Sometimes you find the holiday spirit and sometimes the holiday spirit finds you!
I had to be out of my mind, going to the evil empire (aka Walmart) the day before Thanksgiving, but I needed a few staple items to complete my contribution to the small feast being hosted by my sister. The store was a fifteen-minute drive from my home, not counting the pre-holiday afternoon traffic, and my list was a short one. How bad could it be?
AI image generated by ImageFX with inputs from Michael G. D’Aversa
Yeah, it could be pretty bad. Still, not everything was as bad as it should have been, or even as bad as it usually is. For example. the afternoon traffic in my hometown of 45,000 or so people begins to get slow and heavy after 2:00 PM, just about the time I was heading out, but my fifteen-minute drive took… fifteen minutes, if that much. The traffic was there, but it was moving smoothly, the traffic lights all seemed to be in my favor as I rolled along, and everything just seemed to flow.
As I turned in to the immense Walmart parking lot, I saw exactly what I expected to see, namely cars everywhere and drivers behaving badly. After observing a near-accident between two vehicles vying for the same few square feet of intersection at the same time, I turned into my usual lane and saw nothing ahead of me, except for a white SUV backing out of its space, thus providing me with the only parking spot to be found on that drive lane. I smiled in disbelief and pulled into my freshly vacated space. Assuming that there might be a shortage of shopping carts inside, I selected a usable cart with four fully functioning wheels from a nearby corral and walked on into the store, oddly enough, still smiling.
To put it nicely, the store was filled with humanity. Last-minute shoppers, like me, filled every aisle. They competed with numerous employees pushing pick carts and pulling orders. Nobody seemed to be smiling. I realized that I was still smiling, partly because I was only there to grab a few missing staples, but also because I was just enjoying my afternoon, despite being surrounded by negativity, frustration, resignation, and anger. Trust me, you could see it on their faces.
Some of them looked positively insulted to be there — or rather, that anybody else had the nerve to be there when they were trying to get their all-important shopping done. Some looked alarmed at the prices. Most looked rushed. I came across one lady carefully looking over a rack of almost-expired baked goods, hoping against hope to find something special with which to grace her holiday table. I was moved by the sight. I saw one most interesting couple, a determined and angry husband grabbing this and that item from the shelves while his wife followed a good couple of yards behind him, her face filled with resignation. I smiled at her, but she didn’t even see me.
In the midst of it all, one person did see me. A middle-aged employee, apparently of South Asian origin, brought her order picking cart to a sudden halt in order to avoid blocking me as I came around a blind corner with my shopping cart. She lowered her head, probably expecting me to be scowling at her for almost getting in my way, but she glanced up just in time see me nod and smile at her. The employee’s eyes brightened and she smiled back at me as we each continued along our intended path.
Surely the worst was yet to come. Wouldn’t you think so? But as interesting as my visit had been so far, this next part seems almost surreal in hindsight.
As I emerged from the shopping aisles and made my way toward the checkout lanes, much to my amazement, there was no queue! That is, the waiting lane, lined with all manner of candy bars and other impulse items, had nobody standing in it. Up at the front, where there is usually an employee directing each shopper to the next available self-checkout station, stood nobody. I walked right into the checkout area and, not being much for doing self-checkout if I can help it, I looked over and spotted a human-staffed checkout lane about to be vacated and completely open. On a Wednesday afternoon, the day before Thanksgiving, with so many people crowding each and every aisle behind me? What are the odds!
AI image generated by ImageFX with inputs from Michael G. D’Aversa
The lane I had chosen was being manned by a thin, elderly gentleman with pure white hair and a ruddy complexion made more apparent by the red elf’s cap he was wearing. He looked up and smiled at me as I approached, seeming genuinely glad to be there waiting for me. Again, what are the odds? I returned his smile as I arrived at his station. “Good afternoon,” I said to the man as I began to empty my cart.
“Yes, it is a good afternoon,” he replied. At this point, I almost spun out of my shoes to look at him and I began to seriously wonder if there was a hidden camera somewhere. But no, the gaunt old gent proceeded to check me out without incident.
A rather dour-looking individual with a very full shopping cart had pulled in behind me, almost but not quite patiently waiting his turn as he inched ever closer into my personal space. I paid the poor soul no heed, as I had been thoroughly occupied enjoying my interaction with my cheerful checkout clerk, who then announced my total, processed my electronic payment, and cheerfully handed me my receipt. We eagerly bade each other a good afternoon and a happy Thanksgiving as I loaded my cart and headed out.
I tell you, nothing went as expected. As I approached the store exit, receipt in hand, the security specialist looked at me from a slight distance, smiled and waved me on toward the door. I looked at her again as I drew closer, wanting to give her a second chance to verify my purchases, but again she waved me on calling out, “You have a nice afternoon!” Wow.
Photo by Michael G. D’Aversa
And so it went. My drive home was as uneventful as my drive out, our Thanksgiving meal went off without a hitch, and the holiday season is now underway. And through it all, I keep thinking about that little old man and the oh-so-pleasant exchange we’d shared amidst the chaos. The whole thing seemed planned somehow.
Most years, especially since I have grown older, I struggle to get into the holiday spirit, often finding it just in time for Christmas Day. But not this year. For me, the magic started in the most unlikely of places. I hope the magic finds you, too.
