By James Kissinger
I’ve been tasked to write once a week. I shouldn’t even say tasked … I asked to do it. Doesn’t sound like much, does it? Really, it’s not. Oh, oh, oh, oh … Wednesday deadline. Deadline. I hate that word. Sounds like somebody’s gonna die if it doesn’t happen. Usually Greg and Tim start peppering me with emails on Wednesday morning: we’re waiting. Kissinger, where are you? Kissinger!!!???? I’m right here. Procrastinating. Yep, I’m a procrastinator. I’ve got a lot of ugly warts and that one’s at the top. Undoubtedly the thing I like least about myself and the thing I seem least able to change. So it’s 10:00, everybody’s in bed, and I’m writing.
I had good intentions. This morning I started writing about traditions, but I kinda petered out (southern term). Not that I don’t have some pretty good thoughts on the subject, however it’s a new year and I’m trying to deal with getting customers interested in buying, helping kids with homework, being the perfect husband (insert emoticon of choice here), etc, etc, etc. Actually, I will finish up my thoughts on traditions, because that’s something that sparks a fire in me: I love traditions. But right now I’m too tired to give it my all, so I’m delivering recycled Kissinger.
This story is about a motorcycle trip my dad and I took this summer. Something we’d talked about doing for a long time and finally made the time to do. I remember the moment last spring, driving to work, that I decided I was going make the trip happen. No excuses. Just plan it and do it. And that’s what I did. I guess I quit procrastinating, if only for a moment. It was a good time. A great time. Something I’ll never forget and will always be glad I made the effort to do. This is my recap of the trip, written the week I got back:
Seven days. The old man and me. Riding motorcycles. Roll out on a Thursday and back on Wednesday. No itinerary other than to be at the Sweet Corn Festival in Olathe, Colorado on Saturday night. Seven days, just me and my dad. By the time it’s done, we’ve logged 2530 miles. Background. When I talk to dad on the phone, we talk about the same things. The things he likes to talk about. Razorback football or basketball, depending on the season. And motorcycles. Razorback sports I can take or leave, but I love motorcycles. Dad bought a Honda 305 Superhawk in 1970. I was 7 years old. I begged to ride on back. He obliged. Within a year or two I have a Suzuki Trailhopper 50 and I’ve been riding ever since.
So I suggest this trip. It’s a motorcycle thing, but mostly it’s about connecting. The bikes are secondary. A means to an end. For me it’s always been about the journey and not the destination. This trip is part of my journey. He calls it a bucket list thing. In most ways dad and I are different. Very different. I like to think that I inherited his best trait … he has a big, big heart. He’s a kind and gentle man. But past a few physical characteristics, there aren’t a whole lot of similarities between father and son. At least that’s what I believe. So off we ride, two grown men, father and son.
Coming and going we have big, fat cheeseburgers at Woody’s Tavern in Pratt, Kansas. I don’t think there’s a woman in the place under 200 lbs. It appeared they’d actually gotten fatter in the week between visits. Further west, feedlots and beef processing plants dominate SW Kansas. I found the old west history in Dodge City particularly interesting. Probably because I’m a cowboy at heart. A loner. Always have been and probably always will be.
We stay in old motels. The kind built in the 60’s. The rooms are dated, but clean. To my surprise, they still rent smoking rooms in motels. You probably don’t even need a cigarette to get your nicotine fix in most of those rooms … smoke permeates the furniture, walls, etc. Three days into the trip I figure out to have dad watch the bikes while I get the room …. from that point on the smoking rooms are mysteriously booked by the time we arrive. Sportscenter seems to be a staple in pop’s life. Fortunately I have books to read. The conversation is predictable. We talk about the days ride. The things we’ve seen. This is my dad’s first trip to Colorado since we went there on vacation in the mid 70’s. The mountains are new to him. I’ve spent a lot of time in Colorado, but I’m still awed by the mountains every time I see them. They’re some of God’s most inspiring work. The terrain in the SW part of the state is markedly different than what I’m used to seeing in the central portions. To me it’s prettier. And so we talk of the sights.
