The Duality of (Moto) Man
- virr1969
- Jun 20
- 12 min read
Oh I’ve got a beautiful feeling, everything’s going my way!
—Gordon MacRae, recorded from the movie, Oklahoma!
So, there are a few different methods of going on extended motorcycle rides.
Up until recently I've stuck to the leisurely, go slow, meander and explore, and never miss a roadside historical sign or a chance to smell the roses—way of seeing the U.S.A. I spent several days in Mississippi where most road travelers would spend a day or three at most, for instance, and I have routinely turned 100-mile point to point days into 250-mile countryside jaunts. That really was my plan for the entirety of my month-plus motorcycle ride—in search of Twain, barbecue, and the blues.
During these last few days, I threw that plan completely out the window.
—
My alt-approach to long distance, slow-mo motorcycling started when I left Charleston. My next stop was Asheville North Carolina, and frankly, I was anxious to see my sister. I was going to spend a few days or more exploring South Carolina after visiting Savannah Georgia and Charleston South Carolina, and I did spend a wonderful couple of days on the back roads between Savannah and Charleston, but after that, things changed.
In the interim, I guess I didn’t know that the concept of the “Southern Plantation” still existed to the degree that it does, and so I was amazed at how many old school “Tara”-level plantations that I found. As with the rest of my ride, I got off the main highway frequently and randomly, picking interesting looking little side roads, and on virtually every one of them I found rows of still functioning, picturesque plantations. As with the endless and still burgeoning cotton fields of Mississippi, these iconic symbols of our country’s past, both good and horribly bad, were food for intense thought as I motorcycled along.
I liked Savannah, although I found it to be a bit too touristy. On the other hand, I absolutely loved Charleston and can’t wait to go back. The architecture is amazing, the whole city is filled with beautiful parks, its world-class historical significance leads to endless numbers of must-read historical signs, and it appears to be a must-visit food scene/extraordinary restaurant destination.
I can’t say for sure, though, as although there were several places that caught my eye—I was by myself and I wasn’t at that moment comfortable dining alone. Charleston is a couple’s town as much as anything, so, although I am usually comfortable enough dining in high-end joints by myself, I nonetheless chose two very cool dive bars instead—in which to satiate my hungry soul, er, belly, and quench my aching thirst.
I specifically chose those holes-in-the-wall because I was thrilled to discover through their neon window signs that they stocked Narragansett beer. Now, I’m sorry but a five-course dinner at a Michelin two-star restaurant can be enchanting, but even though I am a world-wide beer loving aficionado, I run into Narragansett maybe once every twenty years—and when I do, that wonderful, delicious, brewed to perfection Americana beer takes precedence over all else.
Anyway, as I rolled out of Charleston on a bright, sunny southern morning, I decided to put my meandering aside for a day and tear ass to Asheville.
—
Up till then, I don’t think during the whole trip I had gone over 65 miles per hour (MPH), and even that might be a stretch. However, when I broke my cardinal rule and entered the interstate for the first time since leaving Minneapolis (except for an unavoidable few miles leaving New Orleans), without even thinking about it all bets were off. I furtively edged up to 70, slowly goosed the throttle up to 80, and then I settled in comfortably when my speedometer hit 85 miles per hour. Except when I eclipsed 100+ getting past a wind-blasting semi-truck or breaking frantically when coming up too hot on a pesky state patrol car (more about that later). It was hotter-n-heck, and I sunburned the crap out of my arms, neck and the lower half of my face—which was extra motivation towards making near-record time to Asheville.
Asheville was surprisingly a hep, super cool town with lots of art deco buildings, a huge arts and music scene, a mind-blowing Vanderbilt super mansion left over from the gilded age, and a gigantic Grand Hotel—with all of it topped off by my sister and me healing some wounds and becoming best friends again.