People often use the phrase “life happens” as a sort of catch-all explanation for why things don’t go as planned. The implication is that life continually happens to us, the passive, unwitting masses. The actor Jim Carey has suggested that life actually happens for us. What I want to know is what do you do when life repeatedly and relentlessly attacks you from all sides? Huh? What do you do?
This story begins in late October, when my 95-year-old mother-in-law suffered what appears to have been a mini-stroke caused by multiple occlusions, which had until then gone undetected. Her son, a retired healthcare worker with whom she lives, rushed her to a local hospital ER, where she was diagnosed and admitted for treatment. Sometime after that, Mom was transferred to a rehab center for physical and occupational therapy.
A few weeks later, my brother-in-law and his wife were scheduled to be at a family wedding in North Carolina. The wedding was to take place on the same day as my daughter’s “big second wedding reception,” but I’ll get to that later. Our intent had been (a) for my wife to care for her mom in her brother’s absence, (b) to involve Mom in our daughter’s big celebration, and (c) to give Mom a nice Thanksgiving. In one fell swoop, all of this had become uncertain at best.
In the days that followed, after one of several visits with her mother at the rehab up in Lindenhurst, my dear wife suffered an unfortunate accident while getting into her car in a near-empty parking lot after dark. The result was an awkward fall that resulted in multiple fractures to her left leg and foot. She texted me from the emergency room of a hospital in Libertyville, “Please don’t get mad,” and proceeded to tell me what had happened. Our son, who lives in Rogers Park on the far north side of Chicago, miles closer than my own home, drove up to offer assistance. The medical staff at the hospital in question — and there seems to be a great deal to question — saw fit to splint my wife’s leg, told her not to put any weight on it, and promptly discharged her. Eventually, our son drove her home.
Meanwhile back in Plainfield, while our son was driving his mother home, our daughter, with the help of her husband and a friend, set up a corner of our TV room with a mini fridge, commode, food, beverages, and other accouterments, with the hope that my injured wife would be able to make do without risk of injuring herself further. In no time at all, it became clear that this was not to be the case. The following day, we were all working together to seek more competent medical attention for my wife.
I should mention that while all this is going on, I had arranged to work remotely in order to ensure that Karen would never be left alone in such a vulnerable state. I can only thank God and my employer, a family-oriented company not quite like any other I have experienced, that this was even possible. Even so, life just kept right on happening. I had been working away on an almost calm Thursday afternoon when the news came to me via email that my mentor of the past four years, also my direct superior, partner in crime, and friend, had “parted ways” with our company. This seemed odd to me, as only hours earlier I had neither seen nor heard any indication from the man that he had any intention of executing such a departure anytime soon. Hmmm. As is my nature, I reached out to people. No information was volunteered and I did not pry. I just let it go at that and went back to shouldering life as it continued happening. And believe me, you ain’t seen nothing yet.
A day later, a competent orthopedic surgeon examined my wife’s injuries, gave a rather alarming assessment of the “cookie cutter splint” that had been applied at the previous facility, scheduled urgent weekend surgery two days hence, and having declared that my wife should never have been discharged in her vulnerable condition, sent her to the emergency room across the street from his office.
Sometime after 3:00 AM the following morning, Karen was admitted to Silver Cross Hospital. One day later, on a Saturday morning down in surgery prep, we were informed that due to a testing oversight, surgery would have to be postponed. To say that Karen was displeased doesn’t quite cut it. Because she could not be safely discharged, my dear wife was now stuck in the hospital pending that surgery. Meanwhile, our daughter’s second wedding reception, two years in the making, was scheduled to take place that very evening.
You see, it’s like this. Two years ago, in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic, our daughter got married. Teresa had always wanted a big feast of a wedding, like Karen and I had enjoyed so many years ago, but the pandemic restrictions rendered that impossible. At one point, Teresa and her husband-to-be had created a spectrum of contingency plans, ranging from a restricted ceremony with the two of them, a priest, and a witness at the low end, to a modest celebration of up to maybe 50 people at the high end. The latter is what took place, but the whole time, they vowed to follow up with a full-blown reception the following year, after all the restrictions had been lifted. Unfortunately, the following year still held some restrictions and much uncertainty. And so it came to pass that 2022 would be the year of the big second reception.
Karen had been in tears when she realized that she would not be attending our daughter’s big reception but nobody was willing to place her in harm’s way for the sake of attending a party. Still, we all vowed to do the next best thing. If we couldn’t bring Karen to the celebration, we would bring the celebration to Karen! All night long, an entire team was busy capturing elements of the celebration and streaming them to my wife. And believe me, it was a hell of a time. Being surrounded by friends and family enabled me to set aside all my concerns of the day, if only for the moment.
The following Tuesday, we were back in line for surgery, only this time it happened. Without going into the sordid details, the surgery ended up being every bit as involved as it had promised to be, involving substantial hardware to compensate for one repair that would not be possible. Still, it had gone smoothly, the surgeon assured me. As expected, there would be a lengthy recovery ahead.
Hours had passed before I was able to see Karen again. When they brought her back to her room, my wife looked like she had seen too many miles of bad road. I opted to let her rest and went to run all the errands she had assigned to me prior. By the time I returned to the hospital that evening, Karen was her old self again, with color in her face, a twinkle in her eye, and that unmistakable sense of humor that we have so long shared between us. We still had no solid indication of how much longer she would be in the hospital or exactly where she would go next.
