California II: L.A. to Yuma (LONG)

“Our doubts are traitors,
And make us lose the good we oft might win,
By fearing to attempt.”
-William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure

Friday 2.19 - the plan is to leave at 10am. That was the plan. The reality is that Ethan’s memorial celebration lasted a lot later than anticipated and sleep did not come as quickly as thought. I’m glad it didn’t. After the party had moved from the house in Burbank and the crowd migrated to The 5th, I had made a last minute decision to join the crew for one last toast. I was going to go to bed. I was going to get some sleep. Ha. The decision to stay a bit later and get a bit later start on the road is one that will never be regretted. There is a lifetime to get enough sleep, to be 100% of your game. Opportunities that are meaningful to one and one’s friends don’t come around as often as they should and most of us pass them up, taking the opportunities for granted. No more.

Eventually I leave at 11…ish after saying thank yous and goodbyes and having a cup of coffee that Juliet diligently brews every morning at 8 o’clock. Juliet, you have been my savior. On to the first stop: San Diego. Staying off the L.A. super-slabs(Interstates), I cruise a couple of side streets until reaching Sepulveda Boulevard, which delivery me to Santa Monica Boulevard and the Santa Monica coast line at the Pacific Coast Highway. This is the start and will be the end point of this adventure (little did I know that it’s also the beginning of historic Rte 66, which will be the final chapter of this saga after I’ve completed the perimeter) and I take a moment to reflect and grab a picture of the intersection where dreams collide.

Water on the right… Cruising along the coasts, the Pacific rides as my sidecar. A Salty breeze floats gently into my nose as I finally get it. This is the beginning. This is what it’s about. The PCH winds and wiggles its way down the California coastline giving it an endearing and innocent outline, much like that of a child trying to fill in a coloring book. There’s no hurry here, no place to be. The first stop is San Diego, but there is only a timeframe, no deadline. A smile creeps in. This is what I’ve been looking for. Overused phrases and corporate jargon start to shift and transform into more appropriate meanings. Touch base means that I physically put my hands on the Alamo or some other national monument. Circle back is what happens when I miss my turn (this happens often as all my senses are overwhelmed by the complete inundation of stimulus surrounding me). Parking lot is the place I will drop my kickstand. Clarity are the moments I have while being surrounded by 360 degrees of sunset in the middle of a vast desert. This initial leg of the journey is going to take a while, even though it could be done in 3 hours.

Wanting to stay true to PCH, I have bouts of infidelity as roads closer to the ocean deem more attractive. Riding down Pacific Avenue to Venice Beach, the bridges have too much history to pass up a photo op. Calling these side-quests delays would be a misnomer as on this trip there is no such thing as a delay. Jumping back on the PCH, LAX goes by in the obnoxious blur that it is and it’s time to stop for gas in El Segundo. Rolling out of the station, I touch my leg several times as I span the next few miles, making sure my wallet is back in my jeans pocket. It is.

Here’s that wandering eye again. PCH, you know I love you, but I think we should see other people. Departing the one that should be guiding me, Palos Verde Boulevard bats her eyelashes and beckons me to ride the ocean’s overshadowing cliffs. For those of you that have seen the movie “What Dreams May Come,” the ride is as if I’ve stepped into an artist’s rendering. More beautiful, lush and brilliant than real life could possibly be. Bluff Cove offers up a vista worthy of any camera, but only few cameras are worthy of it. Mine, not so much. Looking down the cliffs at the surfers hundreds of feet below, nothing can pollute this picturesque moment. Wrong. Taking the last of my snaps and hearing a ruckus behind me, I turn around to find a couple of oily bohunks in denim flexing their pharmaceutical grade biceps while being photographed by a very eager photographer. Gay porn? Wrangler’s 2011 Calendar? Or the next batch of a 13 year old girls bedroom posters? The answer is it’s time to ramble on. Sorry ladies, no pics… next time, I gotchyo back.

A historic lighthouse (take a pic), the San Vicente bridge (take a pic), a flock of seagulls (take a pic), an oil field (take a pic), roll with a Ferrari for 10 miles (no pic), getting turned around more times than P-Diddy’s identity (GPS phone is a LIFE SAVER) and five and a half hours later brings me to Oceanside, where the PCH is under construction (No Road Through) and it’s getting dark. Given there is still about 50 miles left in the day, I-5 looks mighty inviting, so I roll the dice to quickly get to Mission Trails/Kumeyaay Lake campground outside of San Diego.

