Rendezvous Run Day 1: Morris to Lincoln & Portland to Twin Falls


The Chicagoland contingency departed at 8:15 from the R Place truck stop in Morris, IL today. Two hours later, the Portland contingency, i.e. my son, shoved off at about the same time, but in Pacific Time. 

Our lone touristy stop of the day was the Iowa 80  World’s Largest Truck Stop. It’s a tourist stop unto itself, with many products and services available for truckers as well as non-truckers. 


Lunch was at Montana Mike’s in Newton, IA. As I was preparing to go in, a biker couple was walking out to their trike. I struck up a conversation and learned that the two are regular customers who enjoy the food. It’s a chain with locations in eight states. Good food, nice people, no complaints. 


We rolled through Omaha during rush hour, which wasn’t fun, but wasn’t horrible, either and arrived at our hotel in Lincoln during the five o’clock hour. After freshening up, we walked over to Lucky’s Lounge & Grill for supper, drinks, and philosophizing. Then we walked back to the hotel, put our bikes to bed, kibitzed for a bit and then called it a night. 


When I began writing this, my son was still riding, still hours from his destination for the night, Twin Falls, Idaho. Just before midnight, I got the text I was waiting for: “Landed. Twin Falls, Idaho.” Now we wait to see how day two plays out. 

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My Kids Aren’t Kids Anymore

Babies

How did this happen? Just a few short years ago, I was standing in an operating room at Gottlieb Memorial Hospital in Melrose Park, scared shitless as I heard my newborn daughter utter her first cry. At that moment, my entry into parenthood had felt an awful lot like falling from the sky—a feeling of which I have never been fond. It was a girl! I looked down at my wife, who was still adjusting to the effects of the anesthesia—still not convinced that she wasn’t about to freeze to death or slide right off the table—and confirmed, “We have a Teresa!”

Not even two years later, I was there again, holding my wife’s hand as my son’s first cry filled the room. I’ll never forget the exchange that took place between the doctor and me as my son was born. I was standing behind the “blue field” which I had been warned not to cross, holding Karen’s hand, waiting. Maybe not quite as scared as I’d been the first time, but still pretty wired. Then just before that initial cry, the doc exclaimed, “It’s a boy!”

Dumbfounded, I jumped up to see over the little blue screen, looked at the doctor and inquired, “Really?”

The doctor looked at me with raised eyebrows and immediately pointed to the evidence, which irrefutably identified my offspring as having been born male. “Oh, yeah,” was all I could muster in reply. The doctor shook his head and, satisfied that he had convinced me, went back to work on putting my wife back together.

That was well over twenty years ago. My wife, my calendar, the old guy in my bathroom mirror, and my quite empty bank account all assure me that this is the case. And I vaguely recall all the years that have passed. Infancy. Toddlerhood. The terrible twos. The you-ain’t-seen-nothing-yet threes. Preschool. Kindergarten. Grade school. Middle school. High school. College (my bank account is still in denial). Yes, I was there for all of it, but looking back, somehow all those years seem more like months now.

Tre at Work

Offspring number one graduated from college some three years ago. She parlayed her undergrad psych degree into a position with an outfit called Clearbrook, a provider of home-based services for individuals with disabilities (and their families). Teresa’s subject is an autistic teen—and not the first whom with she has ever dealt because she served an internship that involved caring for an autistic young adult.

At the same time, she enrolled at The Nail Inn & School of Cosmetology, intending to eventually pay her way through grad school by making others beautiful. She has also toyed with the idea of combining her two professions—simultaneously working on the interior and exterior of her clients’ heads—a concept that may still be brought to fruition. Tre at Work 2

I was quite proud when she completed her cosmetology classes, obtained her license, and got her own chair at a local salon where she has worked since her high school days. I soon became a regular client. That’s right, I trust my daughter to work on and about my head while wielding precision sharpened hair cutting implements. We have evolved through long and short hairstyles, trying different methods, products, etc. And I must admit she does nice work.

