Category Archives: Family

My 280 Mile Lunch Run

This lunch run had been months in the making. Sometime late last year, on or around our 30th wedding anniversary, my wife Karen had made it known that we hadn’t been to a Big Boy restaurant in a while and that she could go for a classic Big Boy hamburger. What could I say?

We are both fans of the chain, which has its origina in California, but once had a string of franchised locations in southern Wisconsin, Iowa, Minnesota and Illinois under the name Marc’s Big Boy (which no longer exists). Karen and I both grew up enjoying the occasional Big Boy double-decker hamburger, which pre-dates a cheap imitation sold beneath the golden arches by a number of years. Whenever we traveled by car, if we saw a Big Boy restaurant near any mealtime, we stopped. So there was a bit of nostalgia surrounding this lunch run.

We left Plainfield fully expecting to take the Interstate across northern Indiana and into Michigan, where one can still find a number of Big Boy restaurants (in fact the chain is now headquartered in Warren), but the radio traffic reports soon had us considering alternate routes. So we took two-lane backroads out of Illinois and halfway across northern Indiana. The backroads were a little gnarly in places, but that only added to the charm of our little lunch run road trip. When we got to I-65, we headed north to pick up I-94 and continue east. In retrospect, that might not have been the best idea.

Apparently we hadn’t waited long enough. Traffic was moving as we merged onto I-94, but not for long. We took the very next off ramp, before we had even completed the merge, and continued cross-country for some miles. When we merged back on, it was only a matter of time before things clogged up again, but we were almost to Michigan, so we just sat back and bided out time.

It seemed as though traffic was always clogging up in one direction or the other all the way out of northern Indiana. I was never quite sure why. And for the record, I have never appreciated sitting in traffic. Never.

But we gradually made our way into Michigan and up to the Stevensville exit. I’m not 100% certain, but I am pretty sure the Big Boy in Stevensville is the first one you’ll find coming into Michigan from northwest Indiana.


I had been to this Big Boy at least once before, during a solo motorcycle road trip a few years ago, so I knew exactly where this restaurant was and that it was a decent one. We looked at the menu, but I’m not sure why. We always order the same thing. I only deviated in that I ordered the Super Big Boy whereas Karen ordered the Classic Big Boy, which in my opinion is still the best choice because all of the ingredients on a Classic Big Boy are in the proper proportions. The larger version is good, but the ingredient proportions are not consistent with those of the Classic Big Boy, which I consider to be the standard. It was all very tasty, though.

Before long we were on our way home, but this time with one adjustment—we took no interstate highways. While this may have entailed driving a few extra miles, I doubt that our back roads route took any longer than it would have taken to sit still in the superslab gridlock. The scenery was better and our stress levels lower.

In the meantime, some storms had been developing over Wisconsin that had the potential to affect us. We never really got wet, though, until after everyone had gone home. Later on a significant storm did roll through, but by that time, we were already home.

We sure had a great time. Thanks, as always, for hanging with me.

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Things to Come

Those who follow my blog know that I’ve been on the road a lot lately. Just a few weeks ago, I was on my way to Oregon with my son and our entourage.  Not long after I got back, I was preparing to pick up my friend Ann and head for the Midwest Motorcycle Rally in La Crosse. Both road trips were phenomenal, but one might think I’m getting tired and would like to stay put for a while.

One would be wrong. This weekend you’ll read about an unusual lunch date I have planned with my wife Karen. Then next weekend (or the weekend after, depending on weather), you will learn of a more touristy road trip I have planned with my friend Ann. As has always been the case, not everything I write about will be motorcycling-related. I can tell you this much, though, we’ll have fun..

Thanks for hanging with me.

The Black Princess


The times in my life when I did not have a dog have been few and far between — and sometimes intentional. Whenever I have had to say goodbye to one of my pets, for example, I would always wait for an unspecified period of time before getting another. Maybe it’s part of my grieving process; I don’t know. Last time it was just a matter of months. In the May of 2015, we lost Rocky, our Border Collie/Beagle mix and my near-constant companion for 14 years. In September of the same year, we adopted young Madeline, a Labrador Shepherd (we think) mix, and gave her a forever home along with a new name, Leia.

From the first time I saw her photo online, while I had been perusing photos from the various area shelters, I knew she would become our next dog. But before she became our Leia, this pup led a very rough life and had more than one brush with death. She had been rescued from a kill shelter in Tennessee on the same day she was listed to be euthanized. While with her foster family, it was discovered that she had contracted canine parvovirus. The disease had already advanced and this pooch was not expected to survive—but she did. I figured any dog who’d been through all that deserves a shot at having a better life. So we set out to give her one.