Come on. Test me. I dare you. Just kidding, you don’t have to call my bluff. Sh!t. To say the I-5 at night is a hellacious experience is an understatement, but proves to be a necessary one and I’m glad to get this under my belt early in the trip. Nearing the highway that leads to the campground, I decide to pull over for a quick fill. When I pull up to the station, there is an extremely friendly kid of about 25 selling some sort of auto polish. Miguel is a former serviceman/motorcycle rider, but was discharged due to an unfortunate accident involving a wheelie at 55 mph and a rogue gust of wind. About to be shipped to Afghanistan, Miguel was perhaps spared a worse fate. He is a mere glimpse of the unique and intriguing individuals that will cross my path on this journey.

Rolling into the campground at Mission Trails, I am greeted by a friend that reaches back to middle-school extending a much needed cocktail. Rustie and I exchange hugs and smiles and then it’s to the dirty task of setting up camp in the dark. This proves to be a fairly easy task, as the tent is a 2-pole set-up with a rain fly. Very simple, very roomy (surprisingly), very nice, I like. The tent works out perfectly as its misleadingly spacious interior leaves room for my Thermarest and sleeping bag, a corner for my duffle with gear, a corner for boots and shoes, an office to hold a backpack which doubles as laptop stand, with enough room left over for a the jetboil kitchen. Surprise doesn’t even begin to cut it. Thanks for the tent dad, nice work.

The fire crackles as conversation flows as smoothly as the rum and cokes do and before long, tales of the past, present and future all intertwine into a great night. The stroke of midnight comes quickly and with it drops of rain that serves as a warning that they’re bringing reinforcements. An easy decision to rack out for the night, we go to our respective tents and welcome the sandman. The static-like sound of raindrops on the tent begins to hasten and intensify and worry of a leak sets in. Wet gear is no fun, as any camper will tell you. Fortunately for me, the tent’s defenses hold. Rustie isn’t as lucky as her tent crumbles like the Alamo and she retreats to the sanctuary of her car.

Tap dancing across the rain-fly, the drops lift me out of a deep slumber and I lay there looking out the door for a solid two hours taking in the breeze, the mountains and the beauty. Once the weather breaks (or so we think), it’s determined that a quick hike around Kumeyaay Lake is a must. A muddy hike complete with overflowing river, the views warrant a deep breath and a gasp escapes as icy rain drops fall down the back of my neck. Back to camp and then on to lunch with my bro before he ships to Afghanistan.

When on a journey of this magnitude and having the last lunch with your brother for an easy six months, where do you go? Dave N Busters, of course. Arriving a bit late, I meet with Jon, who is eagerly awaiting my arrival for some grub. We have a great lunch, catch up and then say our “see you laters and good lucks” as we both turn and walk towards two experiences that will burn deeply within us for the rest of our lives. USMC Jon Rutter – we’re proud of you, thank you for all you do for this country.

The Philly cheese steak settling in for a nap, we make our way over to Balboa Park in San Diego to meander through gardens, art, culture and architecture. Starting out at the Big Tree and strolling through pathways that resemble a Candyland board, flora seems to reach out to try and engulf you to make you an everlasting part of their natural beauty. Passing stone work on the sides of ornately carved Spanish architecture, faces glare out grimacing and twisting at passersby eternally etched and never changing. The buildings, statues, art and culture take one to a place beyond this country’s borders. El Cid hovers above all, mightily raising his flag as his stallion snorts and lifts a hoof in courage and pride. Walking away in the path of his gaze, I round a corner to find an old saxophone player under a street light. The jazz is smooth and delicious and immediate recognition of reasons for this trip are noted as the music melts into the air around us. Each note is an alarm clock for another goose bump. This is America at its best. The last image seen while leaving Balboa Park is a towering and undeniable banner of Darwin. Proper. This is the evolution of me.



The day ends with a trip to a friend’s house for some cocktails (of which I pass on) and board games. The games never took off, but the conversation between myself and a couple name Mark and Emily did. Having been travelers since 2007, after selling all their possessions and giving up their corporate way of life, they packed up an RV and started touring the country. Eventually the been-there-done-that thoughts around the RV began to creep in and they decided to purchase a sailboat and make the waves their home for 6 months. A travelers inspiration, they have sage advice, a warm attitude, but never forget common sense and safety that is needed for such adventures. Roadslesstraveled.us will take you on their journey, should you care to get on board.

