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.