I was in a good mood motoring away from Asheville, which went right down the drain when my debit card launched out of my flannel shirt pocket and disappeared into the heavenly ether. I had stupidly put it in the pocket knowing it would blow out if I left it there—and I intended to put it away right after filling up at the top-o’-the-mornin’ gas station—but my ever-progressing senility struck again. I forgot, the debit card launched, and I became pissed.
I made it all the way to, up, and over the Tail of the Dragon sticking to my by-roads regimen, and I even enjoyed the Smokey Mountain foothills for a while. But after that—the beating I gave myself emotionally for being such a forgetful dumbass overran my no-need-for-speed plan. By the time I crossed the Lexington Kentucky city limits I was back over 80 miles an hour.
Even worse, from Lexington Kentucky on I really went overboard.
Perusing the map, and consulting Google, as near as I could tell Detroit was approximately 450 miles from Lexington. Initially, I was a bit crestfallen and tried to reconcile myself to the fact that I would have to break the ride up into two days. As I sat eating the hokey motel “free breakfast,” I was further disheartened by the major thunderstorm that was pelting Lexington, and for three hours I was resigned to a day-long ride in the rain followed by another, or worse, spending another night in Lexington—which would have pretty much finished off what cash and credit I had left after my debit card struck out on the road on its own.
However, right when I was at my most forlorn, suddenly, it stopped raining, the sun popped out, and the motorcycle, which I had so presumptuously and rudely parked right under the awning at the motel front door—gave me a whistle.
In a flash, I reacted as I most always do in such situations:
Fuck it, I thought to myself.
At noon, I decided to forego the two-day trip and make it a one-day balls out jam. All the way to Detroit. Stopping only once for a NASCAR-style pit stop.
—
The run from Lexington Kentucky to Detroit Michigan on I-75 is a straight shot. The Kentucky portion of the trip is very scenic, passing through horse country and accessible to the wonderfully beautiful Blue Ridge Parkway—the entrance to which I sadly had to pass by. The Ohio stretch of I-75 is not scenic, but the Kentucky part would have made for at least two days of side roads and easy-going learning—but I was having none of that. Other than an occasional quick-as-a-blink glance to one side or the other, I kept my eyes glued to the road in front of me, because at 95+ MPH a small issue turns into an inevitably ending death dash.
Detroit, meanwhile, was my destination, because I grew up there, and I still had a friend or three that I could hit up for a couch, or even a gratis spare bedroom.
—
All the way through Kentucky I never saw a single state trooper but as I passed by the “Welcome to Ohio” sign, long ago worries reemerged from experiences past. From 18 years-old on I made many an automobile trip, often solo, down I-75 to Florida, and as I did, I often had run-ins with various officers from the Ohio State Police (OHP). All of them were an unforgiveable lot, much as some equally beguiling experiences were with my other “P” people —the Ontario Provincial Police (OPP).
But the Ohio State popos were, and I’m sure, still are, especially tough—and humorless. This was never truer than the time I got pulled over late one Thanksgiving night back in the late 1980’s.
Way back then, I was winging along happily—on my way to Miami to visit my friend Andy Peabody, singing with extra gusto with Rory Gallagher or maybe Captain Beefheart, when I noticed an out of the blue shock-flashing UFO climbing up my ass. Sadly, based upon prior Ohio-based experience, I knew right away what it was, and who it was, so I dutifully pulled over to the side of the expressway and anxiously awaited my fate.
Upon completing the dry as a desert greeting and requisite, “Do you know why I pulled you over,” the colossally hatted trooper informed me that he had “clocked me” at 103 MPH. I felt bad because I would have agreed that it was way too fast if given the chance, but I wasn’t offered an opportunity to join in the conversation. If I could have, I would have mourned the fact that my ride was a recently purchased, ill-mannered, bright fucking red Audi 5000 that refused to recognize any speed limit.
It was the car’s fault, I would have lamented, but the trooper had more to add to his query, and asked, “have you been drinking?”
