Chicago Cubs Wrigley Field: A Dream-Fulfilling Journey

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When I was 20 years old, I hopped on a motorcycle and rode from Seattle to Chicago to see the Pirates play the Cubs at Wrigley Field.

Growing up a diehard baseball fan in the 1980s, there were two ballparks I wanted to visit more than all the others—Fenway Park and Wrigley Field. Fenway had the Green Monster, which felt bigger than life even on the 20” TV set in our living room. I knew Fenway had been built in 1912, the same year the Titanic sunk. I knew Babe Ruth, primarily a pitcher back then, had played for three World Series-winning Red Sox teams when Fenway was in its infancy. I knew the Reds Sox had enjoyed five decades of greatness standing in left field in front of the Green Monster, from Ted Williams to Carl Yastrzemski to Jim Rice.

As much as I dreamed about seeing a game at Fenway Park, Wrigley Field was the Major League ballpark on the top of my list. I was a National League fan, back when that meant something. This was long before interleague play, which happened nearly every day in 2016. I had become a fan of the Pittsburgh Pirates because of the Willie Stargell “We Are Fam-A-Lee” team that won the 1979 World Series. I lived in Florida at the time and we didn’t have a team. The closest team to where I lived was the Atlanta Braves and as much as they pushed the “America’s Team” label at me and had so many of their games on TBS, they were not my favorite team. I watched them because I loved baseball, but I didn’t root for them.

My family moved to a suburb of Seattle in the early 1980s, so I finally lived near a city with a Major League team. Of course, that team was the woeful Seattle Mariners, who were quite awful for much of the 1980s. Despite living in the Pacific Northwest, I remained loyal to my Pirates. They were my favorite team when I fell in love with baseball and always will be, even if Jerry Seinfeld makes a good point about sports fans basically rooting for laundry.

I watched many games at the Kingdome during the 80s. It was a big, concrete, utilitarian, multi-purpose stadium, made to accommodate baseball and football. Because it was in a dome it wasn’t one of the cookie-cutter stadiums built in the 60s and 70s, but the rationale was the same. Unfortunately for baseball fans, the Kingdome was designed as a football stadium that could be converted into a baseball stadium. The seating area was set back from the playing field and portions of the outfield were not visible from some of the 300 level seats in the outfield. There were upper level seats that were more than 600 feet from home plate. On the outside, the concrete rounded dome would have been perfect for naming rights, if only McDonald’s would have thought to paint it to look like a Big Mac.

The Kingdome was not on anyone’s list of top baseball parks in the 80s, but it was the only place I could see a Major League game, so I grew to appreciate it. Still, it was no Fenway Park or Wrigley Field. There was no ivy on the walls, no rooftop seats beyond the outfield bleachers, and no Harry Caray at the microphone, although Dave Niehaus wasn’t bad.

As the 80s turned into the 90s, a series of events occurred that would eventually lead me to Wrigley Field. It all started with a girl. We had gone to high school together. She was a grade below me. We started dating after she graduated from high school and we had a passionate relationship for about a year-and-a-half. I was going to college at the time; she was working as a waitress. The good times were amazing, but there were occasional bumps along the way. In the winter of 1990, one of those bumps became a roadblock and we broke up.

I was devastated. I listened to every 1980s breakup song I could find. I read sad poetry and wrote really sad poetry which, unfortunately and to my lifelong embarrassment, I mailed to her. I was a wreck and I wallowed in my self-misery for months. In June, I bought a motorcycle because I liked the idea of being a callous, brooding motorcycle rider, not caring about her anymore. That didn’t work either. The solution came to me in August. To get over this relationship, I would ride my motorcycle to Chicago to see a game at Wrigley Field. I could get away from it all and fulfill a lifelong dream at the same time.

In early September of 1991, I took off from a Seattle suburb heading to Chicago on a motorcycle. Well, technically it was a motorcycle, but it was more of a motorcycle-for-dummies. It was a Hondamatic 400. There was no clutch. It had two speeds, low and high. After buying it from a buddy in June for $300, I had only ridden it a few times and my longest trip on it had been about 5 miles. I also didn’t have a license to ride a motorcycle. I was at the age where I was old enough to know better but young enough to do it anyway, so off I went.

