Man on a mission
Planning a road trip northbound with a motorcycle in March from Omaha, Nebraska, was not the perfect plan, but I was on a mission. I was about to turn 17, I was going to join the U.S. Marine Corps, I needed my mother’s written consent, and she lived in St. Paul, Minnesota. I had a ’67 Bridgestone 175 Dual Twin that I named Smokey, and I had enough money, barring any bad luck on the trail.
I headed out in the morning, and it was cool but with clear skies. The first leg of the trip would be to Marshall, Minnesota, to stop and say goodbye to my grandparents, which was 270 miles. The gray skies, wind and light flurries came up suddenly. I stopped for gas and to thaw out about every 50 miles, so I wasn’t devouring highway miles as fast as I had calculated.
Day turned to night, and I had only covered 180 miles, to Sioux Falls, South Dakota. I stopped at an older motel. When I put the kickstand down and slid off the saddle, I was so stiff from the cold I almost fell down. The old fellow that checked me in said it would be OK to bring Smokey into the room.
With all the thaw-outs I needed, it took most of the next day to cover the remaining 90 miles to Marshall. I stayed with the grandparents for some weeks to let March leave like a lamb and the April showers play out. Smokey slept in the garage. It had been the only time it was just the old folks and me, and we got to know each other better.
The day I took off to St. Paul was a beautiful day, and I covered the 170 miles before noon. Being young, riding in the open air, in springtime, feeling the warm and cool spots, smelling the countryside and remembering how it felt is the essence of a good life. The only thing that could add to it would be one’s personal soundtrack. For me it was Harry Nilsson’s “Everybody’s Talkin’.”
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