Two days later, happy Thanksgiving! Karen was still in the hospital. Administrative red tape, undoubtedly lengthened by the holiday weekend, prevented us from knowing with certainty where she would be going from there, but we knew it would not be home. Based on recommendations from the social worker and from our primary care doctor, Karen selected a rehab facility close to home. But there was paperwork to be filed and then reviewed by somebody, somewhere, before we would have any kind of confirmation of the transfer.
Long before any of this had transpired, our son John had begun scheming an “event within the event” to take place on Thanksgiving Day, which would be hosted for the first time by our daughter Teresa. John assembled an entire team of accomplices, all working together below the radar of his significant other, Emma. Even her mom was in on it, agreeing to fly in from California the night before and be snuck into the house that morning, under cover of carefully orchestrated distractions. At the appointed moment, everybody came together and witnessed a beautiful and most eloquent proposal, all live-streamed to my wife’s hospital room, of course. There were many teary eyes, my own included.
Life, which always happens, had begun to cascade. The following morning, Emma would depart Illinois, first for her home in California and shortly thereafter to Honolulu, to start her latest job assignment. John will follow her sometime in January. Between now and then he will get their belongings moved from their Chicago apartment and move back home for a few weeks, along with their dog and cat. Then he, too, will be off to Hawaii.
But wait, there’s more! I woke up the Friday after Thanksgiving with telltale sinus issues that seemed to indicate I would be coming down with a cold soon. I was already committed to making a run up to see my mother-in-law and bring her some fresh laundry that I’d done a few days earlier. Not being able to make that run on Thanksgiving had killed me inside but with everything else afoot, it was impossible, simply too much — and I was the very last to admit it.
I stopped in Rogers Park to pick up John on my way up. During my last visit to see Mom, when I had picked up her laundry, she wasn’t sure who I was. I tried to help her remember, unsuccessfully, and went home feeling so deflated and alone. My son had this knack for drawing a reaction from his grandma, even if she wasn’t sure who he was, and so he gladly came along. We did better together than I ever would have on my own. I am grateful.
By all rights, this should be the end of my story and it would have been more than enough at that. But you see, life doesn’t just happen. Life continues to happen, sometimes relentlessly.
By Saturday morning, my “cold” symptoms were much worse and on top of all else, my senses of smell and taste had completely disappeared. After more than two years of testing negative for the COVID-19 virus, I had become convinced I was a “no-vid,” incapable of becoming infected. But my God, I had just spent a day surrounded by people celebrating Thanksgiving and then gone to visit my 95-year-old dear mother-in-law, stopping from time to time to visit my health-impaired wife in the hospital! Could there possibly be a worse time to contract this damned thing?
Of course you know what happened next. Not just one but two tests came back positive and I was instructed to quarantine for five days, to inform anyone whom I might have exposed, and to inform my employer and ask once again to continue working remotely. Please pause for a moment, look back on everything I have just shared with you, and try to imagine what this task might look like.
I do think I may be the most fortunate man alive. In addition to the outpouring of sympathy and understanding from my wife, my family, and my friends came nothing but solid support from my employer of almost exactly four years and a plan for moving forward from all concerned. And this is exactly what has enabled me to continue on in the face of life as it happens.
Now I am healing. My wife, still in the hospital, waits patiently for her rehab assignment. Various family members and friends are dealing with cold, flu, and covid infections, not all of which are related yet we recognize that we are related and hold each other up as we move forward. We have only one rule and that is to never ask, “What next?”
Unlike most of my stories, this one has no clear ending. Life happens, sometimes all at once. The thing is, life will keep right on happening until it ends. Whether you believe it is happening to you or for you, what you do with this ever-unfolding life is up to you.
Me, I’m still here, still standing, still moving forward. It’s been an interesting few weeks, though. And if you’re still here with me, reading along, thanks for hanging with me.
Ever since my son began riding his own motorcycle, he and I have kept up a tradition of taking our bikes out on Thanksgiving Day, as long as there was no snow, ice, or heavy residual road salt on the pavement. On really cold days, we would take a really short ride. On warmer days, we would take a longer ride. And we would always capture the moment with a photograph or video. This past weekend was no exception. With temps in the mid-to upper forties, it wasn’t exactly warm, but we did manage a halfway decent romp through the outskirts of town.
Mother Nature smiled upon me as the weekend rolled on and with temps at or near fifty on Saturday, I decided to take a solo run to Palos Park, home of The Original Plush Horse ice cream parlor, where a riding acquaintance of mine would be stopping with his wife and a few friends in honor of his birthday — and to try the parlor’s seasonal “Grinch” ice cream flavor. I had tried to get my son to come along, but he assists in teaching Taekwondo most Saturdays and could not make it back in time to make this run.
Well, it turns out I was the only person who arrived by motorcycle. That wasn’t such a bad thing, as there were plenty of other rider to wave at on my way from Plainfield to Palos and once there, we enjoyed a very pleasant gathering. I think the Grinch ice cream got mixed reviews — don’t look at me, I ordered the butter pecan and was not disappointed — but in general the Plush Horse makes very good ice cream and I do not hesitate to recommend this place to anybody. Do be aware that with current COVID restrictions, they are doing curbside pickup only. We phoned in our orders from outside and ate our treats in a socially distanced fashion, even donning our masks when interacting with the staff, who were all top-shelf, as usual.