But it doesn’t end there. Teresa was recently accepted into a grad program at Aurora University. And so possibilities she has imagined are gradually becoming possibilities realized. Who knows, maybe someday my daughter will be able to figure out what’s wrong with me. This has been a running joke for a few years between Teresa, myself, and a few of my biker friends. Hey, if she can figure out what’s wrong with any of us, she’ll be up for a Nobel prize in no time at all.

JEGD Head ShotOffspring number two went in a different direction and graduated from college with a double major—Asian Studies and Theater Arts—and was accepted by the Portland Actors Conservatory in Portland, Oregon. Now in addition to being able to converse in Mandarin Chinese, in just two short years, my son has learned firsthand the plight of the starving artist.

Yes, I’m kidding. Sort of. I have no doubt that John has learned the inherent value of sufficient funding and what it takes just to achieve that plateau. But more than that, he recently completed his course of study at the conservatory. He has already earned paid assignments doing tech work (i.e. lighting and sound design and operation) for Portland-area theater groups and has already signed on with the Mississippi Bend Players in Rock Island, Illinois to do tech work on three of their productions this summer and he will also perform in one of these productions.

When people would ask me about my kids—after having told me about their doctors, lawyers, engineers, and accountants—I would tell them that Teresa was doing hair, “in preparation for graduate studies in psychology” and that John was enrolled at the Portland Actors Conservatory. Then we would all smile and nod as if I had just shown them my zero-balance checkbook.

Well to hell with them, to say nothing of the horses upon which they rode in!

The reality of it all is that my daughter Teresa really is about to embark on a learning journey that will in large part be funded by her own blood, sweat, tears and sheer talent as a licensed cosmetologist whose services have been in ever-increasing demand ever since she obtained her chair at Sharp Designs in Plainfield, Illinois. And who knows, maybe someday she really will figure out what’s up with my riding buddies and me.

The reality of it all is that my son John works in theater. That’s right, he gets paid to design and operate lighting and sound systems for theatrical productions and he also gets paid to perform, professionally. This means that if you want to see my son perform in the theatrical production of Wait Until Dark, you will have to buy a ticket. Wow!

Riding BuddiesMy son is also my closest riding buddy. When he took his motorcycle out to Portland, I accompanied him, along with another riding buddy of ours, and followed by our chase vehicle, headed up by my wife, Karen. When he rides from Portland to the Quad Cities this summer, I shall ride out and meet him halfway, along with two of our closest riding buddies and no chase vehicle. It will be epic—and it will be documented here on mgdaversa.com.

Am I proud of my kids? Yes, very much so. Do I agree with everything they’ve done or might do? Hell no!

Am I okay with this? Well… Sometimes. I cannot lie.

On the one hand, I want so badly to be able to protect my children as I did… well, when they were children. On the other hand, they aren’t children anymore. Now it seems to me that’s a harsh reality for any parent to accept.

A good friend of mine, who is also older and wiser than me, once advised me as follows.
“Michael, we spend all of their lives preparing them for adulthood. At some point, it has to be up to them.” Then he just looked at me and smiled. Oh, how I wanted so badly to punch him right in the mouth… but he was right.

Along those same lines, my father used to say, “I’ll give you my opinion if you want to hear it, but then it’s up to you.” It took me quite a few years to understand what he meant, and possibly how he felt. God, how I miss my father.

My kids aren’t kids anymore. Even though they are still my babies and always will be, I can no longer treat them as if they are still little kids. I’ve done my part. Besides, I’m old(er) and tired.

I am so proud of my children.

Only Our Conflicts Are Real

Today I came to a realization regarding our moral, ethical and political ideologies.

Recall the poem “The Blind men and the Elephant” by John Godfrey Saxe. Six blind men are examining an elephant and each is adamant of his experiential findings. The last verse says it all.

And so these men of Indostan
Disputed loud and long,
Each in his own opinion
Exceeding stiff and strong.
Though each was partly in the right,
They all were in the wrong!

Now before you go any further, examine this bit of reflection from—of all places— a 1966 western movie, The Professionals.

“Maybe there’s only one revolution, since the beginning, the good guys against the bad guys. Question is, who are the good guys?”

