(Not So) Quick Note on the Title

Fairly often I read aloud to my partner from a book when it is time to go to sleep, typically a children's book or a YA novel as the short chapters and the uncomplicated stories work well for someone who barely hears half of the content. Reading to them in this fashion works very well, as they will drift off into a slumber often before a section or chapter is finished but occasionally a particular line will jump out and yank them from the brink of dreamland back into reality, occasionally triggering a fit of laughter.

One example of this occurred while we were reading "The Wind in the Willows", during a chapter spotlighting the motorcar-obsessed Mr. Toad lamenting after one of the frequent motorcar misadventures he is prone to engage in about his newfound lack of motorcar following either a wreck or imprisonment and was describing the horn as going "Poop poop". I could look up the exact line but we have many books and the organizational structure of them only makes sense to my partner (who is currently engaged with a book as I write this and who I do not wish to disturb) and ultimately the exactness isn't something entirely needed for the important bit as that both of us found the chosen onomatopoeia extremely funny. This is because both of us are 12 despite what any sort of official identification document says and the rest of the world has yet to catch wise to this because we both have powers and responsibilities that are unreasonable to bestow upon 12 year-olds.

My partner still yells out "poop poop motherfuckers!" fairly often, usually when stuck behind someone driving slow though any time that "hurry up" would have been said prior to having "The Wind in the Willows" will elicit this exclamation. I do not do this but I certainly embrace the spirit of "poop poop motherfuckers" while I am propelled along the ribbons of roadways on a motorcycle.

This is a Post About Motorcycling

A friend was recently let go from a gig in the powersports industry and in the farewell post they made to LinkedIn, they of course summed up their experience but took and opportunity to shit on a well-known section of highway that traverses some absolutely gorgeous country. It's not that there isn't valid objections to be made about the state of it, as the road itself became a destination that draws all sorts of motorcycle and car people of varying skill levels from "extremely competent" to "Dunning-Kruger" to "I just bought this fast/powerful vehicle and I'm going to make it everyone's problem". This is all mixed with a flow of vehicles who are using the same section of road to get from point a to point b. Additionally, there is a roadhouse at one end of the section of road that adds to the whole spectacle of the place and with all that it's easy to get annoyed about it.

It made me feel bad for them. While I have not been to that road in over a decade, I had an absolutely wonderful time the previous visit to the point where I transited the route 3 times before heading to the next town along my way home. Detractors of this road like my friend will be quick to point out that the surrounding area has plenty of good roads that have none of the circus and they are right and the best part is I can enjoy both.

Sometimes I Dream of Flying. This is Better.

Years ago, a motel caught in a liminal space between being an operating business and being pulled into the Wisconsin River served as a rallying point for a yearly ride some of my friends put together. Proceeding in any direction from that motel would guarantee access to roads that wound up the ridges, down the valleys, and through the hollows of the driftless region in South Western Wisconsin. When not on motorcycle, people would gather in the parking lot of the motel or around the wooden picnic tables near by and talk: talk about routes, talk about motorcycles, just talk. My friends would occasionally hear snippets of conversation and, having access to the box of letters for the marquee sign out in front of the motel, would display a particular witticism to all who happened to pass by on the adjacent state highway.

There's a moment that happens to me when I am out of the city and off the interstate while on the motorcycle. At some point the flat land of northern Illinois gives way to variances in elevation. Slow at first, almost imperceptible, rolling up one side of a small hill and gently down the other side, then suddenly, where I find myself on a ridge. On the right day, the blue sky goes on forever carrying fluffy white clouds from one horizon to the other. On the right day I do not feel the bike and all the little mechanical things I need to do to make such a complex machine operate come automatically. On the right day I travel over the road. Inertia pulls at me in bends and on the crests of hills and through the bottom of the trough of a valley. I want that feeling all the time. I want to live forever under that blue sky that carries fluffy white clouds.

One day back when that motel was still a going concern, my friends put a message on that marquee sign sitting by a state highway. Just a piece of a conversation, or something someone said to them that they particularly liked.

Sometimes I dream of flying. This is better.

The building that was once a motel is now on its way back to being reclaimed by the Wisconsin river and the nature surrounding it, as it was always destined to.