About 20 miles out of Seattle, I had a little mishap when the visor on my motorcycle helmet detached and flew off, never to be seen again. Over the next few days, I rode through Washington, Idaho, Montana… Montana… Montana, Wyoming, and South Dakota. I didn’t know much about motorcycles, so I had a few issues along the way. At one stop, I switched the on/off switch to off. When I got back to the Hondamatic 400, I had forgotten I switched it off and couldn’t figure out why it wasn’t starting. It took me about 10 minutes to remember the on/off switch.

That on/off switch caused me problems more than once. While driving down the freeway at 60 mph one afternoon, I went to check my watch to see what time it was and accidentally and unknowingly flipped the switch to off. The engine died and I started to coast and eventually pulled over. Standing on the shoulder of I-90, I looked at the Hondamatic 400 trying to figure out what had happened. Then I remembered that on/off switch, which had become the bane of my existence.

Another time, I stopped for lunch and flipped the switch to the gas tank before I went in to get some food. Again, forgetting I had done that, I got back on the Hondamatic 400 and started to ride, but I could only go a short distance before it stopped running because it wasn’t getting any gas. Yes, I was pretty much clueless, but even with all the mistakes I was making I was getting ever closer to the lush, green grass of Wrigley Field.

Surprisingly, riding the Hondamatic 400 gave me entry into a secret club I never knew existed. Early on, when I saw a motorcycle coming the opposite direction on the other side of the freeway, I noticed the rider would put out his hand with a wave in acknowledgement. I didn’t understand it at first, but after this happened repeatedly I figured out they were accepting me as one of them, a motorcycle rider on the open road. It didn’t matter that I was on a Hondamatic 400 that I bought from a buddy for $300 and he was on a majestic Honda Goldwing 1500 that cost thousands, we had something in common. That was a very good feeling.

The Hondamatic 400 didn’t have much gumption, so I generally topped out around 65 mph. One exception happened in Wyoming. I had pushed the Hondamatic 400 to its limit on a long, fairly steep climb, but then got to enjoy the wonders of gravity as I came back down the hill with a wind blowing at my back. I got that sucker up close to 80 mph. I had grown up hearing that Wyoming did not have a speed limit, but a police siren and flashing lights behind me determined that was a lie. The cop who pulled me over was a pleasant man. He took my license and went back to his vehicle. When he returned, he said, “This license doesn’t have an endorsement to operate a motorcycle.” I acted surprised, as if I had never heard of such a thing as a motorcycle endorsement.

Seeing that I had a Washington license, he asked where I was headed. I told him I was riding to Chicago to see my favorite team, the Pittsburgh Pirates, play the Cubs at Wrigley Field. He smiled and said, “Well, ain’t that something. You must be quite a baseball fan. Listen, you need to slow down coming over a hill. If you run into a cow out here, it won’t be pretty. A cow will blow that thing to smithereens.” And he pointed a thumb at the Hondamatic 400. “Be safe,” he cautioned. I thanked him and was once again on my way.

There were a few times when I wanted to turn back. I was a long way from home, didn’t know anybody, and felt alone in the world. As much as I dreamed about seeing a game at Wrigley Field, I didn’t know if I could make it. The first few nights, I pulled off I-90 and found a spot off the main road and slept in a sleeping bag on the side of a random dirt road in the middle of nowhere. This ended after I was roused from slumber early one morning by a pickup truck flying past me, missing my head by a couple feet. In fact, that experience caused me to change my mind about the whole trip. It really shook me up, so I decided I would find the nearest town and get a good breakfast, then head back to Seattle.

Even 25 years later, I remember what I had for breakfast that morning (French toast, scrambled eggs, hash browns, and bacon), but I don’t remember the name of the town. I also remember that it was the first time in my life that I ate at a restaurant by myself, which was an odd feeling. Throughout breakfast, I was still wrestling with the idea of heading back to Seattle or continuing to Chicago. After my last bite of bacon, I had decided to head back.

I paid my bill and headed out to the Hondamatic 400, my trusted sidekick. There was a middle-aged couple just walking past as I grabbed my helmet. The man noticed the Seattle license plate. He was a friendly guy and asked what I was doing so far from home. Not wanting to admit I was heading back home without reaching my goal, I lied and told him I was heading to Chicago to see my favorite team, the Pittsburgh Pirates, play the Chicago Cubs at Wrigley Field. He looked at me and said, “Wow. That’s great. Man, I envy you. I wish I had done something like that when I was your age.”