We took her home and fed her, and she grew. And grew. And grew. Leia now weighs between 60 and 70 pounds. She has grown rather large, but remains svelte. I sometimes refer to Leia as “the black princess,” but I do so in a loving manner, despite any reasons she may give me to do otherwise. I’ve never had a dog quite like this one. She’s a chewer, a digger, a runner, and a jumper. Leia has a lot of energy and of we don’t make a point of getting her to use it in a non-destructive way, she will expend it in her own way, which can be destructive indeed.


I’ll never forget the first time I looked into our backyard to discover that somebody had been pulling our landscape timbers out of the ground and carrying them around like sticks. Leia has dug substantial holes in our back yard, some of which lead into other people’s yards. She has jumped fences, torn fences apart, and eaten fence boards. She sometimes picks up rocks bigger than my fist and carries them around.

In an effort to curtail this destructive energy, I began taking Leia on daily walks, usually between two and three miles each time. Okay, sometimes she takes me, but that’s not the point. The point is that these daily walks have been good for both of us. I have lost weight, gained energy, and otherwise feel better about myself, and Leah hasn’t eaten any structural materials in a while. See, everything works if you let it.

Thanks for hanging with me.

Jasmin’s Great Escape

No animals were harmed in the telling of this story. I may have gotten my shoes wet, though.


The family cat was named Jasmin—with no “e”—by my daughter Teresa, who was nine years old at the time. That was about fifteen years ago. My then-seven-year-old son had the privilege of naming the family dog, whom we acquired only days later. He chose the name Rocky for the dog. Before long we were calling the cat Jazzy. We’re a musical family, so the whole thing seemed to fit. We lost Rocky a year ago, but Jazzy has carried on bravely without her baby brother. I’ll swear they never realized they weren’t the same type of animal.

Earlier this year we acquired Leia, a black Labrador/German Shepherd mix, and there was no question in Jasmin’s mind that they were not the same type of animal. She was quite indignant over having to share the same household with this mischievous bundle of energy, who quickly grew to become many times the cat’s size. They get along better now, after months of close supervision and counseling, but I think the cat still carries a grudge.

Jasmin is an older cat now. She doesn’t run quite as fast or jump quite as high as she used to. Believe me, I can relate. But every so often, she still likes to show everyone who’s boss by zipping down into the basement the instant somebody opens the door at the top of the stairs or, as she did today, by shooting out of the house when somebody opens the sliding door to let Leia in or out. It must seem like great sport to her, lurking in the shadows until the door slides open and then waiting until nobody is looking in her direction. Then suddenly this black and white blur passes from somewhere within the kitchen through the door and across the back deck, without ever actually touching the floor beneath her paws.

I had just left work and had intended to run a few errands on my way home, when I got the news from Karen, my wife.

“Jasmin got out and I can’t find her. I think she’s under the deck.”

Now bear in mind, Jazzy has always been an indoor cat, who usually goes outside under supervision, and on those occasions when she does sneak out, she doesn’t stay out long. But I could tell by Karen’s tone, this was different.

“Please keep me posted. I’ll come straight home if I don’t hear from you by the time I get down there.” So who was I to make plans. The ride home would take almost an hour. Every so often I would get an update.

“No cat.”

“I might have heard her meow but no sighting yet.”

“Too hot out. Can’t breathe. Am inside.”

“Just come home.”

I hadn’t known it at the time, but the cat had already been outside for over two hours in the 90+ degree heat. My wife, who herself could not tolerate being out in the sun on such a warm day, called to the cat from just inside the air conditioned house. Jasmin was not reappearing as usual, and Karen was growing worried, something she does neither often nor well.

I arrived at home and parked in the street. No sign of the cat. I went inside to find Karen siting near the sliding glass door and calling to the cat. Her face and neck were still glowing pink, from having tried to stay outside in the heat, and she seemed to be growing more agitated by the minute.

I walked around the house—no cat. I walked around the block—no cat. Returning to our back yard, I brought Leia out with me and inquired, “Where’s Jazzy?” After a brief pause, the dog proceeded to show me everywhere the cat had been—beneath the pine tree, over by the hole in the fence leading to Mickey the Bull Terrier’s yard, etc. No cat.

At that point, I suspected that, as Karen had suggested, Jasmin was nearby, probably beneath our deck. I went and drew out a substantial length of garden hose, attached my watering wand, set it to “mist” and began watering the surface of the deck, such that water would begin dripping down between the planks. Again at Karen’s suggestion, I watered from the house forward. Within minutes, Jasmin stepped out from beneath the opposite end of the deck, still quite dry, but not moving very quickly or looking very sure of herself. At that point Karen scooped Jazzy up and, while I opened the sliding door, carried her into the air conditioned comfort of our home.