It’s time to get on two wheels again and an 8am wake-up is met with drying out tents, tarps and other gear. The going is slow and I vow to become more efficient in both time and space while packing. One stop remains between me and the open road: REI. After getting lost for around 45 minutes and just about as many miles, REI peaks its logo from around a turn and all is good. Picking up some jetfuel, fire starters I walk out of the store to find a bratwurst stand. An old hippie had a tent outside of the store and welcomes me under it to dry and warm myself by the grill. “Get under the tent and grab some fire, it’s cold and wet out here today.” Taking down the sumptuously grilled cased meat, I wash it down with a Pepsi and walk over to my bike. Given my turnarounds, misdirection and wasted time, I opt not to ride down to the places I’ve seen before (Pacific Beach, Coronado Island and Tijuana), but rather kick it into gear and get on I-8 to ride east. The rain cloud that seems to be perpetually following me, checks in with a wink and I suit up. Now, the only thing standing between me and the desert are the mountains of I-8.

I’m riding south and east…the weather will get better. Wrong. I-8 leads right into a rain cloud, making me feel as if I’m going into the lost city of Shangri La. No such luck. Instead of gold, prosperity and other mythical enticements, I find rain, cold and yes, even snow. With the narrow mountain passes giving no leeway for a pullover, I’m forced to fight it out to the next exit and the rain settles in and my clothes soak up the water like a Trekkie soaks up the aroma of Captain Kirk’s dirty unitard. Wet, wetter, wettest. Cold, colder, f@cking freezing. Finally the small town of Pine Valley shows itself and allows me to not only change my clothes and put on my rain suit, but also to capture the previously elusive Zippo fluid, so that like all men, I may make fire.

Climbing further into the mountains brings a dense fog that Scooby Doo would take pleasure in making tasty donuts out of. Yet another test of the obstacles that will be thrown at me, I fight the fog with extreme caution, the visibility no more than 100 yards. Knowing there are only a few miles left until I descend and reach the desert floor, an end is in sight. The helmet’s face shield collects rain eagerly and it gives me a sense of relief when I figure out that when moving my head left or right, the wind acts as a natural windshield wiper.

The mountains belch me out into the Yuha desert and I am immediately slapped in the face by a gust of hot, dry air. A welcome respite as I take off the rain gear and prepare to dry out. The Yuha desert is a beautiful wasteland, arid and sunny, seemingly endless. Goodbye hypothermia, hello warmth. Cruising along at a comfortable speed that only a desert highway can allow, every last drop of moisture is sucked into the awaiting atmosphere. Ditching I-8 for Hwy 98, to ride closer along the California-Mexico border, the feelings of angst and ambition for a better life reach out from the south, an undeniable presence. Border patrol is everywhere, storm troopers on a sea of sand, they post every ¼ mile or so scouring the land below us for those that dare to become like us. Passing through Calexico is non-eventful and some miles later, I enter a place very much resembling Tatooine. The rest area sign says “Welcome to Imperial State Park.” Oh yeah…where they filmed Star Wars (hold for nerd applause – my own included).

Making my way through the final miles of the desert to Yuma I’m sand blasted by winds strong enough to resemble an aged Buster Douglas; not so much scary, but one would still rather not have to deal with it. Yuma’s entry comes late and I smile at the Welcome to Arizona sign. One thing unknown is that Yuma is an RV Mecca and tent camping seems nonexistent. Given the hour and limited options, Motel 6’s inviting blue sign lures me in for some much needed rest.

Next blog post: Yuma to Las Cruces, Arizona travels.

“The bike may break me. The road may take me. I will forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart.”

California 1: Reunited and The Memorial 2/14-2/18

The flight to California has a layover and a transfer in Phoenix. During the first leg of the trip finding that I am unusually inspired to write the second of many-to-come blog posts and the clacking begins. It is an emotional one; writing about my farewells to those back home. The total of this experience is unusually heavy and often leaves me watery eyed and red faced. It’s bad enough to have these episodes in the comfort of my own home with my dog watching, but it’s an entirely different animal to breakdown on a Southwest flight – that isn’t even direct.

