It was creeping up to 1 a.m. the night before, and we still had more packing to do. So, we procrastinated and went to sleep, waking up that first morning to the sound of pounding rain with thunder. We packed clothes, camping gear, and a Frisbee into separate sets of a tank bag, two saddle bags, and a large duffel bag, plus little things jammed here and there in the few extra nooks and crannies that a motorcycle offered. We made everything semi-water-resistant with plastic bags, covers, and wrapped-around tarps. Personal water resistance was provided by bright yellow rubber ducky suits.
As we pulled around the front of the house with family cameras on us and people waving goodbye, Dad’s BMW stalled and would not restart. It could be kick started, but the electric starter was just taking up extra weight.
Dad had a sick feeling and cursed his luck. After all of his hard work in preparing for this trip, his initial moment was snatched. Back to the garage.
We went over the electrical spaghetti and found that the starter relay switch was all screwed up. We tried to cannibalize from a friend’s Beemer, but the bikes had different visions of what a starter system should have been. Dad eventually disassembled the relay thingy and fixed it with a squeeze of his pliers. The long delay kept us at home for a couple more hours, but it offered up a rain-free and only partly-cloudy afternoon. Off came the rubber ducky suits. No complaints again.
We zoomed off with a wave and rev of the engines, aiming at Pennsylvania on highway 83 and crossing west on the Pennsylvania Turnpike to eventually end up a little way down the Ohio Turnpike at the Ohio Motel in North Lima.
The interstate riding was a surprisingly good time. The traffic was sparse and easy to maneuver through. The setting was the best part, though. Rural areas looked like real life saturated Fuji color film, and my pinkish/brownish/greenish sunglasses (custom colored by me) gave the view a Norman Rockwell look on hallucinogens. Greens stuck out brightly, shadows deepened to black. Passing in and out of shadow acted as a strobe light, and the interesting mountain clouds stood well defined against the deepened blue behind them. Curves of sloping hills lined with meandering forests – cut through by our highway – was quite the visual game.
The strangest thing of the day, though, was attempting to get accustomed to wearing our between-helmet radio walkie talkies. Dad and I spent more time testing the system and asking each other “can you hear me now?” than actually conversing about what we were seeing. I sometimes felt obliged to say something just to be polite, and the silent non-talking time – natural to a motorcycle – was now weird. The contraption violated my personal thoughts and privacy usually provided by wind buffeted solo anonymity. I eventually became somewhat accustomed and let it recede from my thoughts, but it was still lurking.
That first night, Dad snored away in his bed as I wrote. Mom said he tended to snore more when tired, and long days on a motorcycle immediately popped to mind as something that might be filed in the “tiring” manila folder. He got about an hour’s head start on my sleep, and I hadn’t even showered yet, so I could see that book writing was going to take a toll on my sleep hours…