Whether out of indignation, fatigue, heat exhaustion, or some combination of the above, Jazzy did not want a treat, nor did she wish to be held, cuddled or fussed over. She did take rather quickly to a bowl of fresh cold water I had drawn—and over the course of several visits to the bowl, drank a fair amount of cool water. Eventually she became more like her old self. She even invited herself to help Karen eat a tuna sandwich.

And so ends the incident known as Jasmin’s Great Escape. Thanks for hanging with me.

Contemplating Bonneville

Two different friends of mine have asked me about this place over the past few days, so I want to share some thoughts with you, while they are still fresh in my mind. Of all the places we’d visited during our recent epic road trip to Portland, Oregon, the Bonneville Salt Flats was among the least touristy, yet it stands out as having been one of my most memorable stops. It was significant to me, personally, that we stopped there. In fact I took our group a hundred miles out of our way en route to Portland, just to see this landmark, which is located in far-western Utah, just before the Nevada border.

Three things have happened that made Bonneville a bucket list item for me. First, in February of 2005, my family and I had the pleasure of meeting AMA Flat Track racing legend Chris Carr at the International Motorcycle Show in Rosemont, Illinois. We hadn’t realized it at the time, but Chris was soon to become a land speed record holder. More on that to come.

Then in 2006 a movie called The World’s Fastest Indian was released. Starring Sir Anthony Hopkins, this film is based on a true story about Burt Munro,  a New Zealander who set several land speed records at Bonneville in the 1960’s, aboard his highly modified (and streamlined) 1920 Indian Scout. It’s a delightful film, and fairly true to the original story, from what I’ve been able to learn about it. This really piqued my interest in seeing Bonneville firsthand.

This third thing seems quite remarkable in retrospect. Also in 2006, Chris Carr set a land speed record at Bonneville, piloting the BUB Seven Streamliner, the first motorcycle to go over 350 miles per hour. In February of 2007, the BUB Seven was on display at the International Motorcycle Show in Rosemont. My then-13-year-old son John was so taken with this machine, he waited patiently to talk with Motorcycle Hall of Fame inductee Denis Manning, the owner and designer of the BUB Seven.

I had no idea what the kid had in mind, but I had to smile when Mr. Manning turned to greet John, who looked up at him and said, “Can I ask you something?” Then pointing to the sleek orange streamliner, he continued, “Where did you ever get the idea for that thing?”

“Well, uh…” he began, then turned to me and inquired, “Do you have a few minutes?” I smiled back and nodded my approval. Denis Manning then proceeded to tell my son about how he had become interested in land speed racing at a young age, when his dad had taken him to Bonneville.  “Every other kid my age wanted to be Mickey Mantle. I wanted to be Mickey Thompson,” he chortled. He went on and told my son about his racing efforts, and then about designing and building machines that could go fast. Denis had a stack of rolled up posters he had been handing out at the show, but instead of giving John one of those, he said, “Wait a minute,” and then reaching down for an flat, unsigned poster, he asked, “What’s your name?” Denis Manning then proceeded to autograph a poster of the BUB Seven to John, adding his personal advice to “always follow your dreams.”

I just stood there and watched this interaction between Denis Manning and my young son. I’m sure other people, enthusiasts who knew who Denis Manning was, were made to wait while these two had their conversation. I’m not entirely sure who was more inspired by that, John or me.


Now you know why in 2016, I led my little band of merry travelers a hundred miles out of our way to see the remnants of a prehistoric salt lake bed. There was nothing special going on there at the time, though there were other people around us, including some visitors from New Zealand, whom John engaged in conversation while we were standing out there, miles from the middle of nowhere. But still, it was a big deal for us to be standing there. We even ate at the same little cafe where the real Burt Munro, and other racing legends like him, hung out during Speed Week at Bonneville.

Bonneville… I’ve been there!

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My Daughter — My Hairdresser


I sometimes spend an inordinate amount of time talking about my son John because of our shared passions for motorcycling, cooking, wine, women and song. But I have a daughter named Teresa, of whom I am equally proud and passionate.

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Teresa is my eldest child, born about a year and a half before John. And much like her brother, Teresa’s hair was blond when she was very young, but turned darker as she got older.


It was Teresa who first began riding with me when I got into motorcycling. And when I participated in my first large fundraising ride, the Chicagoland Ride for Kids, she was there with me—and has attended that charity run with me every year since 2003. That’s something I have cherished every single year because (a) not every dad is fortunate enough to have a daughter who still wants to do things like this with him throughout her teens and into adulthood, and (b) I know the year will come when this can’t or doesn’t happen any more.