As the baggage carousel brings my luggage around the corner, I pick up enough bags to look like I’m smuggling Imelda Marcos’ shoes into southern California. In the long-forgotten stranger known as sunshine, I stand on the curb at Burbank airport and await my ride, Dylan. He’s graciously offered to pick me up and entertain me for the day. Seeing as it’s Valentine’s Day, we obviously go up to Runyon Canyon for a romantic hike (his girlfriend is graciously loaning him out for the day to keep me company)and a spectacular view of the L.A. valley below, smog included.

Will leaves me a key and an open invitation to the house so I drop off my baggage (if it were only that easy) and Dylan and I head out for pizza and a flight of beer. The flight was mine, Dylan is playing a most appreciated host and chauffeur. By luck of coincidence, that night I get to meet up with two former co-workers, now friends, at the Oak Fire Pizzeria off of Sunset. Seeing how I had just eaten at a microbrew/pizzeria a few short hours before hand, I stay for Carey and Anna’s company and of course the cocktails.

On Tuesday, I hitch a ride with Will and Adam over to Glendale Harley Davidson, near Burbank. Having shipped “Black Betty” over there through Daily Direct from Milwaukee Harley Davidson, I find she has arrived in as perfect condition as the service, advice and guidance I had gotten throughout the entire process had been. (Quickly – Big thank yous go out to the whole Milwaukee HD team, Amanda & Gary at Glendale HD and Sara & Shelly at Daily Direct). Without the collaboration and professionalism that was given to get Betty from the Midwest to the West coast, I shudder to think what would have become of her. And yes, I’m well aware of the lyrics and the meaning behind that song. C’mon. It’s me. Now you’re thinking about it, aren’t you?

Polish. Leather protector. The obligatory HD t-shirt or two... to give a little back for storing my bike at no charge, I pick up a few necessities and a few unnecessities from the Glendale shop. A few quick chats with the owner, one of the shop guys and the cutie working the merchandise counter, it is time to get reacquainted with my girl. Butterflies barn-stomp in my gut and it seems as though we were a married couple going on a first date after a trial-separation. As soon as I start the bike up, listen to the purr, give her a little gas and pull out onto the road, we fall into our old rhythms and grooves – ahh newlyweds.

Dodging L.A.’s epileptic drivers as they jerk, twitch and spasm from lane to lane, we safely arrive for the first time in Ethan’s old driveway. And for the first time ever, the real preparations begin as I fully load the bike with the gear and bags that will be my life for the next 5 months. Barring a few bone-head moves on my part, the gear eventually fits as comfortably and securely on the bike as I do.

Wednesday brings an unexpected scenario that was chock full of video shoots and interviews that leaves me as vulnerable as a Barbara Walters victim. A quick ride up to Griffith Observatory was the perfect setting to shoot some riding footage and get a brief Q & A on camera. Los Angeles below, with iconic Americana landmarks popping up across the vista such as the Capitol Records building and the Hollywood sign, seemed a fitting beginning for a motorcycle tour across this great country. Now if only I could have gotten Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper to ride along with me. Wait. Scratch that. That movie ended…poorly.

Wideband Entertainment calls it a day, well they call it a for now. Next comes some actions shots as I ride over famed Hollywood Boulevard and the Sunset strip. Under usual circumstances, I would have been giggity all over, but given the tumultuous nature of the L.A. driver and lack of street space, the concern fell more into the pockets of safety and defense, rather than oohs and ahhs. Not a bad first couple of days. In N Out burger – always sinfully delicious. Hollywood Blvd, Sunset Strip, Griffith Observatory, Runyon Canyon, Ethan’s old pad. Perfect.

Thursday morning is sobering as I navigate boxes and bins of Ethan's old clothes on the anniversary of his death. Finding hoodies and shoes, seemingly never worn, I meticulously select items that hold meaning as well as they held him. An old Adidas soccer jersey, Horace Pinker t-shirt and Doc Martens are just a few of the items that will be shipped back to Wisconsin for the guys to have. I take Ethan's flannel that he used to wear camping. Expecting it to smell like cigarettes and Azarro, slight disappointment sets in when I realize someone did the laundry. The rest of the clothes go to the Weingart Center for donation as Will and I drive down to L.A.'s skid row to drop off some badly needed clothing. The clothes are now in good hands (some never worn, with the tags still clinging) and we go to lunch at Cilantro. A hole-in-the-wall restaurant, just 5 minutes from Weingart, some of the most tantalizing white-corn tortilla chicken and steak tacos ever eaten are welcomed into their home on waves of horchata.

