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Getting There...
by Gary Charpentier |
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I
was really excited about going to the first Central
Roadracing Association event of the season. I am not racing
this year, but a lot of my friends are, and I couldn't wait
to get up to Brainerd and be a part of that scene again.
Much like a little kid, I wasn't really thinking of the
journey, I just wanted to get there as quickly as possible.
Unfortunately, I had to work on Saturday. But as soon as I
had put in my time at the office, I packed a small bag with
only the bare essentials and hit the road. By the time I
entered the freeway, however, I realized that this trip was
going to be different. In the past,
whenever I had a long trip ahead of me and wanted to get
there quickly, I would call on my trusty time-space
manipulation device. I would grasp this device in my right
hand and give it a twist, and the horizon would begin to
reel in as if attached to a large, powerful winch. The
scenery on both sides would blur into insignificance, and
the distance between myself and my destination would rapidly
diminish. As long as I remained alert, concentrated on
holding my course and avoiding collisions with fellow
travelers and other road hazards, I would always arrive
quickly, full of energy and ready for a good
time. I must admit,
however, that it is highly illegal in most places on this
planet to travel in such a manner, and the authorities have
resorted to all sorts of tactical and technical trickery to
discourage this kind of warp-speed wandering. Having been
intercepted one too many times, I have shifted to a
different strategy. The tires on my
current mount are dual-purpose knobbies. When I reach
cruising speed on the highway, they resonate with the
thumping of the single cylinder to make a sound rather like
the never quite synchronized engines on an old B-17 bomber.
When you listen to this sound for awhile, it has a calming
effect, and you begin to just sort of float along in a
bubble of groovy oneness with the machine. Since I am
heading north, there are cars out there whose drivers are
very anxious to get where they are going, and they pass by
me on the left. I am in the right lane, and in the right
frame of mind to simply enjoy the ride. As the miles pass
slowly beneath my wheels, I begin to look around at the
scenery which I have always ignored in the past. Sitting up
straight, not in my usual aerodynamic crouch, I can take it
all in without straining my neck muscles. Minnesota has an
awful lot of pine trees. The air is filled with their scent.
When I am not looking at trees, I am seeing huge expanses of
freshly plowed soil, the orderly rectangles of our
agricultural legacy. At this point, what I am smelling is
quite a bit stronger than pine. You can really
tell the difference between the family owned operations and
the corporate farms. The family farms have character, and
each reflects the history of the generations of hard working
folk who have made their living from the earth. Here and
there I see a barn roof sagging in the middle, only the
merest hint of red paint left on the dry rotted planking.
Signs of a long hard struggle, tragically lost to the
elements and the predatory nature of an increasingly
competitive market place dominated by huge, high tech
corporations. Vanishing America, I am thinking...but my
gathering depression is relieved as I enter the first of
several small towns. Dairy Queen has
been an icon of happiness to me for as long as I can
remember. All but erased from the urban centers, you still
find them on the outskirts of large cities. Almost every
small town with two lane blacktop running through the middle
will have one within easy reach of the traveler. Nothing
fancy for me--no banana split or dilly-blizzard concoction.
Just a simple, large vanilla cone, with a tower of cold
extruded ice milk topped by that distinctive curly-cue. If
they don't get that part right, I make them do it
over! I savor this treat
at a picnic table within sight of my motorcycle. But in my
mind I see a 20" Stingray bicycle, with a banana seat and
ape-hanger handlebars. I am ten years old again, for as long
as it takes me to get down to the crunchy part. Back on the road,
I slowly roll through town. Along the highway, there are the
usual get-it-and-go nationwide franchises, be it for gas or
food or whatever. But as I turn down the main street of the
business district, here we have the heart of Americana!
Nora's Diner, Ralph's Shoe Sales and Repair, Johnson's
Hardware Store, and a Phillips 66 Service Station, with full
serve gas at no extra charge and a garage where they can
actually fix your car! Now, don't go
wracking your brain trying to figure out exactly which town
I am talking about, I am merely giving you a composite
impression of the several towns I passed through on my way
to the races. Call it Artistic License. The point is, so
much of our modern world is all about push-button
convenience, where you stop quickly, do your business
anonymously, and get back out there on your way to somewhere
else as fast as you can. The real super highways are
becoming too much like the Internet, where you can get
whatever you need without ever having to "interface" with a
real human being. Oh, that guy behind the counter at the
last SuperShellExxon station, you spoke to him, didn't you?
No? You paid at the pump with your credit card. You didn't
even get close enough to read his name tag. Is this really
what we all want? The sky begins to
darken as I continue north. I start to feel tired, and a bit
drained from the physical and philosophical demands of this
expedition. I have taken a two hour road trip and turned it
into a six hour odyssey, and I am only half way there! I
chose this road less traveled because I wanted to see if
there is any America left in Minnesota. Trust me, there is.
The art-deco sheen has faded some, and the neon sign is
almost burnt out. But the coffee is still hot, and the
waitress is still as ornery as ever. I find a small
hotel with a surplus of vacancy, I am the only customer this
Saturday night. I sleep in a room full of the buzz of a
tired air conditioner, the musty smell of long disuse, and
the voices of the ghosts of travelers past. Brainerd will
still be there in the morning. M.M.M.
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