My Daughter — My Hairdresser

Jul8

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.

My Insatiable Wanderlust

Jul7

Wanderlust is a word of German origin meaning a strong desire to travel—and believe me, I’ve got it. This is nothing new, mind you. I acquired my strong sense of wanderlust at a rather young age. When my sisters and I were kids, shortly after the earth cooled, our Aunt Erminia used to toss us into her station wagon and drag us to various parts of North America for weeks at a time. By the time I got through high school, I had been to most of the contiguous United States, a fair number of Canadian provinces, and Tijuana, Mexico.

As a husband and a dad (I shall refrain from using the word “adult” because I do not care to exaggerate), I felt a strong desire to do similar things for my own family. I lacked the abundant vacation time and discretionary income that my aunt seemed to enjoy, but I more than made up for that with my enthusiasm and a seemingly insatiable desire to travel.

When I took up motorcycling, I quickly discovered two things. First, that contrary to my initial assumptions, just riding around town would never be good enough for me. But second, and perhaps more significant, that a bike with bags is far better than a bike without. So I added bags to my first bike. Two seasons later I upgraded to a bigger bike with bigger bags. Then I added a trunk. Eventually I acquired a “full dresser” touring rig, my 2012 Victory Vision Tour, which I named Miss Scarlett.

Not long after I outfitted my first bike, I began using it to take my kids Teresa and John places, first on day trips and then overnighters. One or the other would be a regular fixture on my pillion for a number of years. When they came of age, both kids took the state’s Basic Rider Course and acquired their “M” license classifications.Eventually they went halfies on a small bike of their own to ride, but that soon got sold and my son acquired a mid-sized cruiser, outfitted for touring of course, and we began going places side by side.

And let me tell you, we’ve taken some humdingers together—Wisconsin, Indiana, Iowa, Kentucky, Minnesota, South Dakota, Nebraska, and most recently, an epic journey out to Oregon. I’ve done more riding with my son than with riding clubs or on my own, and I’m grateful for that, if only because I know it won’t be that way forever. In part this is why I make a point of documenting our trips together, in words as well as pictures.

Although I do not consider myself to be a very good “alone” person, sometimes I take solo trips. These are not so much epic journeys as excursions of one or two nights, just long and far enough to let me get away from others while letting me get in touch with myself. So far I’ve toured parts of Missouri, Indiana, Ohio and Michigan on my own. But as I’ve said, I’m not a good alone person, so my solo trips have inevitably become stories and photos to share with others. Sorry, I guess I’m just wired that way.

I was a preschooler when I got my first motorcycle ride, and immediately became a lifelong fanatic, but I was in my early forties before I acquired my first bike. For over thirty years now, I’ve been blessed to have a wife whose sense of wanderlust matches mine, mile for mile and day for day, but Karen does not ride. Still I regret nothing, because despite this, she has been a diehard supporter of my involvement with the hobby, even to the point of having kept me going with it after I had crashed a bike and, however briefly, considered giving up riding altogether.

From time to time my readers enjoy two-wheel road trip stories featuring excellent photos that I could not possibly have taken. That would be the work of my close friend and pillion passenger of choice, Ann, who is herself an avid motorcycling fan and who has known me just slightly longer than Karen. We all went to college together, back in the days of land line telephones and cameras that used film, but I digress. Ann and I have taken a number of road trips together, not only with Karen’s blessing, but also her guidance—remember, my wife is a seasoned traveler—and I suspect readers will see more and more of this. I do indeed lead a blessed life and will never take that for granted.

And so my wanderlust continues, checked only by the limits of my discretionary time and income. About a week ago, I returned from an epic journey of roughly 4,800 miles, to Oregon and back. In less than a week, I will be embarking on another, much shorter road trip of roughly 650 miles, this time with my friend Ann on board. I’ll show and tell you all about that, as time allows, so please stick around.

Thanks for coming along.

Grillin’ and Chillin’

Jul7

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

Jul6

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

Jul5

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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Postscript to the Post-Trip Service and Safety Check

Jul3

A few hours after I had gotten back from my favorite Victory shop, I noticed an oil drip on my garage floor. Up until now this bike has never given up a drop of oil.

I’m hoping this is something simple, but regardless, I’ll be at the dealership on Tuesday morning, when they open, to see if they can make it right in short order. Given my past experiences with Randy’s Cycle, I’m sure they will take care of me.

More to come.

Epic Journey — Post-Trip Service and Safety Check

Jul3

One might think that after taking a road trip of nearly 5,000 miles, I would be reluctant to get on my bike again. One would be wrong. This morning I rode Miss Scarlett 57 miles out to Randy’s Cycle in Marengo, known to be the best Victory dealer in all of Northern Illinois if not beyond, to have my slightly overdue 40K service done and also get my girl checked out from end to end, in preparation for my next trip, now less than two weeks away, to the Midwest Motorcycle Rally in La Crosse, Wisconsin.

Randy’s is not the closest Victory dealership to my home, nor is his the fanciest. There are higher-end-looking boutique shops in the area, none of which has the word-of-mouth credentials of Randy’s Cycle. This is where I acquired Miss Scarlett, my 2012 Vision Tour, and this is where I have come for service and upgrades, ever since. Randy Weaver and company have earned my loyalty. If I ever go elsewhere for scheduled maintenance, it will be for reasons of practicality, not personal preference.

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After nearly 5,000 miles of riding, much of it at 70–80 mph and a chunk of it on twisty mountain roads, I was ready to hear bad news about my tires, brakes, clutch, or any other wear part, but everything checked out okay. She was good at least until the 45,000 mile mark.

To all of you who have been following my epic road trip via my blog site, thank you for having come along. Please feel free to stick around. There are more journeys and stories to come.

Epic Journey Day Thirteen — The Bittersweet Run Home

Jul1

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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.

I regret nothing.

Epic Journey Day Twelve — Rapid City to Worthington

Jun30

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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.

Epic Journey Day Eleven — Bozeman to Rapid City

Jun30

I woke up in Bozeman this morning, walked over to my hotel room window, threw open the curtains, and beheld a mountain sunrise. In Montana this is not so unusual. I read recently that there are at least 100 named mountain ranges and subranges in the state of Montana. The very name Montana means “mountain” in Spanish. And believe me, the name fits!

Today was all about making miles. We stopped every 130–150 miles, despite all of us having machines with ranges far beyond those numbers, to fuel up and trade places leading.

Around lunchtime we found ourselves in Sheridan, Wyoming, where we had a fine lunch and took in the sights.

Hours later, we were near the Black Hills of Wyoming, still over 100 miles from our destination in Rapid City. Storms were developing in the distance. In other words, it was time to launch.

We ended up “threading the needle” between the two cells as we came across on 90. Storms above and below us, wet road as we came into the SD Black Hills, but the storms never hit us.