The memorial that evening is much more than could have ever been expected. The warmth and sincerity from all the cats in L.A. that knew Ethan leave me with my jaw on the floor. The tremendous outpouring of celebration for Ethan’s life is a refreshing change from the mourning that has seemed to dominate the last 3 years of my life and I watch my perceptions change for the better. Will, Juliet, Dylan and the rest of the crew throw an amazing memorial celebration that seems to funnel more people through the doors of that house in Burbank than a line at Six Flags.

The pop and sizzle that can only mean the sound of beer-n-onion bratwurst on the grill tickle my cochlea and put a huge smile on my mug. Following right behind the brats is their partner-in-crime, the pony keg of Leinie’s Red. Ahh Wisconsin, you do things right (aside from serial killers). A slab of tri-tip grilled to perfection and a mountain of grilled vegetables top off the meal. Ethan’s friends, mentor, co-workers and protégés eat, drink and swap barbs as only old friends can do. Once the last bite of brat is taken down in style, we’re ready to walk to Cheesy-E and the boys’ old haunt – Studio Suites. Disagreeing with the former clientele’s ideas that barstool peeing is a perfectly acceptable form of public display, new owners had closed down the Suites, renovated to a lounge-type atmosphere and is now more suitably called The 5th. Beer and bourbon flowing in and out of cohorts that don’t often have the luxury of reuniting, there are multiple toasts, smiles and saluds in Ethan’s honor as old pictures float amongst the crowd. There is no sadness, only celebration. Cheers to you all for taking me in as you did Ethan. Your generosity will forever remain true and unchallenged.

Next post: Santa Monica to Yuma

"The bike may break me. The road may take me. I will forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart."

Exit Chicago

Bittersweet. It may be clichéd, but that is the most accurate and appropriate word I can use to describe leaving my ‘life’ behind. Friends, family, my dog, work and the routine that I’ve known for the last 10 years in Chicago have made a greater impact on me than I could have ever imagined. While around others, deeper emotion ran at a stand-still and was seemingly non-existent. However, as I began saying my “see-you-laters” spanning a week of constant interaction and swarming with good times, great friends and tremendous support, it was the alone time at which the feelings began to cat burglar their way in. Stealthy and uninvited, for a self-proclaimed (and thoroughly convinced) stoic, it was almost a relief when the emotions began to swell inside me. It was as if the area behind my face was flooded with every possible feeling. Like a sponge that had been sitting in the desert sun then dropped into a bowl of water, it began absorbing and expanding until every inch of space was filled, leaving no room for air. Stuffy, tight and uncomfortable, but as necessary as a full-faced helmet in an Arizona sun.

Leaving Friends:
“HE’S LEAVING, LET’S THROW A PARTY!..” or five. You know who your true friends are when you are preparing to leave your normal, daily life behind for any extended period of time and they try to pickle you beforehand. The week…no two weeks prior to my departure were fantastically exhausting. I was wretchedly tired, red-eyed, mentally reduced to gravel and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Starting with one of Chicago’s best cover bands, Tributosaurus, I kicked off dos semanas of imbibing with Prince’s “Sexy Mother F@cker” gyrating its way out of Martyr’s sub-woofers. A most proper way to rev-up for the upcoming days. Finishing a stellar performance of a myriad of other Prince tunes, including my personal favorite “Darling Nikki,” the show left me hailing a cab with my soon-to-be ever-present sh!t-eating grin.

Following my last day of work on Friday night, friends who happen to be co-workers delivered me into the skillful hands of bartenders for perpetual cocktailing at a joint called the Emerald Loop. Arriving to find that the management had given our reservation away (even though confirmations had been made), we strategically placed ourselves in the most intrusive and obnoxious of places. As wait staff, bussers and servers slalomed through buzzed partners-in-crime to reach their tables, we talked, laughed and refused to let one man’s incompetence spoil our good time. On to the next bar(s).

Over the next few hours and next few days, I had the pleasure of visiting and revisting Chicago haunts such as: The Twisted Spoke (bikers welcome), The Brehon (where my Chi-town drinking career started), Kuma’s Corner (metal and burgers) as well as the Felts Microbrewery (soon to be known). Each night - a little heavier to lift than the last. Each morning - a little more unwelcome than the previous. My friends, you did it right. You are amazing. Deep breath. Choke back the emotion.