It had been a long time since I’d stopped to visit with my parents and a few other assorted relatives at Holy Sepulchre Cemetery & Mausoleum in Alsip, not far from either that ice cream stop I’d just made or my boyhood home of Blue Island. So with what daylight I had left that bright, sunny Saturday, I rode over for a quick visit.
For those of you who don’t understand the point of cemetery visits, I’m afraid I’m not going to be much help. I am compelled to go out of respect for the deceased, yet I would be hard-pressed to explain what I get out of the experience, which is almost always a little anticlimactic. The spirits of the deceased never come out to greet me or thank me for stopping by, yet there is definitely a spiritual element to the experience. In any case, it’s something I do.
Then came Sunday, the final day of my holiday weekend. Although temps continued to hover in the forties, the forecast screamed, “Not for long!” So I did the right thing while Mother Nature was still playing nice and made a gas run. But first I stopped at the future home of Tazza Coffee Company in Joliet, where my son has been helping with the interior build out. I was able to see my son’s handiwork and visit briefly with the proprietor before leaving them to continue their work. The build out is coming along nicely and I look forward to enjoying the first of many cups of coffee when they open, probably in the spring of 2021.
Eventually, I came to the purpose of my outing, a final gas stop, possibly my last of the year, although I am never certain because even after winter preps, Miss Scarlett stands ever ready to make a winter run, if the opportunity presents itself and conditions warrant it.
As I bang out the last of this recap, evening temps have dropped into the thirties and the wind is whipping out there, signaling to me that the fun is over, at least for now. My trusty mount stands still in the garage, her tank filled to the brim with stabilized fuel and her battery connected to a smart charger that will monitor and respond to its needs.
Is this the end of my riding season? I can’t say for certain but have made all the necessary preparations if that should be the case. Meanwhile my mind stretches forward to next season and all the adventures that surely await.
Happy holidays and as always, thanks for hanging with me.
I’m sitting in my home office (read: an old desk in my basement), tracking the progress of my son’s flight back to Oregon via flightaware.com as I write this. He is 23 years old and in the process of finishing off his final year at the Portland Actors Conservatory. He was home for the Christmas and New Year’s holidays, which have now passed. Today is also my daughter’s 25th birthday. I have no idea how I could possibly have two kids in their twenties when I am still just a kid myself. Alright, that’s a bald-faced lie… sort of. It’s true that on the outside, I am older, baggier, surely no longer young enough to be called middle-aged. But on the inside, my twenties weren’t all that long ago and I’ve still got this young, foolish streak that rises to the surface more often than I would care to admit. In many ways, I never grew up. And it’s unlikely that I will do so anytime soon because I’m having too damned much fun.
I hope that my daughter enjoyed her somewhat laid back birthday and I pray that my son lands safely in Portland, nearly three hours later than my intended bedtime. I look at their lives the way I look at this new year that has just gotten underway. Imagine the possibilities! My kids may be feeling the pressures of adulthood—and I know from experience, the pressure can be very real—but they still have so many possibilities ahead of them. Indeed I can still see many possibilities for myself. It’s true, I am a lot further along in life than are my two kids, but I assure you I am far from ready for the grave just yet. I have many roads left to travel, many stories left to write, and a great deal of love and laughter left to share.
So here’s to 2017! May we all realize at least some of those great possibilities we’ve imagined, and may we each find ourselves at least a little bit closer to whatever it is we are seeking in life. Thanks for hanging with me.
What began on a whim as a novel way to promote the DuKane Chapter of A.B.A.T.E. of Illinois’ annual Toy & Food Run has snowballed into an entity unto itself. The DuKane Santa Girls are now a staple of the motorcycling community in northern Illinois and points beyond. How did this come to be? We put this question to Sara Elliott, the group’s Coordinator and a founding member of the Santa Girls.
“It all started about four years ago,” reminisces Elliott. “Three of us had gone out together and were just kidding around, thinking of ways to promote the Toy & Food Run. Next thing you know, we went over to a local party supply store and picked up some female ‘Santa’s helper’ costumes.”
“We began showing up at events, handing out Toy & Food Run fliers. Before long people began asking if they could take pictures with us!” That’s when the Santa Girls began to take on a life of their own. “At first people weren’t sure whether the Santa Girls would be, you know, family-appropriate. But once people got to know us and what we’re about, we began to get requests for appearances.”
The DuKane Santa Girls make appearances year-round, at a variety of events, most of which are motorcycle-oriented, but they have never lost sight of their original mission—to actively promote the annual Toy & Food Run, which always takes place on the second Sunday in October. There are currently ten Santa Girls who rotate in groups of two-to-four, depending on the size and duration of the event. They range in age from teenagers to forty-somethings. “We have no age restrictions,” assures Sara. “All we require is a friendly demeanor, a positive attitude and a genuine desire to promote the Toy & Food Run. This is what we are all about.”
The 30th Annual DuKane ABATE Toy & Food Run will take place Sunday, October 9 at the Batavia VFW in Batavia, Illinois. The DuKane Chapter also maintains a Facebook page, www.facebook.com/groups/DuKaneABATE, with several sub pages, where the most current information and event updates are provided.