Well, after hearing that I couldn’t possibly head back to Seattle. I would have died from shame for having let that man down. I pointed the Hondamatic 400 east and continued on my way.

In South Dakota, I stopped at Wall Drug, as required by law. I had seen the signs for hundreds of miles and was really looking forward to the free ice water and I figured I would try my first bison burger.

The water was very refreshing, but my favorite thing from Wall Drug was a set of steer antlers that I affixed to the front of my Hondamatic 400. It was pretty badass and looked great with my mullet, the official hairstyle of the early 90s.

With South Dakota in my rearview mirror, I headed into Minnesota, but a detour bumped me off of I-90 and sent me through foul-smelling Iowa, the smelliest state I have ever been in. Iowa had more cornfields than I ever knew existed. All I could see for hundreds of miles was corn. Smelly, smelly corn. The stench was overwhelming and it was difficult to breathe. It was like riding through a sewer.

At this point, I started to worry about the schedule. The Pirates were only playing a two-game series against the Cubs and I was worried that I wouldn’t get there in time. I somehow convinced myself that I needed to drive all through the night or I would miss the Pirates series’ and have to watch the Cubs play the Mets. That wasn’t the dream.

So there I was at five o’clock in the morning, driving through Iowa, getting more and more tired as the minutes went by. It started to rain. I stopped at a mini-mart and bought some Jolt Cola, which had the slogan, “All the sugar and twice the caffeine.” It was the Red Bull of its time.

I also bought some Vivarin pills to go with the Jolt Cola. This may have been the single dumbest moment of my adult life. Not everyone can pinpoint that exact moment when they did the dumbest thing they would ever do, but this was my moment.

Ten minutes later, I’m riding my Hondamatic 400 through a smelly Iowa rainstorm. I’m singing “Born to Be Wild”, “U Can’t Touch This”, and “Feelings”, as my mood quickly shifted with each drop of rain that was pelting my unprotected face because my visor had flown off five states ago. I never felt so alive, so very, very alive. I was yelling at Iowa cows, asking them why their state was so stinky. The rain seemed to come down harder by the minute. I thought of my ex and alternated between confessing my undying love to her and cursing her very existence. Eventually, the detour I was on re-connected me with I-90 in Wisconsin and foul-smelling Iowa was forever behind me. Good riddance.

I didn’t spend much time in Wisconsin, but it seemed like a nice enough place. If I had more time, I would have eaten some cheese. I didn’t have time, though, so I kept on riding. Soon enough, I was crossing into Illinois.

I arrived in Chicago in the late afternoon on Sunday. The Pirates were scheduled to play the Cubs on Monday and Tuesday. I had reached my destination. Wrigley Field was a day away.

Except… I had vastly underestimated the size of Chicago. Not only the size, but the pace of the city. The biggest city I had ever been in was Seattle, which is like Chicago’s infant nephew in comparison. And I had done almost no city riding on a motorcycle. I quickly learned that people in Chicago did not care that I was a novice on a motorcycle. They pushed their cars right into my lane like I wasn’t there. Freeway riding had been easy. I pretty much just went straight and stayed in my lane. Driving in Chicago traffic was life-threatening, every second of it.

I somehow ended up on Lake Shore Drive and had to merge into traffic that seemed to be going way faster than it should have been. Then the Hondamatic 400 died on me, right in the middle of it all. I gave her gas and she made a louder sound, but did not move forward. She had had enough, I guess. I couldn’t blame her. I hopped off and pushed her up onto the sidewalk while trying to avoid being run over by angry and aggressive Chicagoans.

At this point, I hadn’t slept for two days and smelled nearly as bad as Iowa. The Jolt Cola/Vivarin combination had worn off and only a slightly buzzing sensation remained. The sun was setting, and I had no idea why the Hondamatic 400 just died. I checked the on/off switch and it was set to on. I checked the gas switch and it was fine. I had no clue. Overwhelmed, I sat there on the sidewalk next to the Hondamatic 400, wondering why she had betrayed me when I needed her most.