Leaving Family:
Anti-climactic. It shouldn’t have been, but for the most-part, saying goodbye to my family was just that. It wasn’t until I began to write about it that a wave of emotion came rolling in. Despite their love, support and consistent encouragement, the farewell was surprisingly devoid of fanfare.

Perhaps it was because the night before I left my mind was consumed by thoughts of what-ifs, what haves and what needs. My mom, with husband Steve and sisters Emily and Alyssa, came for dinner from Evansville, WI. It’s a sleepy little Wisco town that boasted little more than 2,500 people when I moved there from Milwaukee in 1988. Now a thriving metropolis, at a population just over 4,000, Evansville has a stop light, a McDonalds, a mechanical bull, Nickelback in the jukebox and displays billboards at the edges of town proclaiming itself as the “Soybean Capital of Wisconsin,” and I love it.

Via some rather sage advice from my aunt, who splits time living in St. Louis and Chicago, we had a reservation at La Scarola. A quaint, yet always bustling Italian restaurant that is favored by celebrities and locals alike, La Scarola is a highly sought foodery. After a 45 minute, alcohol-free wait for a table (this is not the fault of the restaurant, my family is notoriously tardy for any appointment and there was no exception for our 5.30pm reservation on Valentine’s Day), we sat down and feasted upon the specials offered up by the kitchen. Dinner was delicious, as expected and the only thing filling me up more than the entrees was a healthy helping of tension and anxiety.

“No, I don’t possibly have room for dessert, but thank you.”

The night was filled with all the usual questions, answers, advice and caveats of caution. Back at my apartment, regrettably, I was noticeably preoccupied with preparations to leave the next morning at 5.30. This unfortunately pushed my family into hurriedly finishing their raspberry cheesecake brownies that my mom had brought with. Slurping down some remaining drops of coffee, they opened up their arms for the good-luck hugs. We said our “see you laters,” hugged, took the obligatory group photo and they walked out into the icy cold of a Chicago winter. A bitter cold that, in 10 short hours, I would be bidding a shit-eating grin farewell to as my plane taxied and took off from Chicago’s Midway airport.

Or perhaps it was because earlier in the week, I had driven from Chicago to Milwaukee to drop off my best friend of the past 5 years, Pete. Pete is a beautiful red and white boxer/lab mix and my constant, if not somewhat spoiled companion. “Shotgun Pete” wouldn’t be riding with me on the journey that is to come. Instead, he’ll be living with my dad’s family until I return to the Midwest. Through white-out conditions and the false sense of security often received while kicking in the four-wheel drive, I crawled up I-94 at a blinding pace of 35 miles an hour. Cars spun, swirled and crashed around me, but hey, I was from Wisconsin, this was nothing. After a grueling three and a half hour ride (ufdah), Pete and I arrived safely at my dad’s house…just in time for dinner. After grappling with common sense and the driving urge to get back to Chicago to finish up my last prep efforts, I arose at the decision (with the protective prodding from my family) to stay the night and avoid the rest of the blizzard. Point: common sense.

After watching Zombieland with my brothers, who’s appropriately repeated line of “time to nut up or shut up” hits home, I racked out on the couch with Pete beside me at about midnight-thirty and proceeded to get no sleep. 6.30am brings a buzzing from down the hall that sounds like an emphysemic car alarm, and a shuffling of feet. Sleep? Who needs sleep? I’ve got the energy of life to keep me going. Wrong. As my dad and step-mom get ready for work, I try to wrangle and corral any last wink that is within lasso shot, but in the end, I’m just holding my rope. Exhausted and half-asleep, we say our goodbyes as I barely rise from the couch. Perhaps the family goodbyes would have been more note-worthy if I had left the night before. My step-mom gives me a hug, some encouragement and requests for stories upon my return. I hug her back and say thank you. The attention, even in my immediate family, still leaves me uncomfortable and embarrassed. Dad strolls over, extends his hand and says “keep the shiny side up.” Simple, but with an underlying and unspoken sentiment that only the two of us can recognize. I give Pete a hug and leave. Deep breath. Choke back the emotion.

