CHAPTER FIFTEEN - Lost in Thoughts

In-between the moments of intense concentration riding through small towns on the small back roads of South Carolina, I found myself on long stretches of two-lane monotony. I've ridden these stretches in the past and never saw them as monotonous before.

Great seas of soybean, deep green with their entwining foliage spreading out before the rising sun. Sentinel rows of tobacco, picked clean of their gigantic leaves streaked by, pointlessly … standing stalks of useless vegetation. These were always fascinating to me as I rode past in the morning light of an unusual sunrise. This time they were unfocused blurs of grey, colorless in the morning light.

I'd often pull the bike off into the grass on the shoulder of a lonely feeder road, lay it over on the kickstand and face the rising sun, appreciative of the chance to see a new day. Compared to sunsets, where nearly all the worlds population watch in disinterest the ending of a day; sunrise has always fascinated me knowing far fewer people are taking a moment to see the beauty of the rising sun.

I'd lose ten minutes of driving time, ten miles delay, tens of thousands of revolutions saved on the engine, while I greet the day with a smile. What I gained was immeasurable in the calm and satisfaction of knowing I was fulfilling my dreams riding my Harley on yet another trip.

This particular morning, I lost that moment, ignoring the sun climbing across the sky as something that simply marked the passage of the required hours needed to get back home. Autopilot was engaged and instinct and repetitious behavior took over.

Inching northbound, my mind raced with details. Jumping between what might end up being my fantasy road trip, and what must have been going through Lance's mind; 30 feet behind me, matching my speed and clunking through the gears in unison on our march to my place in North Carolina.

At one point I realized I was only going 50 miles per hour on the Interstate. A quick glance in my mirror confirmed Lance was right there with me, mirroring my speed and lane changes. Likely he had thoughts of his own running through his mind. What's that gotta be like? Knowing his ride is coming to an end?

The frequent gas stops and coffee breaks told an even larger story. Lance was subdued and showing signs of fatigue already, and our trip - if I was even gonna be able to go - was still months off. This was maybe going to be a bigger responsibility that I first thought.

In 35 years of riding, I have yet to see anyone in my mirrors lose their bike, and I feared that is exactly what I was gonna see out west on some long stretch of prairie highway … Lance finally losing his grip and losing control. I'm not sure I want to put myself in that position.

I wasn't keen on being there for the end, but the thought of helping him be there at the beginning was just too overwhelming. Besides being a trip I would want to make in my final days, this smacks with the feeling of helping another person make their final days happy ones, and in reality - it wasn't that big of a chore for me.

The real hurdle was taking the time off to make the trip. Our conversations into the late evening last night confirmed my suspicion that Lance had done well in his construction business in Virginia. Within the last month, he had sold the business to his brother-in-law, who he had worked with for years, sold much of his other toys accumulated in life and was in the process of selling his home, once shared by he and his late wife.

I noted the irony that his wife, who he rarely spoke of, died of Cancer herself a few years back. With no kids, no home, no job, and not much life left, Lance was focused on only one thing now. And I was in an arguably fortunate position to be there for the ride of his lifetime … and possibly mine, too.

"Breakfast?" It was more a statement than a question. We'd been riding for two hours, since before sun-up, and with the bikes topped off it was time for some hot coffee and something to eat.

Despite my urge to just get home and get this next hurdle over with, I gave in to my hunger. "Grits and soft fried eggs sounds good to me!" I said. Lance was a Virginian and we were in South Carolina, so I was pretty much assured I wasn't gonna get a scrunched up face out of him, nor was I likely to hear, 'We don't have grits' from the waitress.

There is an art to eating grits. Well, not so much to eating them as to their assembly on your plate. With a pat of butter melting in the center, and a side of eggs with runny centers, you combined a little of both onto a fork, making a cold morning ride worth the discomfort. Don't try this north of Virginia though.

Our decision to stop for breakfast was made soon after with the familiar Yellow and Black sentinel of American Interstate travel looming up ahead. Waffle House is a traditional once-per-ride obligation for me and Huck. It's like a welcome home, especially with an open spot right at the front door for our two bikes.

Looking at the condensation on the windows, I knew this one was gonna be colder than usual - why some of them feel a need to stay as cold as they do I don't know - so I left my jacket on as I strolled through the door and grabbed an empty booth.

The plump waitress smiled and greeted us as we came in, coffee pot in hand and the typical smile on her face. It looked as if it weren't pasted on either. "Coffee, fellas?" I simply held up two fingers as I looked at the menu. Why, I don't know - I always get the same thing.

"You gonna be ready for The Ride by early March?" I asked between mouthfuls.

His reply was well-thought-out and was a long time in coming. "I'm nearly ready now. This is all a shock and new to you, but I've been forming this plan for over a month now, and pretty much the last piece of the puzzle was someone I'd want to ride with."

He went on to explain how his riding buds were thinking of catching up with him on bit's and pieces of his first week or so. Down to Daytona, or away from Daytona, or if all goes well, his return leg home. Nobody had the time, permission or interest in doing the whole ride. His 'problem' required someone to assume the role of responsible guardian for the whole trip if it were gonna work out the way he wanted it.