And therein lies the rub. Aside from the fact that we each approach the current situation in Washington wearing the filters of our respective human experience, we also approach one another with conflicting understandings of good versus evil. From this perspective, we come to debate and argue, each with the intent of winning over the other guy. And for the most part, each will fail.

We can’t even agree on right from wrong! And in our efforts to win each other over through seemingly benevolent discussion, we vehemently entrench ourselves ever deeper into our private realities, ever bending our arguments to protect what is ours, rather than admit it might not be entirely accurate. Nice going.

I knew we were in trouble when I saw the exact same news story concerning President Trump being shared on Facebook by both a pro-Trump advocate and an anti-Trump detractor. The same story! And when I realized they couldn’t both be right, it occurred to me that the only sure thing in this equation was the conflict itself. That was real.

Wake up. You cannot win with the arguments you are making. In this regard, you are no better than one of the blind men in that poem. In fact, you are worse because at least the blind men were all of a like mindset. 

Victory No More: My Thoughts Concerning the Polaris Decision

mgdvision_05042013

The photo you see above was taken on May 4, 2013, the day I left home with my 2007 Honda ST1300 sport touring rig and returned with my slightly used 2012 Victory Vision Tour. This was indeed a pivotal moment in my life. This was my first motorcycle that wasn’t a Honda, my first American motorcycle, and my first Victory. Since that fateful day, Miss Scarlett and I have logged roughly forty thousand relatively trouble-free miles

But this post isn’t about my love affair of the past four riding seasons with this motorcycle. Rather, this is about the recent announcement by Polaris Industries to wind down production of the Victory over the next eighteen months. I promise to be brief.

portland-air-museum

Was I happy to hear the news? No. While no motorcycle is perfect for every rider’s needs, I have been so pleased with the performance and comfort of my Vision Tour, I was already fairly certain that when the time came for Miss Scarlett and me to part ways, my next motorcycle would be another Victory. Over the past four riding seasons, we have run nearly 40,000 miles, 4,800 of which involved an epic journey from Chicago, Illinois to Portland, Oregon and back—a journey so great, it left me wanting to take another.

night-vision

But with Victory Motorcycles now being phased out, my next bike will likely not be a Victory. So now what? Well, I am pleased to report that despite the Polaris announcement, Miss Scarlett did not burst into flames or disappear from sight. In addition, Randy Weaver, owner of Randy’s Cycle, the best Victory dealership in all of northern Illinois and beyond, almost immediately went online and assured his customers (me among them) that his shop would continue to service the Victory marque for years to come. Comforting words indeed! (See Randy’s video here.)

Bottom line, I still have a damned good motorcycle sitting in my garage, just waiting for the next decent riding day. Polaris’ decision to cease production of Victory Motorcycles will not immediately affect my decision to continue riding Miss Scarlett for some time to come.

Surely the day will come for me to pick another motorcycle to ride.  But you’ll have to take my word for it, this isn’t that day. In the meantime, I’m chomping at the bit to take Miss Scarlett out again, just as soon as the weather turns in our favor. And when that happens, I’ll be here to share more ride stories with you, hopefully with my beloved pillion Ann to continue sharing her awesome photos and videos.

Until then, peace and ride on. Thank you for hanging with me.

Contemplating the Passage of Time

swa4908

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.

I Look for Places like This

nicks

I grew up in Blue Island, Illinois. I went to college in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. When I came of drinking age, which would have been 1979 in Wisconsin and 1982 in Illinois, both of these cities were dotted with neighborhood bars, taverns, pubs, saloons, or whatever you would call them. Each had a personality of its own that would be difficult to explain to one not familiar with this sort of establishment. As drinking venues go, I have always preferred those to their larger, noisier counterparts. But more than that, some of these places were special to me.

I speak of neighborhood bars, because I am by and large a city mouse, but should point out that small town bars seem to have the same flavor as these—only there aren’t nearly as many to choose from. Back when I lived and drank in Blue Island, for example, that city had a population of just over 20,000 people. Not a terribly large community by some standards, but there were many bars there, not just on the main thoroughfares, but in the residential areas—the neighborhoods—themselves. Each was a place quite unique unto itself, quite different from all the others. Many of these establishments have gone away since that time, but you get the idea.