This adventure began in the wee hours on the Friday leading into Labor Day weekend. I was up sometime between 3:30 and 4:00 AM, getting myself ready and loading Miss Scarlett, my motorcycle, and I was rolling out of Plainfield shortly after 5:30, hoping to miss at least some of the dreaded Chicagoland morning rush hour traffic, which incidentally lasts about four hours. Despite the relatively early hour, I was stoked. My friend Ann and I were taking a three-day road trip to Dubuque, where we would rendezvous with an unknown number of motorcyclists who attend the Midwest Motorcycle Rally, which occurs in July of each year. This Dubuque meet-up was not a formal event like the rally, but more of a “gathering by invitation” for those rally goers who would rather not wait until next July to get together again. As soon as I received the invite, I had begun pestering Ann about going with me. After all, she had enjoyed the La Crosse rally so much and besides, as I’ve said so often, I am not a good alone person.
By sheer coincidence, before we had even discussed taking this weekend trip, Ann and I had individually arranged to have that Friday off. So even though the first gathering of our group wasn’t scheduled until 6:30-ish that evening, we were able to take full advantage of what turned out to be a picture perfect day, weather-wise. Which is why this adventure began so early on Friday.
I rode up to the Oconomowoc area, encountering a few pockets of traffic, one near O’Hare International Airport and the rest in the greater Milwaukee metro, which has been hobbled by road construction for some time. All in all it wasn’t so bad, though. The air was on the cool side for early September, but the sun was shining and the skies were beautiful. Before long I arrived at Ann’s place and began removing my riding gear as my dear friend came out to greet me, as she usually does. We were both grinning from ear to ear, like a couple of kids on Christmas Eve, but as eager as we were to set out, our coffee-drinking adult sides won out and we went in for some hot java first. We sat out on Ann’s balcony, sipping our coffees, updating each other on our respective family lives, and discussing the day’s loose itinerary. I even got a poppy seed muffin out of the deal. When time and weather allow, breakfast on that balcony has become our favorite way to start days like this one. But just because we had all day didn’t mean we wanted to spend it there.
In no time we had Ann’s things stowed away with mine in Miss Scarlett’s hard luggage and were heading out toward Dubuque, Iowa by way of Galena, Illinois. I take no small amount of pleasure in taking Ann places to which she has never been before. In that regard this whole weekend promised to be a virtual jackpot for me, because as far as I could ascertain, my favorite pillion hadn’t been to any of the places we were scheduled to visit, unless you want to count passing through Prairie du Chien on our way home from La Crosse as a visit.
Galena is a great destination in itself, for people of all ages and walks of life. Bikers love this area because Jo Daviess County features some great riding roads, with plenty of hills and scenery that most of Illinois is not know for. They don’t call us flatlanders for nothing, but in this, the northwest corner of the state, they don’t call us flatlanders at all. Ha!
There is enough here to keep history buffs occupied for a while, too, including the home of Ulysses S. Grant, our country’s 18th president (see granthome.com and www.galenahistory.org). Shoppers and antiquers alike will love all that the downtown area has to offer. Do you like to eat? The restaurants and food shops will keep you busy for some time. Romantic getaway? It’s here. Stuff for seniors? It’s here. Got kids? Galena has toy stores, candy, popcorn and ice cream shops, too.
The first thing Ann and I did was head over to Durty Gurt’s Burger Joynt for lunch. Some eating establishments come and go in places like Galena, and some places stick around for a while. Durty Gurt’s has been offering decent food, generous portions, and atmosphere in spades since 2007. I had been there a couple of times and thought Ann might enjoy eating there. She did, although we walked out full almost to the point of being uncomfortable. The portions here are very generous, but the food itself is rather tasty, which makes it easy to just keep right on eating, even when you know you ought to stop. We needed to walk it off, so we spent some time perusing downtown Galena.
We went into a yarn shop Called FiberWild that had a sign by the door proclaiming “You Need Yarn” (Ann is a knitter/crocheter and loves yarn). I applauded Ann for not being shy about going into any store she wanted to see, but much to my amazement, she did not buy anything. Whether this was because the bike was already almost packed to bursting or because of my friend’s iron willpower, I can only speculate. By comparison, at my urging, we stopped in at the Galena Cellars winery shop, tasted a variety of their goods, and walked out with two bottles of wine to enjoy during our stay in Dubuque. Hey, there is always room on board Miss Scarlett for wine.
Get this: I’ve been going to that town for almost 50 years now, and in all those years, I have never taken the time to check out the Galena River that flows through it, or this picturesque little place called Grant Park, which lies just across the river from downtown Galena. Until now. Besides motorcycle touring, Ann and I both enjoy taking long walks—not rugged hiking, but nice walks of say one to five miles—so on that Friday, both of us walked across the foot bridge at the end of Green Street and checked out Grant Park for the first time. What a lovely municipal park this is, with many benches, old-fashioned street lamps, a gazebo, a pavilion, a really old-looking fountain, and people. Real people, like school kids, running about hooting and hollering, and couples young and old, strolling the park or sitting together watching the river flow. In the middle of this park is a statue of Grant. At Ann’s urging, I did my best to imitate his stance, but I don’t know how well I did.
