Two Wheels Down: A Tale of One Man, His Motorcycle, and Life on the Road

PROLOGUE

A LITTLE BIT ABOUT ME

I was born to military parents in California, which, if you are hip to that life, you know it means moving around—a lot. My parents called it quits when I was about three years old, and so I moved around with my mom until she decided to leave the military and move back to Detroit, Michigan, to help my grandfather with his business. I spent most of my childhood in the inner city of Detroit, brought up by a single mother who was terrified that I would get caught up in some of the dangerous elements around us.

Growing up, I bounced back and forth between my mother and my father, spending most of my childhood years with my mother. I did enjoy a significant amount of time with my father as well, but he mostly had me during my brooding teen years. My father lived wanting nothing more in life than to raise his only son, and he lived for those times that we managed to spend together during my childhood.

Living between my parents meant I changed schools ten times from kindergarten to grade 12. Both of my parents endured struggles, living a life for which they scratched, cried, and bled. From my mom, I learned what it meant to conquer the daily grind, how to think critically, how to be independent, and how to adapt to the evolving and ever-changing landscape of life. Dad taught me compassion and the art of using patience to work for me, and provided an amazing blueprint for what makes a great husband and father. Between the two of them, I turned out alright, or at least that’s what they’d have you believe—but, that’s a story for another day.

I’m passionate about many things in life, including family, traveling, education, fencing (stabby-stabby; not buildy-buildy), my motorcycle, and writing. I am married to a wonderful woman, and while we don’t have children right now, we both look forward to bringing new life into this world.

Traveling and adventuring is as necessary for me as breathing. I’ve been to all seven continents, more than 60 different countries, crossed both the Arctic and Antarctic circles, summited one of the tallest mountains in the world, and so much more. In all my travels, I’ve experienced so many crazy adventures that I have material to write about for years to come.

This book is about my passion for riding, so you’ll read all about that. In addition to my riding adventures, I place a lot of value on education—both formal and experiential—and have used both forms over the course of my career to bring great success to the people and organizations around me.

Formally, I received an MS and a PhD in Industrial/Organizational Psychology while serving in the U.S. Air Force. While in college, I began fencing in 2003 and haven’t stopped since—competing in high-level tournaments all over the United States, as well as The Netherlands, Germany, and Belgium. I’ve also instructed, coached, and run my own fencing club. And, I’ve long desired to write and have my works published for the masses to read.

Aside from the dissertation I wrote, I have yet to venture into the realm of author-hood. This is my first foray, and I am beyond elated. I’m really excited to step into the world of fiction and felt that this book could be a great first stab (no pun intended) at introducing myself to the literary world. Summing my education and interests provides a quick-and-dirty synopsis of the many passions that drive me to be the man I am today. This book, this new adventure, is about my experiences viewed through the lens of a combined passion for travel and motorcycle riding. Beginning in 2010 with my three-week trip to Tanzania and Zanzibar, I began to keep travel journals, detailing each day and each experience along my journey. Since then, I’ve accumulated many journals—pages filled with adventure, excitement, danger, sorrow, and most of all, a slice of real and unabashed life. This book is a detailed accounting of four particular motorcycle trips across the European continent over the span of about seven months. More than a just summary about my adventures, though, it is a heartfelt recollection of my life experiences during these adventures.

WHY I RIDE

I began riding in 2009 in Minot, North Dakota. Stationed in the state’s frozen north, I decided to open a new chapter in my life, this time involving two wheels on the ground. After finding a great deal on a (comfortable and affordable) 2006 Honda VTX 1300, fully decked out with all the bells and whistles (including jumbo-sized saddlebags, a windshield, footboards, and aftermarket seats), I instantly loved my new life on the road—exploring the northern plains with the roar of my engine, the threat of impending horrible pain and death subtly hovering at the edge of my consciousness, and the freedom of the open road under the clear blue skies.

Soon after I started riding, I also began reading Robert M. Pirsig’s book Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. That book truly had an impact in that I learned about the power of unhindered contemplation afforded by the freedom of being on the open road. If you are a motorcycle enthusiast or just love a good book, I encourage you to read his book (after you finish reading this book, of course).

I began riding with Konrad, a good friend of mine. We took the Motorcycle Safety Foundation’s Basic Rider’s Course together and both fell in love with riding. We practiced by taking rides to various small towns in North Dakota. In fact, the first long ride we took was to a pizzeria in a town called Bottineu. I opted for a full-face helmet (as I wanted to ensure my perfect chin would stay, well, perfect); he opted for a half-helmet and goggles, which exposed his face to the elements. He also rode without a windshield, whereas my used bike came with all the fixings, including a windshield.