Maybe his suspicions arose because I couldn’t stop staring at his magnificent hat, but whatever it was, his training and intuitive acumen told him that there might be a juicy DUI in the works. The hat really was impressive. It had a peak that towered like a dented-on-both-sides, brownish-colored monolith, and a round brim the size of a tire from a 1968 Volkswagen beetle. It was so striking in its enormity and flashy style that my mouth was still slightly agape at its peerless, mountainous stature when he directed me to step out of the car.
He had me touching my nose repeatedly with my eyes closed, saying my ABC’s, counting backwards from 100, hopping around on one foot, performing The Watusi, and most maliciously, he had me walk the white line on the edge of the Interstate—as if I were some kind of daredevil Wallenda on a high wire.
“I could get my ass run over,” I pleaded, but he made me do it anyway.
After a few cars went blasting by, probably with their driver’s thumbs to their noses and waving their fingers at the trooper, I stepped back onto the shoulder and said, let’s cut to the chase.
“Give me the breathalyzer. I am formally requesting the breathalyzer.”
The trooper was happy to oblige, but I could tell he was noticeably disappointed when I blew a 0.0.
At that point I should have just let it go and hoped for at least a bit of MPH-reducing mercy, but being young, dumb, and full of…, um…, green bean casserole (it was, after all, Thanksgiving Night), I just had to fire off a snarly, “I could’ve fucking told you….”
Without another word OHP’s finest left me standing by the Audi out on I-75 while he went back to his flashing-as-all-get-out psycho-Christmas tree-lit cruiser. When he returned, he handed me the mother of all speeding tickets. I thanked him graciously, partly because I didn’t want to piss him off any more than he already was from losing the DUI score, and because I was thrilled when he kept it to excessive speeding, when he could have nailed me for reckless driving.
With a barely polite “drive safe and have a nice evening,” I was let go and I continued on to the Florida Border without further incident (the Georgia State police are a whole nuther story), but that and a few other Ohio stops left me fearfully squeamish when I crossed into Ohio the other day.
—
Luckily, I found a pack of like-minded Michigander bound-ists who were trying to pass through the Buckeye State as quickly as I was. We all settled into a steady 88 MPH—with at least me figuring irrationally that 90 was most likely the magic number that would irreversibly incite The Man. Meanwhile, we were in such a healthily numbered group that I even took on an air of imperviousness, to the point that I didn’t think much of it when we all went sailing by a trooper, who was presumably waving a radar gun from his perch in the I-75 median.
Who would he pull over? I thought. All of us? Pick the most expensive car? Profile all of us in an instant and select a minority speeder?
Therefore, I was pissed when I pulled into a mid-Ohio rest area to give a Detroit friend or two the heads-up via my cell—and I noticed said trooper pulling in and right up next to me. I immediately became incensed, and my blood boiled even more when I saw him through his passenger window pulling on his Mount Rushmore of a state trooper hat (that fucking hat again). He means business, I thought, and I am the business.
I felt like the guy from that movie that yells, “I’M MAD AS HELL AND I’M NOT GOING TO TAKE IT ANYMORE,” and so as the Matterhorn-hatted cop approached me I just started to start bleating something like, “YEAH, FUCK with the motorcycle you....,” when I noticed his smile.
Luckily, I caught myself.
Of all the crazy-assed things, he saw me cut off the interstate into the rest area and so he followed me in because he admired my bike! My 2021 Harley Davidson Electra Glide Revival! Which is an exact replica of a 1969 Harley Davidson Electra Glide (hence the Revival tag). He said that he’d never seen one before and thought it was cool, so he wanted to see it up close!
It turned out he was a helluva nice guy. He rode Harley’s, but he told me he had to cool it for a while until his daughter finished college. I told him to stick with it and maybe we’d run into each other at Sturgis or Laconia some time, and we parted after a half-hour brotherly chat with an in-unison, “Stay Safe!”