After a decent amount of walking, and with our wine selection safely stowed, we headed off to Dubuque, a mere 20–25 minute ride via US Highway 20, which becomes Dodge Street after you cross the mighty Mississippi and come into town. That’s where our group’s hotel, Days Inn Dubuque, is located. And unfortunately this is where the only dark cloud cast its shadow over our otherwise bright and cheerful weekend.
Without dwelling on the negative, let me summarize it thusly. About a month prior to our stay, I made one reservation for two king rooms at this inn via Booking.com. I added a request that the rooms be close together and corresponded directly with the hotel (I still have the emails) regarding this request. When we arrived, the desk help claimed they received reservations from Booking.com for one king room and one room with two double beds. That’s one count of bullshit.
With regard to my (documented) request that the rooms be together, the desk help would not even acknowledge receiving my request and said our rooms were nowhere near each other. They were at opposite ends of a three-building complex. Neither Ann nor I was okay with that arrangement, if only for safety reasons. So in order to get two rooms anywhere near each other, we had to agree to two rooms with two double beds each. Not the end of the world, but not what I reserved over a month prior. That’s two counts of bullshit.
The only available rooms were smoking rooms—that’s not the hotel’s fault because such was the case when I made my reservation—but my room was so bad, it smelled like someone had just put out their cigarette, and that odor never got better, for three days and two nights.
I’d like to say that’s the end of it, but the bullshit went on. The outdoor pool was cold and full of insects—mostly dead, but not all of them—and there was this odd little spot in the pool where mini/micro bubbles continuously rose to the surface for no apparent reason. We swam once; that was enough. I can’t comment for Ann, but in my room, both of my mattresses were worn out. Meanwhile in Ann’s room, one corner up by the ceiling had substantial mold growing on it. Presumably because this was Labor Day weekend, the hotel was booked solid; and it had been too late in the day when we arrived to cancel anything, which meant our essential choices were two: take it or leave it. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.
But Ann and I are both resilient types and made the best of a bad situation, essentially laughing it off, saying nothing of consequence to the others in our group, and making the most of an otherwise fantastic weekend. Besides, it sounds worse than it was. On a bright note, one day after I returned home, I received the usual survey invitation from my friends at Booking.com, asking me to rate my recent stay at the Days Inn Dubuque. I gave a very thorough review, with a chaser email sent directly to my friends at Booking.com, and I’m sure as soon as the appropriate party’s computer quits smouldering, I’ll hear something back. But I digress.
On the evening of Friday, September 2, our merry band of travelers convened in the hotel bar and made plans to go out for supper. There being no substitute for local knowledge, we took the advice of some locals and went downtown to the Mason Dixon Saloon, which is reputed to have good barbecue. I am pleased to report that their reputation is duly earned. I ordered a half rack of ribs, while Ann ordered grilled shrimp. We shared and for the second time in one day, ate more than our fill. The ribs were served dry-rubbed, with a sweet sauce on the side. They had the right texture and decent flavor, too. The shrimp rested in a seasoned garlicky buttery coating, were cooked correctly and were also very flavorful. This proved to be a good start to our weekend.
After supper, some of the group returned to the hotel bar, some turned in, and some opted to open a bottle of Galena Cellars wine and toast the weekend before saying goodnight. You know, thirty-some years ago, I’d have stayed out until the last person had had enough and then laughed as I walked away, still vertical. Today I possess neither the stamina nor the need to prove my drinking prowess. I’m either becoming old or becoming more careful; maybe a little of both.
Saturday was to be a full day of motorcycle touring for our group and it did not disappoint. After a free continental (read: no meat) breakfast at the hotel, we readied up and gathered in front of the lobby for a day of fun and adventure that would take us to destinations in Iowa and Illinois. Our first stop would be the National Motorcycle Museum in Anamosa. I enjoy visiting this museum, which features quite a collection of interesting, unusual, and/or historically significant pieces, in addition to changing exhibits that give visitors a reason to return.
Certain enthusiasts will spend hours here, going over every detail of a particular genre or brand or even a single machine, while others take a more casual approach and simply peruse the exhibits, spending a little more time on items of particular interest. Ann and I both fall into the latter category. I would occasionally stop and tell her what I knew about a particular item and she would do likewise, often pointing out things that I would have otherwise missed. I particularly enjoyed the small Evel Knievel exhibit, which included one of his Harley-Davidson XR750 motorcycles, a couple of his leather jumpsuits, and a rather nasty-looking set of his x-rays that I had never noticed before. And then of course there is the Roadog, a unique custom motorcycle built by the late William “Wild Bill” Gelbke, an engineer from Wisconsin. This machine, like its designer, is the stuff of legends, utilizing a Chevy engine and a Powerglide transmission, among other things. It’s big, really big.
Next we went down the road to J&P Cycles, a large mail order/internet retailer of motorcycle parts, accessories, apparel and novelties. The company was founded by John and Jill Parham in 1979. John is also one of the founders of the museum from which we had just come. I don’t know that either of us was expecting to buy anything—we had merely intended to browse the huge retail center—but we both walked out with some new headwear. Ann found a headband that she really liked and also bought me this really neat “COOLMAX” skullcap-like thing that is easy to don and remove, but manages to stay put, even at highway speeds. I was skeptical when she first pointed it out in the store and I remarked, “it looks like underwear for my head,” but she persisted and bought the cap for me. I was grateful for the gift and within minutes was loving the thing, which can also be worn as a cooling liner inside of a helmet.