Leaving Chicago:
Awakening at 5am, for a 7.35am flight out of Chicago’s midway airport, I nuke a cup of coffee and get ready. I had had a fairly restful nights’ sleep despite the repeated attempts of sabotage by my mind and being awoken to the sounds of my roommate and his girlfriend reuniting after a week apart. Good for them. I unplugged everything in my bedroom, closed the heat vent, turned off the light and locked the door and silently shut the door.

Lain out in a clinically methodical order (that only a project manager can love) on my coffee table was a duffle bag full of camp gear; a USMC Sea Bag filled with clothes, books, saddle bag liners and other items; a backpack full of my tech gear (netbook, camera, flip) and a very inconvenient camp pillow (it just didn’t fit anywhere, kind of like the eccentric Aunt that you have a hard time seating at a holiday dinner or a wedding). Stepping into my boots and sliding into my leather, I strapped on my backpack with helmet firmly attached. Slinging the duffle over my shoulder, the weight of the reality of what I was doing and the gear dug in, in an affirming pain. Picking up the sea bag, I bump and bumble my way out the door, lock up and take one last look at the darkened apartment. As I walk to the corner to hail a cab, it hits me again.

The cabbie pulls up as I drop my gear into the trunk, we exchange the only pleasantries possible at 5.30am. “Good morning. I’m going to Midway airport, please.” “Good morning sir, which way would you like me to take?” “LSD to 55, please.” I want to ride the lakefront and inhale the view of the Chicago skyline. It will be 6 months before I see it again. Today is Valentine’s Day and my only reminder of this most heinous of holidays is the top of the Chicago skyline illuminated in tones that would make Pepto Bismol nauseous. The city is asleep as we wind our way down Lake Shore Drive. We are the only ones on the road. The trip is quick and peaceful, a complete contrast to the environment that will be in an hour. Feeling as if I’m sneaking out of the city as I would tip-toe out of a girl’s apartment the morning after meeting her in a bar, the metamorphosis from the idea of this trip into a reality emerges. The realization of this manifests itself physically and an audible, involuntary rush of breath escapes me. I look at my hands to see if they are trembling, but astoundingly, they are not. Snaking around the turns and passing the pink neon that proclaims the Drake hotel, we glide between Lake Michigan and the Loop. The darkness pierced by and twinkling with the lights of Chicago’s corporate mountains give me pause. Deep breath. Choke back the emotion.

Get ready for an adventure. Tomorrow I saddle up.

“The bike may break me. The road may take me. I will forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart.”

Pre-ride Post - FAQs

While I may not fully comprehend the undertaking that I am about to attempt, over the past week it has been made clearly evident that those around me do. The words that have been used to describe this journey are leaving a resounding mark of discomfort within me. The discomfort is by no means negative; it is simply foreign and leaves me twisting in a sense of unexpected pride and humility.

The planning and preparation of this trip seems to have suspended me in a state of cruise control. I’ve been standing in a corner watching a person who resembles me make decisions and take actions, answer questions and receive vast amounts of unanticipated attention. For me, it feels out of character. For me, this is what other people do. Yet I still move forward with this disbelief, propelled by a promise.

Many questions have been asked of late and they are, if nothing else, universal. Until I saddle up on 2/18, this first (of hopefully many) post will try to answer some of your questions.

“When/how do you leave?” – I leave from the airport on 2/14 (the fact that it’s on V-day is nothing more than a coincidence that plasters the greatest of sh!t eating grins across my face) to fly to Burbank. I will pick up my bike from a nearby HD dealer, to which it was shipped. After a couple of days of prep, I saddle-up on 2/18 to begin the journey. The highway and I will own each other until the end of July.

“Do you have a route planned?” - Not really. I have an idea. I do know that I am going to attempt to travel the entire U.S. perimeter, riding as close to a border or coastline as I can possibly ride. As long as there is a paved road, I will be on it. The first leg of the trip will be starting in Los Angeles and riding south. Paralleling the Mexican border, I’ll eventually hit Brownsville, TX and continue along the coastline until I roll into the Florida Keys. After a couple weeks of SCUBA, shrimp and warm weather, I’ll start making my way up the east coast as the seasons catch up to my mileage. My routes will be planned a couple of days in advance, but I will be truly following my own road. Once I reach L.A. upon my return, I will take historic Route 66 back to Chicago in July. As a trip often talked about taking with Ethan and the boys, this will be the last homage.