After about 30 minutes on the road, we got to a four-way stop where we needed to turn right, and Konrad decided to pull off to the side of the road. I assumed he was sore and wanted to stop and stretch, but when I stopped and walked over to him, I saw his reason for pulling over. His face was blackened with the carcasses of dead bugs that pelted him all the way from Minot. He opened his mouth to talk and, instead, spat out more bugs—his teeth their final resting place. I couldn’t stop laughing, particularly because I had warned him against wearing the half-helmet (though, like him, I hadn’t accounted for all the spring bugs). He pulled off his goggles, wiped his face, and then we continued on to our destination in anticipation of hot pizza and a cold beer. This time, though, we rode a little slower in an effort to spare his face from the sting of pelting bugs.

Konrad and I also started a small riding club with some fellow riders from work. Every month we’d choose a restaurant in a new small town about 35–45 minutes away from Minot. These planned outings attracted a fair number of riders—when we’d get to our destination, the food, beer, and camaraderie of a group of motorcycle enthusiasts were all such an intoxicating feeling. The restaurants enjoyed our business, and the sight of a long row of bikes lined up outside was a sight to behold in towns where not much really happened but the comings and goings of local farmers.

Of our riding group, Konrad seemed to be the only one who shared my sense of adventure and the drive to push further down the road; thus, we made plans to go to the world-famous Sturgis Motorcycle Rally in South Dakota. We booked our spots at the Buffalo Chip campground, we shopped for the gear we’d need to set up a compact campsite, and we continued to practice riding. We did a dry run to build our riding stamina by biking to Wolf’s Point, Montana. Why Wolf’s Point? Simple—I have a fond affinity for wolves (and, I saw it on the map). In hindsight, I could’ve probably chosen a more scenic place to make our practice run. But we made it there and back with no issues, so we knew we were ready for the big one.

About three weeks before we were to leave for Sturgis, I got into a motorcycle accident. I was in the process of passing a vehicle on the left-hand side, going about 35 mph. The driver didn’t see me, so she began changing lanes. Time seemed to slow down right at that moment. I quickly had to consider two options: roll back on the throttle and get in front of her before she clips my back tire, or hit the brakes and slide back behind her before she clips my front tire. I chose the latter, hitting both sets of brakes, sending my bike into a skid. My tires slipped from under me, and the bike slammed down on its side, skidding about 15 feet down the road. As I hit the pavement, my head slammed onto the concrete, making a loud cracking sound. I slid on the ground a short ways before popping up—adrenaline pumping, and absolutely furious.

I was so angry that I needed a minute to cool off before approaching the car to speak with the young lady behind the wheel. Why was I so angry? After all, life happens, right? With my bike wrecked so close to my Sturgis trip, I was upset because I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get it fixed in time. All of the preparation, planning, and excitement was now in jeopardy because some driver had not been paying attention.

Luckily, she admitted fault, and her insurance was quick to pay out, just in time to get my bike all fixed up. I took the opportunity to add much-needed gear on my bike—it looked brand-spanking new. With about a week to spare, all the preparations were complete and ready for the big trip.

The ride to Sturgis was my first truly big motorcycle trip—Konrad and I had a blast during the seven (turned six)–day trip. We rode through the famous Badlands in South Dakota and made it to Sturgis after riding about seven hours. During our week-long stay at Sturgis, among other attractions, we rode to the Mount Rushmore and Crazy Horse monuments, Devils Tower in Wyoming, the town of Deadwood—and the gravity-defying Cosmos Mystery Area near Rapid City, South Dakota. We took in an Aerosmith concert, watched an incredible motorcycle stunt show, visited the world-famous motorbike show, joined in with the parade of bikes down Sturgis’s main strip, bar-hopped, and partied till the wee hours of the morning at the RV park where we camped. (More explicit detail of those events won’t be shared, but they were memorable, to say the least.)

It turned out we had to cut short our week-long trip by a day—after day five of sightseeing on the road, we returned to a scene of muddy destruction at our campground. While we were gone, a massive hailstorm had ripped through the area, shredding tents and RVs, pock-marking bikes with dents—and even injuring some rally-goers. One guy was knocked unconscious by a golf-ball-sized chunk of hail.

When we got to our tents, Konrad’s was shredded; everything inside was caked in mud, including some of his electronics. Astonishingly, my tent was still standing—nothing damaged. So the two of us had to huddle up in my now two-man tent for the night, and, needless to say, we decided that sharing such a tiny space for one night was more than enough. So, the next day—a day earlier than planned—we packed up, went down to the rally to enjoy some breakfast and do some last-minute souvenir shopping before hitting the road for home.

The Sturgis ride was truly one of the best road trips I’ve ever taken, made more memorable by Konrad’s company and the fact that it was my very first long road trip on the bike. Those six days ignited my everlasting passion for riding.