Some Days Your Boots are Full of Water

I started riding motorcycles in 2009 but had never owned a motorcycle from this side of the millennium until 2020 so all my motorcycles were in a state of slowly but consistently falling apart. The one I had the most miles on was from 1995 (I still have that bike); I had purchased it for the princely sum of $500 from somebody who basically abandoned it. It had spent a lot of time parked outside, then spent a lot of time impounded, and then it was spending a lot of time parked in the garage of the apartment I lived in at the time. Returning it to functionality required no more than replacing the fuel pump and performing basic services (all fluids, new tires) and after doing so I was off! I rode it downstate to a car show. I rode it into Wisconsin many times with my friend accompanying me on his motorcycle from the 70s. I road it to Colorado Springs in a day, and then up Pikes Peak.

One trip in particular took me out to the east coast on business, and I took it as an opportunity to ride my raggedly-but-mostly-functional motorcycle for a few days out and few days back. At some point in the past I had purchased a spare hall-effect sender (basically a little part that has two solid-state electrical components that signals the position of the motor to a little computer so that that computer can make the engine work) but for this trip I did not pack it into the luggage. After all, the bike was mostly running trouble-free, why would I possibly need to carry a spare?

The trip was a grind leaving Chicago as it always was, as there is simply no great way to go east from the city (any route will take you through north western Indiana, a place mostly made of pavement and rust) and then wonderful from Bloomington all the way to western South Carolina. Southern Indiana around the Ohio River Valley is quite nice, rural Kentucky smelled of lilac across the entire breadth of the state. Tennessee and North Carolina were absolutely lovely, and I hopped on the interstate in South Carolina on a Sunday for the last leg of the journey out. About an hour outside of Charleston the motorcycle decided that functioning was overrated. The rain had been going for some time and was not letting up.

Off on the side of the highway, I checked on what happened with the motorcycle and to my dismay, the very problem I had worried about had come true: the wires going into the hall-effect sensor had went through their last cool-down ever thanks to the rain and the insulation had sloughed off. Without a replacement, I was stuck in a rainstorm on a Sunday waiting for a tow truck, my boots filling with water.

Not every moment on a motorcycle is magical and sometimes things go spectacularly wrong. Ideally those times are survivable, and a mechanical failure is inconvenient but not as painful as hitting a deer and my particular break-down could be solved by a small part as opposed to dealing with a motor that has a great big hole in it left by an escaping con-rod. Both of those things have happened to friends, they survived, they still ride. The bad times make interesting stories just like the good.

The business part of the business trip was a nightmare, but a coworker who lived in the area was nice enough to let me fix up my motorcycle in their garage. I was able to leave Charleston under my own power and started my trip back home.

Taking Kitty Cat Meowtain by Strategy

There is a section of Wisconsin State Highway 33 just south of Ontario that cuts through Wildcat Mountain State Park. The highway snakes up one side of Wildcat Mountain and down the other, the route often folding back on itself from the man-made plateaus cut into the hillside wide enough for roadway and a guardrail. The terrain is heavily populated with trees and not a whole lot else. It's a gorgeous area and if you get the chance I would highly recommend going through there.

It is also very similar to the road described at the start of this post but at a much smaller scale, and devoid of much of the circus aspect that other road brings. It also brings some similar ire: being a state highway, there are passenger and commercial vehicles passing through and so it's possible and even likely that if you are on a motorcycle riding through the area, you will wind up behind a car or box truck and may be forced to plod along at slower speeds while the lumbering behemoths negotiate the twists and turns that you alone could carve into. I personally think that this small annoyance is outweighed by just the grand spectacle of the area, and there's a driveway into the park facilities midway through allowing one to pull over and let slower traffic get well enough ahead. I try to pass through the area any time I can, and in the event I wind up moving at about parade speed I start repeating in a bit of a sing-song, "kitty cat kitty cat meow meow meow" until I reach the other side. I can't imagine disliking a place so much that I would want to deprive myself of that.

Author's Note, 8/1/2026

I sent this to my friends who run the September ride, and one of them pointed out that the quote, "Sometimes I dream of flying. This is better." comes from Dan Walsh:

"Sometimes I dream of flying. This is better. The world flows over my shoulders, the road rushes under my nose. A bike, an open road, and a far-off destination. Happiness hits me like a ghost with a hammer. Riding takes just enough concentration to shush the internal jabber while leaving one free channel for clear, honest thought."

Obviously I agree with every bit of that sentiment.