“Is this a solo-trip? Are you riding with anybody?” This trip is about a lot of things, but it is not about total isolation and reflection. I welcome anybody that can take some time out to meet me, ride with me or simply spend a few days. Fly out, rent a bike. Wait until I’m close then ride up to meet me and hit the highways for a few days. I welcome anyone and will definitely welcome the company, but currently I am starting on my own.

“Where will you stay?” – Camping mostly. I will be knocking on the doors of friends and family when I am near. Every once in a while, I’ll grab a motel for the illusion of a fresh bed and to shave my perpetual face-fuzz. The location of many state parks will help determine my tour, never deviating too far from my original intent.

"What kind of bike are you riding?" - I have a 2009 Harley Davidson V-Rod Muscle. It’s definitely not a touring bike, so it will be an interesting experience. Given that I don’t have a back-rest, furry seat cushion, killer sound-system or a lot of storage room, this isn't your traditional set up for a long-haul.

“Do you have any gear, bags…where do you put your stuff?” – I have 2 saddle bags on the bike which will hold a few changes of clothes. I have a duffle bag that will strap to the backseat. In that bag, my camp gear and tools. I’ll also have a backpack for my camera, net book and other objects of the sort. Obviously, there have been many reflective moments as I get this thing rolling, but one that growls out of the rest, is the realization that my life, for 6 months, fits on a coffee table.

“Where is PETE going to go?!” – Pete will be staying with my dad and family in Milwaukee. This is undoubtedly the toughest part of this trip. Even with his constant shedding that rivals a Yeti after a visit to the barbershop, he is my shadow, my buddy, my smile after a long day and my unconditional love. I’ve not had a dog as incredible as Pete and the absence of having his cold nose flip my hand up for some pets or having that same universal tool be shoved up my bum as I walk down the hallway for 6 months is going to be a rough road to travel. He will be in the best hands though and have a constant wrestling companion in their black lab Kera.

“What about your apartment?” – Keeping it. Too much of a pain in the ass to come back from this and try and get a new one. So if there is anything you’d like to borrow – aside from the TV, you have 6 months.

“What does your family think?” – Wow. This was perhaps the greatest surprise of all. Support. Nothing but support. I barely got the story out before my dad had offered to watch Pete. My mom, while having standard mom worries, supports me as well. The rest of the family probably is getting tested for mental disorders, just in case it’s genetic, but they haven’t let me know and have given me nothing but full support, with the obligatory sentiments of “be safe and be careful.”

“How does this work in regards to your job?” – Again, nothing but support, which is astounding to me and a testament to the integrity of the company that I work for. Since this isn’t a medical leave, I will be unpaid. I will be able to roll over vacation from last year and use that for a while. While nothing about my return is guaranteed, my co-workers are eagerly awaiting my arrival in August and look forward to having me back.

“Are you going to shave or cut your hair?” – Will I go nomad? Will I go castaway? Only time will tell if these blonde locks will be flowing like Fabio or if I more resemble the cacti that I’ll be riding along side in the southwest.

“Are you nervous?” -F@ck yes. I’d be a fool not to be nervous or respect the situations that I will be facing. I will be as safe as I can make myself. I will anticipate situations that are within my power. I will wear leather and a helmet. As great of a trip this will be, there are inherent dangers that I must give the proper attention and respect to. To ignore them would be ignorant and potentially disastrous.

“How does it feel to not be going to work for 6 months?” – THE QUESTION on everyone’s mind. Well, on the surface it feels pretty good. But truthfully, it hasn’t set in and am unsure of what to expect. What will it be like to give it all up? The late nights, the control, the accomplishments…but more importantly, the people, my team, the complacency and the comfort… Maybe I’ll tackle these questions in a few weeks. However, last night as I lay in bed thinking about the most exhaustively wonderful week that I just experienced, memories swam. I thought about the friends that came out to send me off. I thought of new possibilities and opportunities that seemingly came out of nowhere. I thought about the complete selflessness, generosity and support of others that was born from 5 days of drinking and it humbled me. There was also a feeling of tremendous release, as if someone had crept into the darkness of my bedroom and snipped the strings of my soul’s straight-jacket. And then there was an overwhelming elation that I don’t have to go to a bar today.

This should answer some of your questions. I’ll be happy to answer any more that you have…just as soon as I figure out the true power of this fully armed and operational blog. Please share this blog with anyone who may find it interesting.

“The bike may break me. The road may take me. But I will forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart.”