If you’re not a rider and you’d like a glimpse as to why I feel so strongly about riding, take a moment to try this exercise. Close your eyes and imagine that you are a sleek falcon. Being this falcon, you’re soaring high in the sky with nothing but sunshine, puffy white clouds around you, and the land far below. You know that you can go as high, as fast, and as far as you could possibly want; you’re a being with no limitations. If you could imagine yourself as that soaring falcon, imagine the pure joy and freedom you would experience. And, if you can imagine being a falcon, then you can begin to understand why motorcycle riding is such a thrill and a passion for so many people. I’ve never felt freer in my life than when I’m riding my bike on the open road. That feeling ignited within me when my buddy and I went on the Sturgis trip. This introduction, describing how I fell—hook, line, and sinker—for riding, provides an appropriate perspective for and the basis on which I wrote this book. Sometimes I interject events happening in my life that are not related to the ride itself. Understand that the freedom I experience while on the back of my bike also lends itself to contemplating my life in all of its brutal honesty.

THE REAL STAR

The one constant in this book is also the real star of the show—my motorcycle, affectionately called the Knargly Bastard (KB), named after my circle of friends from my earlier days in Belgium. KB is a 2013 Harley Davidson 110th Anniversary Edition Fat Boy Lo, and he and I met in early June of 2014.

Although stationed in Belgium, I was at the U.S. Ramstein Air Base in Germany for a time, undergoing training for my new job. After class, I wandered over to the Base Exchange (which, at this particular base, is an actual shopping mall, unlike other retail base exchanges). I spied a Harley Davidson dealership—so, in I walked. Before arriving in Belgium, I had been thinking about upgrading my bike to a Harley Davidson. I wanted more power, and I really liked the H-D community.

As I walked around the store looking at the bikes, my eyes landed on one in particular. It had a unique paint scheme—mainly black and brown with red and gold pin-striping accents. All of the accessories and accents were black, and the bike had a very rugged look to it. I thought to myself, This would be my style of bike—if I were to get one. As I began to walk away, the salesman lazily called out, That’s a special-edition bike, only so many of them made. It has the serial number on the plate by the gauge. He didn’t strike me as being particularly knowledgeable about the bike; he didn’t even know the model. But I didn’t really care; I wasn’t seriously looking to buy right then, anyways. Some people at work were pushing hard to convince me to buy a BMW 1200 GS. They swore by the BMW, and even stopped riding their Harleys in favor of the adventurer-style bike. I had planned to test both styles out before seriously deciding which to buy.

Back to the bike at hand: after the salesman suggested I look at the serial-number plate, I came back and leaned over the bike, looking for the number. My eyes landed on it—Vehicle Number: 1002/1750. At that moment, the world around me froze, and I could feel my heart skip a beat in my chest. I had to do a double-take, because there was no way in hell the number on this bike could be 1002. But, there it was, clear as day. This bike was placed here especially for me to stumble across, no doubt about it.

Okay, you’re probably wondering why 1002 is such a significant number for me. First, it’s my day of birth, October 2 (1002), my favorite day of the year. Second, it is a number that I seem to always see everywhere I go. I could randomly check the time, and it will be flashing 10:02.

I first became aware of my connection to this 1002 number in high school after a few seemingly insignificant instances where it caught my attention. In college, I chose a room in an empty four-bedroom apartment and then happened to look out the window. The apartment right across from me? Yep, you guessed it: 1002.

There are so many more examples than I can remember, but this number became a superstitious guide. Anytime I saw it, I had a strong feeling I was somehow, some way, on the right path. To the nonbelievers, go ahead and roll your eyes—hell, I don’t blame you—but I can tell you that following my gut whenever I come across the number 1002 has yet to burn me. Maybe one day it will (and all my memories were simply coincidences), but I’m not holding my breath. So, now you can understand why eyeballing that number, 1002, on a random bike in a random store in Europe, after deciding to upgrade my bike, is one too many coincidences to ignore.

Not one for expensive impulse purchases, I decided to sleep on it before making a decision. When I got to my hotel room, I called my wife, Glo, told her what had happened, and asked for her opinion on the matter. Ever the enabler, she said, Baby, go for it! Armed with a positive response from the missus, I strengthened my resolve to take the plunge and purchase the bike. During lunch break that following day, I made my way back to the store. I could feel it in my soul that it was meant to be and that this particular bike was to be mine.

I walked through the doors, full of confidence and swagger—everything about my demeanor spoke to my intention as I approached the sales representative, Bronaugh. I pointed to my soon-to-be bike and said, I would like to buy that bike, the 2013 110th Anniversary Fat Boy Lo. Bronaugh praised my selection and told me how good my taste was (yeah, typical sales tactics). But then, what she said next absolutely rocked my world: This bike is actually already reserved, plus there’s another person in front of you for that bike. So, you are third in line. I felt betrayed. How could this bike be here in front of me and not be mine? Deflated, I explained the importance of the serial number, and she sympathized. She offered to show me other, newer bikes, but I was set—it was either that bike or nothing at all. I added my name to the expanding list of hopeful buyers and left the store, head hung low.

Later the next day, Bronaugh called me: "Hey, just wanted to let you know that