It was such a friendly encounter that I almost asked if I could buy his hat off him, and if I’d had any money on me, I would have.
After that, my speedo hardly ever registered less than 90 MPH all the way to Buddy’s Pizza on Six-Mile and Conant, in the heart of Detroit—except for the nightmare stretch of construction from the southern Michigan border all the way to Monroe Michigan.
[Today’s Bitch: I can state with educated authority that the State of Michigan is the most fucked up orange barrel clusterfuck east of the Mississippi River. The whole dang state is one big construction zone despite there being a dirth of actual construction going on, and the busier the highway, the more construction-less construction there is]
—
This motorcycle trip, as it approaches its end, is a metaphor for my entire life. I have been by myself throughout, and I have been as happy as a clam in a spring-fed silt bed the entire way. Other than a few barstool-chance conversations here and there, I’ve hardly said a word other than to myself.
I am, in my heart, and most often by my deeds, a loner. I mostly prefer to fly solo when not with my sweetheart, as since I was a young child I have always felt like I was a peculiar, out of place, sore thumb of a pest when among my peers and, especially, in large social settings. Nonetheless, despite my antisocial bearing, I have been blessed to have a couple dozen or so best friends, all of whom are spread across the United States and Europe. For reasons I’ll never understand, they love me unconditionally and tolerate my sudden and no-notice, spastic comings and goings—with a level of patience that I feel that I don’t deserve. But boy, do I love them back, even if I don’t deserve them at all.
It seems like there are two “me’s,” the one who prefers to ride around America and bullet-train my way around France, Holland, and Belgium by myself— and the one who can’t get enough of being with my dear friends. It’s the same way with riding my motorcycle—I’m happy riding around the countryside at or below the speed limit, and I am equally happy running 100 MPH illegally for an entire day.
After I spent five days meeting with as many of my Detroit friends as I could cram in, I positively noodled my way up through Michigan to my Uncle Fred’s and Tommy Two-Teeth’s (see the chapter “The Eagle and the Woodchuck” from the book, A Life with Death) cabin in Hersey Michigan, never once feeling the urge to ride like a bat out of hell.
Sadly, I only scratched the surface of everyone I wanted to see in Detroit, but I promised myself I would travel back to my hometown soon, and frequently thereafter.
In the meantime, I’m now spending a few days with my uncle and Tommy Two-Teeth, before I ride over to Ludington and catch the S.S. Badger to Wisconsin and on home to Minneapolis. Right now, I’m spending a lot of time reflecting, mostly about the different ways of doing things, and how the same person can be two different people at the same time….
Earlier today, my uncle and I were driving to Big Rapids for groceries when we had one of those arbitrary, out of the heavenly ethers’ conversations: Which movie did the song, “Oh What a Beautiful Morning” come from?
Fred started it when, out of the blue he started singing the oldie but schmalzy, which perplexed me greatly because, one, I hadn’t heard the song since I saw the movie in, like, fourth grade, and two, what possibly possessed him to start belting such an obscure tune from out of nowhere?
After he'd run through the first verse we argued about where the song was from without a settled upon origin, and then my uncle hit up Suri, who solved the riddle with a resounding, “Oklahoma!”
One of my all time, top five, life-changing blessings was when my Uncle Fred and Aunt Pam took me to see Jimi Hendrix when I was barely 13 years-old. My mind was blown and despite not hearing anything other than a decided ringing for two days, my face was nonetheless overcome by a giant smile that lasted even longer than the ringing in my ears.
On the other side of the time-and-space spectral universe, my Uncle Fred and I, upon learning of “Oh What a Beautiful Morning’s” origin, asked Suri to play it for us over his truck radio. We couldn’t help it: as soon as the song came on we both started singing along gleefully and lustily, and I haven’t stopped smiling since.
If that isn’t the perfect model representing the Duality of Man—I don’t know what is.
Uncle Fred’s and Tommy Two Teeth’s Cabin
Hersey Michigan