From Anamosa, Iowa we headed east on Iowa 64 toward the Mississippi River, where about 70 miles later, we crossed over into Savanna, Illinois. Sometimes it seems as though every weekend in the river town of Savanna, during riding season, is like a mini rally of sorts, with a constant parade of motorcycles coming, going, and of course, stopping. There are several bars in downtown Savanna that cater to the two-wheel crowd, including one called the Iron Horse Social Club, which is an arch rival to the establishment we were about to visit. I have never been there, but we rode past it and there were a lot of bikes parked in the vicinity of that place.
Just on the other side of town, on Illinois 84, we arrived at Poopy’s, which bills itself as Illinois’ biggest biker destination. This place is impressive. Besides the Pub n’ Grub, where the bar stools are made with padded toilet seats and references to excrement run wild on the menu, there is a souvenir and apparel shop (where you will find more crude references), multiple bars indoors and out, live entertainment outside, cabin rentals, and new this year, the Squirrel’s Nest, a covered bar up on their catwalk outside. Poopy’s used to have a tattoo parlor on the premises, but that had moved up the road since my last visit. I’m not sure why. In any case, it’s quite a biker destination and I had the privilege of taking Ann there for her very first time—but maybe not the last. Ha!
Poopy’s was to have been our lunch stop, and it was, but it was mid afternoon by the time we arrived, so this became our late lunch stop. And since Poopy’s serves up good food in generous portions, like most popular biker stops, we effectively did away with the need to go out for supper that night, too.
A live band began performing while we waited for our food and the place began to take on a more festive atmosphere as people continued to arrive and the rumbling thunder of bike engines never died down. This is the Poopy’s experience.
After we had eaten our fill and bought our souvenirs, we found our way to US Highway 20 and followed it north and west, past Galena, over the Mississippi and back into Dubuque. But rather than return to our hotel, we made our way into the city and up the bluff upon which is built, to check out the Fenelon Place Elevator, a fairly short and very steep scenic railway of sorts.
As I understand it this elevator was put in by a banker who worked in town and lived up on the bluff above, so that he would have a quicker way to go home at noontime for dinner and a nap. The only other time I had been there, we started our tour at the bottom, but this time we started at the top of the bluff. From there you can see parts of Wisconsin, Illinois, and Iowa. On a picture perfect day like ours, the view was breathtaking.
The cars are pretty small, so we had to descend in two groups. Ann and I were in the second group. The ride is relatively slow and smooth, but the stop at the bottom is somewhat abrupt, so riders are warned to remain seated until they hit bottom—literally. Once at the bottom, we got out, walked around, took more photos of the elevator, and found a shop that sold ice cream, candy, popcorn, and toys. Ann and I were still pretty full from our feast at Poopy’s, but we managed to share a cup of peanut-butter-and-chocolate-laced ice cream. Hey, it’s not like we were the only ones.
A short while later, we ascended the bluff, got back on our bikes and rode back down to our hotel, where an overwhelming majority of the group voted “no” on going out to eat again and instead we opted to hang out in the hotel bar, where a folk music duet was performing and the drink prices were on par with those of any normal bar, as opposed to a hotel lounge. As we all sat there, talking, laughing, and sipping our various libations, I looked around at the bar, the adjacent breakfast eating area, which had surely been a full service restaurant at one time, the patio and circular outdoor fireplace, and the decent-sized outdoor swimming pool. I imagine this was once a pretty cool place to stay, perhaps back in the late 1970’s or early 80’s. That wasn’t too hard to visualize, because I was certain we were looking at some of the original furnishings.
Despite my opinions about the hotel, it still felt like Sunday morning had come all too soon. I didn’t want to leave yet; we were having too much fun! Part of the group was staying through Monday morning, but Ann and I had decided in advance to go home Sunday. We both had things to do before returning to (ugh) work on Tuesday and besides, we each had our respective families and pets waiting for us at home.
Before heading for home, though, we followed our group over the river and up into Wisconsin, where we had planned to stop for lunch in Prairie du Chien. From that point, several of us would be peeling off and heading our separate ways. The weather was beautiful, again, and the ride to Prairie du Chien was fabulous. Besides, I was only too glad to have a few more hours of “we’re not going home yet” time with this awesome group of people.
Unfortunately every other biker for miles around, and quite a few non-bikers as well, had the same lunch idea in mind. We walked to four different places and they all had long waiting lists. Ann even tried smooth-talking a cigar store Indian posted outside of one such establishment, to no avail. So while the rest of the group toyed with the idea of crossing back into Iowa and looking for a lunch stop in that direction, Ann and I decided it was time to head east. So we bid our goodbyes and peeled off from the group.
We found our way to Wisconsin 60, a most excellent road, and then onto Wisconsin 19 by way of US 12. Whenever we would enter a town and slow down enough to hear each other easily, Ann and I would talk about things, clarify our route, or just share a laugh together. After a quick snack and caffeine stop in Boscobel, we had decided to enjoy a late lunch in Watertown, at a place Ann had wanted me to try, before getting her home. But as luck would have it, that establishment was closed when we got there. So we continued on to an alternate restaurant and found it to be closed as well. Ann suggested one more place to try before we headed out of our way in search of decent food—the Ixonia Pub. Lo and behold, the place was open! And so we went inside to share one last meal before I dropped Ann off.