I've often thought about doing nearly the same thing, although with a wife and kids at home, never went beyond the initial contemplation stages. Lance is faced with the cold reality that this is likely to be his last anticipated ride. With each hour that passed, I resolved all the more to be a part of the ride.

"Well, you know my hearts in it, but there's this little matter of my business and my family."

"I know. Listen, I doubt we'd be doing more than a couple hundred miles a day. My medication makes me sick a bit, so I need some time to get ready to leave in the mornings, and fatigue will be setting in as the months go by, so you'll have time to do your business from your laptop on the road. I've seen you run your business from inside your tent, remember?"

"Your family, well… that's your call. I'm not gonna try to talk Kim into anything she wouldn't want you to do. I'd want you to think about maybe flying her out to some city along our way and let her ride some of the pretty country with us, and fly home a few days later. Let her do that a few times, and I'll cover it."

"Man, I can't let ya do that…" I tried to object but Lance simply put up his hand - the one with the grits dripping off the fork onto his plate - and leaned closer over the table and lowered his voice a tad to add some reverence to what he was about to say.

"Listen, Muthuh… I have no family, I sold nearly everything I have, and have more than enough to see me though this trip; with you or without you, with your wife flying out or not. I'm fine with paying the way and making this happen."

The intensity of his gaze, and the resonance of his voice across the table inside the Waffle House brought home the seriousness of his offer. It was really more a plea. To anyone at a different table, this may have looked weird. Two bikers in leathers and jeans, sitting at a booth leaning in to each other so other wouldn't overhear their conversation, one with a fork pointed at the other. But to me, it only intensified his desperation.

"And I really can't think of anybody I'd want to ride with. At the end of this ride, I'm hangin up the boots and mailing the keys to you. Lets just hope you don't have to ship it home from out west someplace, but if you do, I'll have it all arranged already. You're doing me a huge favor here, dude."

He looked away, point made, conversation over for the moment. We finished our food in silence, paid the bill and made for the door.

The rest of the trip was more of the same. Gas stop, lunch, gas stop - each time we stopped, we discussed more elements of the trip that we had though of during the last 90 minutes of riding. Interstate rides, while boring mostly, are usually pretty productive times for me, thinking over various problems I am wrestling with at the moment, and often coming out the other end with solutions.

This trip home was more tumultuous than most, thinking of various problems and difficulties a trip like this would entail. Medications, treatments, routes, camping, family visits… all made up for unanswered questions that had to wait for the next stop.

I tried to keep from getting too involved just yet; not knowing the reaction my wife would bring to the table. But it was impossible to keep from thinking of the nuances of this ride out west. If nothing else, I intended to help plan it, and help with the logistical end of it.

I saw it in some ways like my "one day I'll hike the Appalachian Trail" plans… mailing packages along the way to various post offices in care of "General Delivery" to pick up along the route. But it was clear that we'd have to play this ride by ear, and not plan it as tightly as I often do.

We'd have no clue how far we'd be able to go, or what the weather'd be like. Riding solo like I often do, it was simple to ride tired, or cold, or wet, in order to make it to the next planned stop. This time, I'd be dealing with fatigue, medications, and potentially death. No - we'd have to do one of those mythical, "Point the bike west" kinda trips that I've always wanted to do.

Lance seemed content to let me take the lead, keeping within 30 feet or so behind me so I can see him in my right mirror. Never wavering or wandering around the highway, his old '53 Panhead rumbling in the distance behind me, I could envision hunkering down on some old road-to-nowhere highway out west leading the way toward our next adventure. These visions always included riding into the sunset, hair flapping in the wind, eagles soaring overhead and a ramshackle tavern hidden behind an oasis of trees beside a dirt and gravel parking lot… an old neon sign advertising Budweiser's from the front window. I see us pulling in just as the sun slipped behind the fire red clouds of another sunset that takes your breath away.

In reality, I try hard not to ride into the sunset. Late afternoon rides are always better heading east away from the sun. Same with sunrises. Except for the pull-over to appreciate the sunrises' beauty, I prefer to ride west with the sun in my mirrors rather than in my eyes.

I thought of this as we rode around the Interstate beltline south of Raleigh. While Lance's strength and stamina were up, early in the ride, we'd have to ride in the mornings til we found a good place to hole up for the afternoon, allowing the evenings for little wandering rides and loop trips, bar hops, and the anticipated bullshit sessions on the front porch of an old motel, or around a campfire.

I was becoming grateful for the push this situation was providing to force me to take my fantasy ride with him. I had no clue, however, how we'd pull this off at my house as we finally pulled into the driveway at midday. I edged Ol' Huck over to one side of the garage to let Lance and 'Petey" share the carpeted, heated and locked garage. Now it was up to Kim. I grabbed my gear with butterflies in my stomach.

"Don't say a word of this just yet… let me find the time to bring it up."

Walking up the wooden steps from the garage to my front porch, I could hear him say behind me, "Time is all I have left, bro."

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