A Perfect Trip
The morning was perfectly crisp with the air suggesting a hoodie. I had
loaded up the bag last night, and it now stands triumphantly strapped to
the sissy. While throttling through the neighborhoods on my way to get
gas, I wonder how this trip will turn out. I am not worried per se, but
as curious as a child on his first camping trip. Having heard the
stories from others of trips of woe and worry, I have yet to experience
it myself. This would be my first overnight on the motorcycle as well as
the first true ride with my father.
My father is a creature of habit. He does not make it out much past a
weekly Menard’s trip, mowing his yard, flipping through the morning
paper, and a tour to the Big Cow for a buffet dinner. It surprised me,
to say the least, when I received the call and he asked, “What day are
we leaving?”, this being his response to the suggestion of a trip on his
birthday months before. “Ummm, the sixth, I stumbled,” and with that,
it was decided. The next month and a half I spent getting the bike ready
for a three day trip across two states with my father, a man whom I
had, admittedly, not spent a considerable amount of time alone with in
my youth.