When you find a good one, you know so, because it resonates with you somewhere deep within. Case in point, my personal favorite in the Blue Island of my day was a place called the Backstage, on the corner of Vermont Street and Hoyne Avenue. Get this, my favorite neighborhood bar wasn’t even in my neighborhood. Ha! The place was awesome. It had atmosphere. The Backstage was the kind of place where people could meet and talk and have fun, without being bothered. The owner kept a nice place, something I learned to appreciate over time. But alas, it’s long gone now. That property isn’t even a bar anymore, And truth be told, there are fewer places like this in that town… maybe elsewhere, too.

Milwaukee, circa 1983, the last year I lived there as a student at Marquette University. Back then I could walk two blocks in any direction from my apartment and hit at least one bar,  usually way more than one. The whole city seemed to be full of them. My personal favorite, that year? I had two. Very near my apartment was the Harp & Shamrock on West Wells Street. Although the place still stands, I’m sure the original proprietor Bernie Conway is now long gone. What a character he was! Bernie kept a clean place, where one would always feel safe, as long as you were not a vagrant or otherwise undesirable sort, in the owner’s estimation (let me leave it at that). He had a large bartender named Tom, who also doubled as the bouncer, and a large German Shepherd named Duke, who slept behind the bar, helping the patrons feel safe, I guess. In 1983 the Harp & Shamrock was a throwback bar, in every sense of the word, yet I loved that place. It was there that I first kissed the girl who would become my wife, despite the fact that at the time, she was already engaged to marry another—that’s a long, sordid story for another time.

My second favorite exists only as a memory now, Wimpy’s Hunt Club, way over on the east side of the city, a stone’s throw from Milwaukee’s old Oriental Theater. Now this place had class. Owned by one Wilbert “Wimpy” Kotas (I knew him only as Wimpy), a silver-haired gentleman who usually wore a crisp, white dress shirt behind the bar. Up on the wall behind him hung a beautiful painting (maybe it was a print, I no longer recall) of a classic fox hunt scene. Opposite the bar was a row of old-fashioned horseshoe booths. The jukebox was loaded with Frank Sinatra, Perry Como and such. No beer on tap, only bottled. This was a clean, quiet, classy place. I only took certain friends there and was very sad the night I returned, just a few years later, and found it gone.

Some additional years after that, while having dinner in Chicago, I learned from a business acquaintance who had lived above that very bar when he was first married (small world indeed) that Wimpy had been murdered one morning after closing up the bar. While walking home, he encountered two men fighting. I’m sure Wimpy’s barkeeper instincts kicked in, he moved in to stop the fight, and was stabbed to death. This apparently happened in 1984, just one year after I had graduated and left Milwaukee. As happy as I had been to meet somebody who had known Wimpy’s Hunt Club, I was stunned by this news.

the-mirror

Now fast forward to 2016. Bars like I just described are somewhat hard to come by in the sprawl of exurbia, where I live. Sports bars are a dime a dozen out here—they open and disappear with predictable regularity out my way, because let’s face it, how many large, noisy sports bars can any community support. But I found a place this year. I found a place that rivals the kind of establishments I just described to you.

I don’t know if Lemont, Illinois is big enough to have neighborhoods, but I’ll tell you this: Lemont has a hell of a bar. Let me tell you about Nick’s Tavern. I’ve only been there twice, so far, but I can already tell you one thing: I like this place. It has everything I look for in a drinking establishment.

signs

Here you will not find dozens of tappers, nor a ten-page menu, nor giant TV screens glaring at you from every direction. And that’s okay by me. If I want any of that, I’ll go to a mega sports bar, the kind I can find in just about every city and village within the greater Chicagoland metropolitan area. They’re all alike and on most days, as far as I’m concerned, you can have them. Just give me a place like Nick’s.