Teresa has worked for a local hair salon since she was in high school. After earning her undergrad degree in psychology, she completed cosmetology school, earned her license, and now has a chair at that same salon, where her skills have become increasingly in demand.

She became my personal hair dresser after she got her own chair. As I write this, my next hair appointment is less than 24 hours away. What will we do with it this time? Only my hairdresser knows for sure.

No worries here. I’m in good hands… and I am very proud.

Grillin’ and Chillin’


Food and cooking have been an integral part of my family life for as long as I can remember. Growing up in a traditional Italian family, our kitchen was the heart of our home and I have many fond memories of life that took place around the family table. When planning to celebrate any special day, the first question out of my mother’s mouth would likely be, “What should we have to eat?” And if it was somebody’s birthday, “What do you want me to make for your birthday?” Good times…


Cooking outside was largely a team effort. My mother would prepare things inside and send the grillables out to my father via me or one of my sisters. She would continue to cook side dishes, additional courses, etc. inside, while my dad tended the grill(s) outside. Following tradition, I observed and helped my father outside, while my sisters helped our mother inside. This is how I first learned to grill. 


Mind you, we didn’t grill in silence, either. Pop and I would discuss all manner of things, catching up on each other’s lives, solving the problems of the world, observing the garden, and so forth. Sometimes there was wine, but my dad was never that big on drinking away from the table. That was a practice I cultivated on my own. 


To this day I derive great pleasure from hanging outside and grilling various meats and vegetables for friends and family, especially if I have somebody out there to keep me company, solve the problems of the world, etc. And there is usually ample wine or beer on hand (my house, my rules). 

Sometimes the simplest things in life are most enjoyable. 

Stress Is but a Response

I often need to remind myself that stress is not a stimulus. It’s not something “out there” that happens to us. Rather, stress is a response to external stimuli—actually one of multiple responses that are possible. So while it may be easier said than done (and practice makes perfect, though your mileage may vary, insert another cliché here), if you want a less stressful life, choose a different response. I want to share three recent instances where something happened that elicited a stress response from me that was not necessary.


Within the first half hour of waking up this morning, I dropped my phone from roughly waist height onto my kitchen floor. The phone landed face down, loudly. The last two times my phone fell to the floor, I ended up having to replace my Zagg Glass screen protector. They come with a lifetime warranty but the customer pays shipping each time and must return the damaged shield.

After the second time, I reconsidered my choice of cases and gave up my ultra-thin metallic case, a classic example of form over function, in favor of a Pelican brand product, similar to one my son had been using for months with excellent results. I should have considered this before allowing my gut to clench up as I retrieved my phone from the floor. The phone was quite intact, as was the Zagg Glass shield. Even the Pelican case was like new, not a mark on it.

So you see, my stress response was unfounded. Going forward I will try to be more careful with my phone and little less concerned when it falls again, as it surely will happen. I will also be a fan of Pelican brand phone cases.


Stress issue number two actually predated the first one by three days, which means it had time to ferment and grow. Last Saturday morning, following my triumphant return home from an epic road trip to Oregon and back, I had taken my motorcycle up to Randy’s Cycle in Marengo. By Saturday afternoon, I noticed something quite new in my garage: a fresh oil stain. I could not tell with certainty where on my bike the oil was leaking from, but my initial thought was that the oil was leaking at the drain plug and finding its way to my gremlin bell before dripping onto my previously oil-free floor.

To say that I became stressed over this discovery would be an understatement. After all, I had brought my favorite shop a motorcycle that did not leak oil and they seemingly sent me home, 57 miles away, with one that did. On top of all that, the shop had already closed before I made this unsettling discovery, and it was a holiday weekend, so the shop would not be open again for three days. So there I was, set up with a holiday weekend and no bike to ride because mine was busy marking territory in my garage—something that this brand is not known for.

But here’s the thing: I already knew, with certainty, that whatever the problem, whatever the cause, the folks at my shop of choice would make it right. They had done so before, even when the issue wasn’t their doing. I’ve been doing business with Randy Weaver and company for over three years now. They are known to be the best Victory dealer in all of Northern Illinois and in my opinion, that reputation has been well-earned.


So I got up this morning and rode Miss Scarlett back to Marengo. It was a bit of an inconvenience, but not the end of the world, and in point of fact, I had a rather nice ride. Upon arrival, they took my bike in and fixed the problem, which appears to have been unrelated to any work they did Saturday. It seems that on my way home Saturday, a seal where the shifter linkage passes through the engine case popped out of place, causing a slow but steady leak.