I sat there for about five minutes, wondering what to do next. I had come so far and was on the cusp of realizing my dream, but if the Hondamatic 400 was truly dead, I didn’t know how I could continue without her. Then a man appeared. He had been jogging. He came up and asked what was wrong. I told him the bike died. He looked at it for about 10 seconds and said, “Oh, the chain came off.”

‘Chain?’ I thought. ‘There’s a chain? Ohhhh, yeahhhh, there would have to be a chain on a motorcycle to make the wheels move.’

After putting the chain back on, the man and I talked for a few minutes. I told him where I had come from and where I was going. I told him about the Pirates and my dream to see a game at Wrigley Field. Like the others I had spoken to over the previous week, he thought it was awesome that I had made this trip. He pointed me in the direction where I could find a hotel and wished me luck.

I found a cheap hotel that is still, to this day, the most disgusting hotel I’ve ever stayed in. It looked like a hotel that made you wonder not IF anyone had ever died in that room, but how many people had died in that room over the last few years. I went to sleep hoping I wouldn’t be added to the list.

I got up in the morning to head to the ballpark. Lights had been installed at Wrigley Field just three years before, but the first game of the two-game series was a day game, so I headed out early. This was long before smartphones or GPS navigation devices. I looked at a map before leaving so I could remember the exit I needed to take. I was about to watch my Pirates play the Cubs at Wrigley Field. It was a dream about to come true.

And then it wasn’t. The memory is hazy now, but I know I was in the far left lane on the Hondamatic 400 and I saw the exit on the far right side of what seemed like a 50-lane highway. I tried to merge, but the traffic would have none of it. I couldn’t get over even one lane, let alone multiple lanes. I passed the exit and kept on driving. I tried to get over so I could take an exit and make my way back to Wrigley, but by the time I had moved over a couple lanes, it seemed hopeless.

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Chicago had proven to be too much for me and I was in shock. I just kept on riding as I passed more and more exits. I was eventually out of Chicago and heading south into Indiana on I-65. I have two older brothers who live in Indianapolis. I hadn’t thought about visiting them when I started on the trip, but after my missed exit in Chicago, I decided to head to Indy. Heck, I was in the neighborhood.

They were pretty shocked to see me, all the way from Seattle. I told them what had happened in Chicago. My oldest brother said he would drive us up to Chicago for the game the next night.

With my brother handling the driving duties, I could relax. The game on the 10^th was a night game. We found a place to park and I got to spend some time outside Wrigley Field, just soaking it all in. We sat on the third base side with a crowd of nearly 30,000. I bought a hot dog from a vendor. When I asked him for ketchup, he burned a hole right through me with his eyes. Apparently, you don’t order ketchup on a hot dog in Chicago. I was too young to drink alcohol, so I couldn’t order an Old Style beer.

The game I missed the day before had been a 12-10 Pirates victory, with Jay Bell going 4-for-4 and Bobby Bonilla driving in three runs. Andy Van Slyke, Lloyd McClendon, Don Slaught, and Jose Lind all had two hits in the game. Unbeknownst to me at the time, this Pittsburgh Pirates team would break my heart in Game Seven of the 1992 NLCS the following year.

The game I actually attended was a 6-2 Cubs win, with Rick Sutcliffe getting the victory and Ryne Sandberg going 4-for-4. Despite my Pirates losing the game, I loved every second of it. It was the first outdoor Major League game I ever attended and I loved the feel of the fresh air and the sight of the ivy on the outfield walls. The Pirates were 13 games ahead of the Cubs in the standings, but Cubs fans didn’t seem to care. Harry Caray was still announcing at the time and he led us in “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” which was something every baseball fan of my generation wanted to experience. It was incredible just being there, soaking it all in. When the game was over, I didn’t want to leave.

Next: Stephen Colbert, Wrigley's Newest Hot Dog Vendor

It’s been 25 years now since I made that journey from Seattle to Chicago. It wasn’t easy. There were incredibly ridiculous moments along the way, mostly because of my embarrassing inexperience. It’s been years since I talked to the girl who inspired that trip and I parted ways with the Hondamatic 400 long ago. I won’t say which I miss more, but I will say that riding from Seattle to Chicago to watch my Pirates play the Cubs at Wrigley Field is still one of the greatest experiences of my life.

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