register

Give me a place with a bit of history, and maybe some good stories to go along with that history. A place where I am made to feel welcome the minute I step through that door. Nick’s Tavern is that kind of place. The wood paneling and somewhat weathered-looking wooden bar give the place a warm atmosphere. Certain touches, like the old cash register on display in one corner and the stamped metal tile ceiling, tell you that this place has been around for a while. The bartenders greet people as they arrive and seem genuinely glad to see everyone, even me. The regulars are greeted by name.

cathy-at-baratmospherethe-bar

People are eating, drinking, talking, laughing… and it just makes me smile to see and hear all this. The first time I went there, I brought my wife and we both liked it. The second time, I brought a friend who had grown up with me in Blue Island, and who had also drank quite heavily with me back in the day. The following day he texted me, “If Nick’s was in between our houses, I would make that our our usual meeting place. I like that place.”

To which I could only reply, “Me, too!” I invited my friend Ed to come out and see Nick’s because I had already known he was going to like it there. When you drink together for as long as Ed and I have been drinking together, you get to know each others preferences.

burger

I’d be remiss if I didn’t talk a little bit about the food. They make a very good burger at Nick’s, but come hungry. The full-on Nickburger is a one-pounder and the smaller Little Nickburger, which I get, is still half a pound of ground beef. Believe me, it’s fresh and tasty. They also do Italian beef, chicken sandwiches and more, but so far I haven’t gotten past the burger. No fries here, only chips.

I should also mention that Nick’s is a a cash-only proposition. What can I tell you, it’s a classic small bar.

But you know what? That’s just the way I like it. You’ll find Nick’s Tavern right on Main Street in downtown Lemont. Check it out. And as always, thanks for hanging with me.

I Prefer to Laugh

Ladies

I want to share a bit of my personal philosophy with you today and hopefully make you smile once or twice in the process. I’ve always felt that God endowed us with a full spectrum of emotions and as such, we are entitled to experience every one of them. Without naming them all, let me just say that during the time I’ve spent on this earth so far, I have experienced things that made me weep bitterly and things that made me laugh my ass off. Me, I prefer to laugh. I look for the humor in things, often finding it, and am not above going out of my way to get a laugh. It’s who I am. It’s what I do.


Photo opportunities can sometimes provide a laugh or a smile, depending on what you do with them. Take the three Ducati models above. I was walking around at the International Motorcycle Show in Chicago one cold day in February, when I came across these three beauties standing around a new motorcycle on a raised platform. One of them made eye contact with me as I walked toward them. I pointed to myself and then up at the ladies with my eyebrows raised questioningly. The model who had seen me smiled and waved me up. I handed my camera (this was before smart phones) to my wife and hopped onto the platform. I greeted the ladies and circled around behind the bike as they struck their respective poses. It was a fun shot. Some people don’t even notice the motorcycle right away.


This one was taken at the Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library and Museum down in Springfield. I’m sure plenty of people stop for a photo with the Lincoln family, but for some reason it’s funnier when I do it. Maybe that’s because people expect antics like this from me. And maybe that’s why I keep delivering.


Some things just strike me as funny and since I don’t like to laugh alone, I tend to share them with others. An oddly written or oddly placed sign, for example, might have giggling on sight.


It should come as no surprise, then, that those closest to me have a similar affinity. Indeed, the person who married me over 30 years ago claims she did so because of my ability to make her laugh.


Good heavens, our children never had a chance to become serious, glum types. They are so different from each other, personality-wise, yet each has a humorous streak a mile wide. I appreciate that.

To see the humor in everyday circumstances is a good ting, I think. Take this cucumber shot, for example. Just me and a vegetable, right? I’m not doing anything unusual here. A few days after I posted it, I was with some friends and somehow this photo came up in conversation. One friend commented, “It almost seems suggestive.”

To which I replied, “But not outwardly so? That’s exactly as I had intended it.”

Suddenly another friends lit up and exclaimed, “I knew it! I knew it!” Such are my friends.


And such is me. I don’t want to be a dark, begrudging, or angry individual. I prefer to laugh. Thanks for hanging with me.