I rode the bike home, stopping a few times along the way to check for a leak, parked her in the garage with a dry piece of cardboard underneath the engine case, and checked again every few hours. No leak.

Episode three… I don’t know for sure what prompted me to go looking for my riding vest, but when I did so, I could not find it. No big deal, right? I probably put it down in an unusual place when I got back from Randy’s this morning… Oh, wait, I hadn’t worn it this morning. Well then surely when I had gone over there Saturday… Nope, I wore my jacket Saturday. Perhaps on Friday, when I had concluded my epic road trip? No dice. It had been cold in Minnesota that morning and pretty cool in Wisconsin, too, so I had worn my leather jacket all day.


Alas, I had not worn that vest since last Thursday, when I rode from Rapid City, South Dakota to Worthington, Minnesota. But surely I had brought the vest home… right?

My wife, Karen, called the hotel, but no vest had been turned in. She also called Randy’s, but I could have saved her the trouble, had I known. I messaged my sister, who had been on the trip with us. Then Karen and I took turns going through the van, the motorcycle, all our luggage, and every room in the house, turning everything upside down and inside out like frustrated DEA agents. Nothing.

I plastered the situation across Facebook, with photos. Almost immediately some of my biker friends began spreading the word. I should note that their response was instantaneous and impressive. I began to wonder what might happen if some of my brethren had come across my vest on the back of some unwitting teen. I must confess, that thought made me smile a little. But inside the space between my ears, stress had been building up big time.

At some point, stress had given way to resignation. That is, I had become emotionally resigned to having lost not only my leather vest, but all the pins and patches that I had added to it over the past few years, some of which were no longer replaceable. The effect was immobilizing me and I hated that, because despite whatever emotional and financial attachment I might feel about that vest, it was still just a thing. And things shouldn’t wield that kind of power over us.

The vest had been in my house the whole time. While passing through my bedroom—which had already been ransacked once or twice—something or someone possessed me to check the top of my wife’s dresser one more time. Then, on an apparent whim, I reached around and behind the dresser, thrusting my hand into the narrow abyss between that chest of drawers and a wall… and felt my fingers brush against something leathery.

“Eureka! I found it!” Similar messages were shared in earnest across Facebook and in text messages.

Again the stress—indeed the anguish—had been unfounded, but I didn’t know it at the time. If I could have even delayed the stress response for a while, I’d be better off.

A few parting thoughts:

  • Whether we exercise it or not, we have the power to choose our response to various stimuli.
  • If you’re going to be emotionally charged, like me, consider leading with positive emotions.
  • Pelican phone cases: good stuff.
  • Randy’s Cycle: good people.

Thank you for hanging with me.

After the Smoke Clears


When we returned home from watching some official local fireworks, the air in our subdivision was filled with smoke and the unmistakable aroma of saltpeter. Despite my town’s alleged “zero tolerance” policy regarding illegal fireworks, their use has been quite prevalent for the past two days. I’m cool with that, because I was once young and stupid myself. 

I had this friend—let’s call him Fred—who seemed to have access to all manner of explosive fireworks. Back in the day, he could get me bricks of firecrackers, the kind with Chinese characters on the product label, as well as bottle rockets, Roman candles, and of course, the coveted M80’s which were reputed to have the force of a third of a stick of dynamite. Now who wouldn’t want those?

Fred almost got his manhood scorched by an errant bottle rocket once. The things are so unpredictable, anyway. To the best of my recollection, I had lit the bottle rocket that went after my pal. We had been using an old coffee can as a place to set off packs of firecrackers and launch one or more bottle rockets at a time. Pretty much the same as always, I staged my little pyrotechnic specimen in the can, pointed away from me and with the fuse hanging over the side of the can. I lit the fuse. After a few seconds of mild hissing, the little bottle rocket shot off with a loud PSHHHHFFFFT, heading straight up before hanging an unexpected curve, not unlike that of a heat-seeking missile, and shooting directly into my friend Fred’s crotch.

In less time than it takes to exclaim “Oh shit,” Fred made a graciously swift backhand sweeping motion across the front of his family jewels, sending the bottle rocket about three feet into the airspace beside him before it went off with a loud BANG. Fred just stood there, looking at me as the smoke cleared. Upon having just witnessed his close call, I took immediate action and began laughing like an idiot. 

To be sure, there were more incidents such as this one, but Fred and I lived through them all, with our respective appendages and organs present and accounted for. If you are reading this, I hope you had a pleasant and safe 4th of July. 

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