More than once we talk about mom and her quirks. Kind-spirited kidding. She’s easy fodder. On the 70’s vacation, dad forgot to pay for a bag of ice and realized it 25 or 30 miles down the road. My mom made him turn around and go back to pay for it. Apparently to let it slide would’ve fallen into the general category of sinning … I think he’s still pissed off. On the same vacation I had to go number 2 in the middle of the desert - couldn’t wait any longer. I use the term “number 2″ because my mom may read this. We pull over and I go on the side of the road. She makes me go in a coffee can. Sanka decaf. Hundreds of miles of desolate land and she thinks we don’t need to leave a solitary turd behind. Go figure. Dad doesn’t remember the story and he laughs ’til he has tears in his eyes.
Dad is a follower and I’m a leader, so that equation works out well. I ride in front the entire 2500 miles. He’s even okay with my “flexible itinerary” … my newly coined catch phrase for not having a plan. We stop a lot. Sometimes to rest. Sometimes to view the scenery. Dad packed a cooler on back of his bike. He has it filled with bottled water. I make room for some beer. I pop a top before noon more than once. I’m on vacation and play it off on the change in time zones. Responsibly of course, bikes and booze don’t mix. Dad has a smoke each time we stop. Between us, we’ve got two of life’s major vices covered. Teamwork. The stops are good. Usually 10-15 minutes or so and back on the bike. I pull over for goofy stuff. Coffee mug collections. World’s largest hand dug well. Wind farms. On a bike I actually enjoy the prairies of western Kansas. Dad doesn’t.
One thing I found out about the old man is that he likes to talk to people everywhere we stop. That we have in common. We meet a lot of interesting folks. In Durango it’s Albert. He’s 73 years old and has ridden his bike over from Pueblo, where he lives. 274 miles. I know that because he has logged it in his journal, which he proudly shows me. He’s got 38,000 miles on a 4 year old bike. He’s ridden since he was 15. Has probably owned 30 motorcycles. Did a 13,000 mile trip of the continental US in 70 days on a Honda 650. He’s the real deal. Went through a divorce and had a nervous breakdown 2 years after he retired in 1988. That’s one of many things he felt compelled to share. Nice guy, but just a bit too talkative.
In Alamosa we meet a family headed to the Great Sand Dunes. They have two little girls that remind me of Audrey and Sal five years ago. There’s an engineer in Montrose, hippie chicks in Gunnison, a waitress in Durango, a couple from Lincoln. Lots of other folks in between. The Sweet Corn Festival is classic Americana. The teenagers had snuck Coors in. They dance to Travis singing T-R-O-U-B-L-E. Next day I’m sitting at a patio bar in Telluride having a beer. The weather is beautiful and I’m sunning. I see the Griswold’s walk by on their family vacation. Dad, mom and the two teenage kids. The kids are keeping a safe distance from mom and dad — too “uncool.” The dad is looking at me and I can tell he’s jealous. He wants to be in my shoes for an hour. Sorry buddy, I was in your shoes last month in Destin. Different scenery but same gig. I see Rufus and Ardie Herndon ride by on his Harley in Durango … I yell at him but he doesn’t hear me. Small world. While I’m waiting out a rainstorm in Silverton I try to convince the bartender at Handlebar’s Saloon that they need to put felt mustaches on all of the mounted animals. I tell her I’ll be back next year and expect to see them. Not really counting on it happening though. But it is a good idea.
As with all of my life, music is the backdrop of the trip. My iPod plugs into the bike’s stereo. As always, I play it on random shuffle. Something refreshing about hearing Third Day and Chris Cornell back to back. Lucinda singing “West” as I come over Red Mountain Pass gives me goosebumps. Occasionally I turn it off so that I can think without distraction, but not for long. I love my music.
Dad is 69 years old and the long days tired him. Truth be known, they tired me. I hope I’m the man he is 25 years down the road. It was a good trip. A very good trip. I imagine it’ll be repeated in some fashion down the road.
