Riding Flashbacks, volume 1

Countdown - 178 days

I thought it might be interesting to share with you one of my more favorite riding flashbacks. Just a few 'out-loud' memories of a ride that sticks with me.

Not sure of the exact date, but Jannette and I took a trip from Fort Wayne to Mackinaw City, Michigan. I don't remember the exact number of days, but if I recall correctly, we were only in Mackinaw City for a day or two.

In any case, let me set the stage. An old friend was getting married on Saturday night in Sturgis, Michigan, which is about 90 minutes from our house. So we figured we'd just go to the wedding, make an early night of it, get some shut eye and head out from the hotel in Coldwater, Michigan *really* early Sunday morning. We didn't exactly dress up for the wedding since were only had the motorcycles on which to pack our stuff. But we were able to enjoy ourselves and wish the happy couple well. As planned, we snuck out a bit early and hit the sack before 11pm.

We got up around 5 am, loaded the gear up on the bikes and headed for the 'top of the mitten'. It was probably a June or July and the weather was beautiful. We got about 15 miles down the road and began to see plenty of Bambi activity along the side of I-69. In fact, at one point I did a double take as I saw at least a half dozen deer in the median. I realized how happy I was that I wasn't around when they were trying to get from the side of the road to the middle. Or when they decided to move again. But they seemed content to just stare and munch on grass.

I don't think Jannette saw the first or second group of deer as we headed out, but she was thoroughly enjoying the ride on her Yamaha 650. At our first fuel stop, I remember her saying something about how she felt really good and was hyped about the rest of the trip - even though we'd gone about 100 miles from Coldwater and we still had another 200 or so to go.

It was really a special time to be sharing the beautiful Michigan countryside with each other, during relatively light traffic on a really nice day. But we also knew we had to hustle. We were supposed to meet up with a whole bunch of our regular riding pals in Mackinaw City by noon. Keep in mind that without stopping and going the legal limit, it would take us about 5 hours to get there. We were pushing things by trying to leave as 'late' as 6am, and we would pay for that.

Those never-ending green pines get boring over time and by 9:30am or so we were ready to already be done. But you can't just snap your fingers and be there. However, if you are riding an 1100 cc V-twin with lots of power, you can er, gently bend the speed limit rule. Even though I believe the limit was 70mph, I was trying to maintain a speed just slightly higher in the upper 80's.

For some strange reason, Jannette kept falling back worse and worse the longer we rode. I would ease up and wait for her to get caught up. Finally, at a rest stop, I asked what the problem was. She didn't seem upset at the distance between us, but she was wondering why I was in such a hurry (hello? we gotta be at a hotel we've never been to by noon, sharp).

I asked her in my gentlest, kindest, most sincere and sensitive voice, "Can you pick it up a bit or do I have to stick my boot in your ass?" Which, as you can imagine, was met with just the same emotional sincerity, and the response of, "Listen here &^!*, that bike sounds like it's full of angry, high-pitched bees, so gimme me a break, assh**e." Or as I remember it more accurately, "My dear and handsome lover, I do believe that you are correct, and I will do my best to adjust my behaviour and speed up." I guess I had forgotten that you can't really push a Yamaha 650 Classic up to 88mph and maintain it for a couple hours solid. I think her hearing was shot for awhile because of the high-pitched whine.

So I slowed things up, asked her to lead the way so I could just match her comfort speed. We got through the various tourist trap exits and got to Mackinaw City around 12:30, only a half hour behind schedule, but a bit worn down.

We quickly learned that, while we were all set up for early check-in and our room was delightful, the rest of our group had already left a few hours earlier (glad they waited for us!) and we decided to meet up with them as they returned from Sault Saint Marie, on their way to Whitefish Bay. Or something like that. So, now we had another deadline, which was to get to a certain point in the upper peninsula - where neither of us had been before - and the Mackinac Bridge to cross. This was no small undertaking.

We had learned that the bridge, known affectionately by many as "Big Mac", had one lane in each direction that was really metal grating, and NOT pavement. Perhaps you don't know, but driving on that metal grating on a motorcycle is insane. You slide all over the place and it's like trying to drive on ice. No worries though, after all, the OTHER lane is paved and 'normal' right? Right. Sort of.

Once we had already gotten on to the bridge and were about to be over the water, we saw the unmistakable flashing lights and signs of a construction zone. Yep, they were painting the bridge, so they were reducing the traffic down to one lane. Guess which one would remain open? Yep, the metal grated one. More big fun for Jannette.

But she did a great job, never looked down through the grating to the water once, and before we knew it, we were on the other side. And paying the exorbitant fee for crossing the bridge. Motorcycles - those are much lighter two-wheeled vehicles carrying no more than two passengers- pay the same rate as bloated, gas-guzzling, multi-passengered automobiles. Talk about stupid. And while were talking stupid, who in the hell puts the toll booth AFTER you cross the bridge? What dumbass came up with that? What do you do about folks who cross and 'forget' to bring their toll money? Make them go back across and get it? Make them swim back? Ship them off to Canada as a punishment? (it's really not that far away, eh?)

Anyway, we eventually met up with our riding buddies, had a terrific, long day of riding and sightseeing and eventually ended up at an old abandoned WWII airport, with three runways/airstrips arranged in a triangle. It was now being used (unofficially and illegally) as a drag strip, mainly for souped up cars. But we figured motorcycles could play that game too.

So we all got a chance to pretend we were Don Garlits or Shirley Muldowney (look them up). I never came close to beating anyone but I am consistently in a higher weight class than most of those skinny boys. Much fun. Even Jannette and our friend Lorraine had a duel on the drag strip, but amazingly it was a slow speed duel, and I don't think either pushed it much past 35 mph. It was worth a big laugh though!

It was getting dark, and we were still quite a way from our hotel room. We headed back south to the bridge to return to the hotel, and the winds had picked up considerably. That meant big delays at the bridge itself as the big trucks and the itty bitty motorcycles had to be escorted across the bridge by an escort vehicle. Required. No options. Of course, it's not like you get a choice: you've already paid that exorbitant bridge toll again, and unless your bike is fast enough to skip across the water, you'll be doing what they ask/demand. Of course, we had to wait for their schedule -not ours- and we quickly realized that this was cutting into our drinking time for the evening. And everybody was in the mood for a tall cool one after a terrific day of riding.

So, after meeting and getting to know some other folks who were in line waiting (we can't seem to help ourselves from just randomly finding people to talk to), and plenty of time for the smokers to get their fix, we got started up the bridge. Within seconds, Nigel developed some sort of engine issue and pulled off to the side. He motioned for us to keep going and he'd get things started as soon as possible. We don't listen well. So we all pulled off to the curb side one by one and began the game of telephone (that's yelling over the road noise, traffic, wind noise and such, trying to find out what was happening and what we should do).

Suddenly, Nigel roars past us yelling "I think I'm out of gas!" and heading to the top of the bridge. Apparently he had gotten enough fuel shook around to get the engine fired up again and was racing to the top so he could coast down the other side, if necessary.

It was necessary.

We surrounded and convoyed Nigel to the bottom of the bridge to protect his coasting, non-running bike as we saw the service station sign just up the road about 500 feet. We got him pushed up to the pump and figured all was well.

At least we didn't have to stop at a toll booth AFTER coasting down the bridge.

Long story was that Nigel wasn't really completely out of fuel, but had a fuel pump that was starting to fail, although the short trip from gas station to hotel was less than a half mile so he didn't have any further issue that night. The next day was a whole nuther story, but that's Nigel's story to tell, not mine.

By the time we returned to the hotel in Mackinaw City, we were worn out and beat up. Which is how every good riding day should end.