his improbable motorcycle.

   At Sparta (a fitting coincidence) things got a bit more, well, spartan.  Big, fifty-cent sized flakes came down in a sheet. My windshield and arms turned white, but I was able to keep my face shield clear as I eased down to 35. At least the flakes were still melting as soon as they hit the road. I soon started getting the “What was he thinking?” look from oncoming drivers. That was a pretty good question, I thought, but then a convoy of Humvees out of Fort McCoy rumbled by, and I had the feeling some of those guys would have gladly traded places.

   What was I thinking? Was this some kind of challenge, some kind of meaningless mid-life charade to stave off early bird specials and senior citizen discounts? Was pushing this envelope going to prove I was as tough and daring as any kid half my age? Maybe I was just desperate for a good ride on a motorcycle. I plodded along to the first convenience store and daintily steered in to re-evaluate. I looked miserable, but realized I felt pretty okay. I munched a Butterfinger, ignored the smirks from other customers, and waited for the squall to pass.

   I must have passed through three or four more snowy sections in the final thirty miles of my trek, but having chosen back roads, I could take it easy or pull over whenever I needed to, and even in these less than ideal conditions I still could enjoy carving into Wisconsin’s “coulee country.” I pulled into my son’s driveway feeling tired and happy. I turned off the engine, swung the sidestand down and leaned back on the tailbag to savor a moment that I think only a rider knows. The old man still has it, I thought. Just then my son pulled in next to me, home from work. He gave me a blank look of resignation and shook his head. Dad would never grow up.

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