Destination Dreamland, Day Six
Early in the summer of 2015, I bought myself a brand-new, leather-covered journal.
The first thing I wrote in it was a twelve-item list I depressingly titled “Things I Can Do Alone.”
The second thing I wrote in it was this:
“Periodically on the bike, he reaches back and gives my knee a squeeze. I love it each and every time.”
That from my first time on Maude. My first time in Detroit. My first time riding on a motorcycle on the street.
More than a year later, it's a gesture Jason repeats as we ride. Still a move that warms my heart. Makes me smile.
A couple taking a road trip together in a car has the benefit of conversation. Maybe they get to know each other's pasts a little more deeply, as they swap stories, memories, prying questions. Maybe they laugh together a little more, telling jokes, quoting movies, admitting past embarrassments.
The couple on the motorcycle doesn't have the luxury of speech. But our physical connection is massive, constant. Thighs snug against thighs. Hands encircling waist. The occasional thud of our helmets bonking together, when the passenger gets distracted by, say, a man in a moose costume dancing on the side of the road, and forgets about things like gravitational force.
On Friday, July 8, Jason wakes up early in Tawas City. There are thundershowers on the forecast, and he wants to get as early a start as possible so we can avoid them or wait them out as we need to. I wake up later with a bad headache, which slows me down getting ready, but Jason is patient and we leave mostly when he wanted to, once the analgesics kick in.
We don't see a single drop of rain. Luck is still on our side. But the day is hot. I'm down to one clean shirt and it happens to be long-sleeved. I ride without my jacket for the first time, but still find myself sweaty. The sun beats down on the back of my neck. Every day on the back of the bike, I've been watching Jason's arms turn darker and darker brown as his skin soaks up the sun.
I understand now why you don't tend to see many fresh and dewy looking biker chicks. Riding on a motorcycle is rough on your skin. The sun, the wind. I apply sunblock frequently and try to cover up as much as I can, but at the end of each day on our trip, I look in the mirror and feel like I look a little more weathered than the day before, if only from windburn and the thin layer of dirt that winds up on my face as we ride.
Compared to every other backseat rider I see, I know I am soft. I see women riding without helmets, their hair flowing loose in the wind behind them. I see them in tank tops, an immense amount of skin exposed to the elements. In comparison, I feel like a china doll. I keep my hair braided, tucked into my jacket, to prevent knots. I cover as much skin as possible. Skin cancer runs in my family; my hair tangles easily. Part of me envies their freedom, but most of me worries for their skin, their unprotected skulls.
We get to the highway and ride it for about two hours before Jason pulls into a rest stop—the Shiawasee National Wildlife Refuge, a tiny forest tucked away behind a hotel and a Cracker Barrel. He's got the headache now, most likely a result of the hot, stressful highway ride. He takes some ibuprofen and decides to switch to backroads. The refuge offers a nice, shady place to stretch our legs, but it's still hot. We try to keep ourselves hydrated, but it's starting to feel like a losing battle.
The smaller roads are the bumpiest we've seen yet. I have to constantly focus on engaging my legs, pressing down with my feet, holding on to Jason as best I can, and even then I find myself lifted right off of my seat every so often—each time it's a surprise that sends my heart briefly leaping into my throat. Within an hour I am tired, sweaty, sore and incredibly hungry.
I pause the music to let Jason know I'm ready for a lunch stop. He stops in Flint briefly to take a photograph of a mural showing the little girl who wrote to President Obama about the Flint water crisis and encouraged him to visit the town. We decide to cruise on further to find a place to stop.
Half an hour later, we see a roadside bar with a sign boasting “World Famous Burgers,” and of course we stop.
Hot, hungry, road worn, we enjoy the air conditioning, two large and chilly beers, and two large burgers. I'm sure I'm not expending many calories riding on the back of a motorcycle, but the activity still seems to make me ravenously hungry. Each meal is like a homecoming, the breaking of a fast, a cap at the end of a long day in the elements. Each sip of beer is appreciated, each fry goes eaten, there are no crumbs left on our plates, no dregs left in our mugs.
We're only an hour outside of Detroit, and we arrive back in Hamtramck about 4pm. It takes all of our remaining energy to empty the saddlebags and drag our stuff upstairs to Jason's place. There we collapse on the couch and stay sedentary for a long time, watching a movie or two and generally being complete vegetables, at least until the hunger kicks in again, and we sneak out for late-night Detroit barbecue, which we bring home and eat at the kitchen table with our fingers, laughing and talking, remembering, dreaming about the next trip—maybe to Niagara Falls, maybe back to the UP to the actual town of Dreamland, maybe somewhere else entirely. Regardless, we know it's going to happen. We know there are many more rides in our future.
After a restorative sleep, I feel like I could hop right on the back of the motorcycle and take the whole trip again. Everything about it was perfect. The landscapes were beautiful. The riding was peaceful, enjoyable. The company unparalleled. The entire trip feels like a gift to me—something I never could have pictured myself doing in the past, but something I slipped right into easily and comfortably. Every day on the motorcycle made me more comfortable with riding, with being out in the open, with closing my eyes and trusting my companion. My Jason. Every day on the road brought us closer together, as we made plans for our future, perfected the art of communicating wordlessly, spent every minute of six consecutive days glued together, sharing intimate space until the lines blurred and I felt permanently attached, unsure at times just where I ended and he began, not giving a damn either way. And it only left me wanting more, more, more.