You know what? It wasn’t bad at all. The place was clean, the staff was friendly, the beer was cold and the food was quite good. Ann ordered a Pub Wrap with a side of fried curds and I ordered the Boss Hog, a burger topped with ham, bacon, cheddar cheese and barbecue sauce, with a side of crinkle cut fries. We shared our sides along with each others company and had a nice meal together.
We got to Ann’s place and unloaded her things. I lingered for a short while, trying to rest a bit before taking my long, lonely ride home. I don’t like goodbyes. I don’t like long, lonely rides, either. I usually counteract my post-road-trip letdown by looking ahead to the next time—and that’s pretty much what I did, all the way home to Plainfield. My Sunday night ride home was blissfully uneventful, mainly because the big going home traffic jams were still 24 hours off. I no longer recall exactly when I pulled in, but it was late.
Time and again Ann and I found ourselves thanking each other for the fantastic weekend we’d shared. It really had been great. Less than 24 hours after I got home, I was sending Facebook friend requests out to the folks in the group who were on Facebook but with whom I had not yet connected, while Ann uploaded many photos and a few awesome videos that she had shot, and began producing the most lovely slide show video as a permanent reminder of the wonderful time we’d shared. Ann is a decent photographer in her own right, with a creative eye for doing things like this video. She is also my most excellent riding companion and a very dear friend. I look forward to our next outing.
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.
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.
Things are different in the Midwest. We don’t have majestic mountain ranges. We don’t have deserts. We do have natural beauty, though, and it’s different from what the other places have. And traveling to other places has made me more cognizant of natural features in the Midwest. This is why we should travel. I read this somewhere… When we return, everything is still the same, but we have changed.
I took almost no photos today because, unlike yesterday, this was not a day for doing touristy things. This was the run home. I estimated about 535 miles between our hotel in Worthington, Minnesota and my home in Plainfield, Illinois. My wife Karen had more like 610 miles to cover, because she needed to drop my sister off before coming home. Our friend Eddie had already departed, in an effort to surprise his wife by getting home early.
We stayed together, the two ladies in the minivan and me on my bike, for the first half of the day, so that we could have lunch together. So we spent the first half of this day within sight of each other as we crossed southern Minnesota. I noticed that, like in many of the western states we had crossed, the interstate highways of Minnesota are set up to be closed down when conditions warrant. I’m thinking winter storms, but I don’t really know what criteria must be met in order to close an interstate highway. We don’t do that in Northern Illinois. We plow continuously and apply ponderous quantities of rock salt (NaCl) to burn off whatever the plows don’t get. Indeed, in my little corner of the world, political careers have been created and destroyed based on ones ability to control snow and ice to the satisfaction of all.
We were approaching La Crosse, Wisconsin around lunchtime, so we went downtown and checked out Fayze’s Restaurant & Bakeryt. We opted not to try any of their fresh baked goods for dessert, but I must admit, I was tempted. A
After lunch, for the sake of time, we stopped trying to stay within site of each other. I took a few legal liberties with regard to speed laws, and after five hours or so, I found myself home again.
In all we’d come 4,782.2 miles since we left the R Place truck stop on June 19. Miss Scarlett, my Victory Vision Tour, got me through all those miles without issue.
Over the past twelve days, I have ridden through some breathtakingly beautiful parts of our country, but could not capture many parts of it because I was riding at the time, with no opportunities to pull off and stop, no digital cams mounted on my helmet or bike, and no photographer riding pillion with me at the time. Every now and then I would stop somewhere and shoot whatever I could. Just know that there was much, much more that I was not able to capture. That was frustrating at times. You know this practically begs for a return trip with a full-on camera crew.
Speaking of frustration, one potentially frustrating thing about doing a long run like this on a fairly tight schedule is that you will pass right by—or worse yet, right through—other places that are vacation destinations in themselves, but you can’t stop and “do” those places, because there isn’t enough time. In the last few days, I’ve ridden past Yellowstone, past the Devil’s Tower, through the Black Hills without stopping in any of the usual places, and past the Badlands. Today, in my own small way, I tried to compensate for that by stopping at a couple of popular tourist attractions on our way east across South Dakota.
In the 1930’s some hick drug store on the edge of the Badlands of South Dakota began advertising free ice water to travelers on a nearby highway… and the rest is history.
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Yes, we did Wall Drug. We love doing Wall Drug. In fact we ate breakfast there. Then my wife and my sister did some shopping while I photographed a vast assortment of oddities for my collection. The whole affair was very touristy, and so were we.
Three hours later, we were more than halfway across the state and visiting another classic American tourist attraction, the Mitchell Corn Palace. The Corn Palace is a different kind of touristy, though. Perhaps a greater sense of singular purpose (it’s all about the corn). There is also a lot less stuff for sale here than in Wall. But again, we love places like this and we enjoyed ourselves thoroughly.
A couple of hours later, we had crossed into Minnesota and stopped for the night in Worthington. If all goes as planned, tomorrow will be the final day of this epic journey. See you then.
This Is MGD Time 