Cycles of a Traveler: True Tales of Voyage, Discovery and Synchronicity

By Joe Diomede

Cycles of a Traveler A celebration of humanity in all its wondrous glory and the world in all its devastating beauty.

From the streets of The Bronx, Joe Diomede accomplishes his dream and heads out across America on his motorcycle for a once in a lifetime trip with his college buddy. For Joe it doesn't stop there it turns into his yearly ritual.

When a small mishap on one of those journeys puts him on a collision course with his life's path, the bitter reality of the poverty and injustice he confronts leads him to look at his life in a different light.

A bicycle soon replaces his trusty motorcycle and we are led down the backstreets of Japan, maneuver on the muddy roads in the rainforests of Borneo, freewheel throughout the European countryside, and up to a chance meeting with fate high in the Himalayas.

While mingling with the people who share our planet we are drawn into a search for meaning at a time before the internet offered instant answers, and mobile phones kept us in constant contact.

Explore the world from the saddles of Joe's cycles; adventure becomes accessible to us all, coincidence takes on new meaning and synchronous moments become the norm. We become conscious that, although cultural, linguistic, religious, and social differences seem to separate us all, were truly on this ride together.

Put on your leather jacket, slip on your bike shorts and enjoy these true tales of voyage, discovery and synchronicity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Aug 9, 2010
• ISBN: 9781467006064

Joe Diomede

Joe Diomede lives with his wife Angie and two children, Louis and Francesca, in the stunning beauty of Southern France where the majestic Pyrenean Mountain chain secrets away small hamlets and villages from the modern world. Cycling is still a big part of his life, and besides riding bikes with his family, Joe co-owns two small-scale bicycle shops serving local communities in England and Ireland. To supplement a low-key lifestyle their back garden produces (or tries to) much of the food they consume as a vegetarian family. Although his open-ended travel has changed with the arrival of children, his love of life, passion for social justice, and trying to keep his life simple is a constant challenge. Coming from The Bronx in New York City, he struggles between his love of nature, and the 'buzz' of a big city, but manages to maintain the balance. Writing short stories and articles have always been a hobby for Joe but this book is his largest writing endeavor to date.

Book preview

Preface; Where It All Began

The bicycle came into my life in much the same way as it does most American kids-under the Christmas tree-though I embraced it perhaps more than many of my friends.

As pre-teens, my best friend Billy and I would go down to Boyd Avenue to visit ‘the bicycle man’. Nowadays he would probably be feared by parents, but he was just an eccentric old man with a backyard filled with old bikes and parts. We would spend hours there rummaging through everything to make our bikes better or go faster.

At thirteen I had my first job delivering meat for a local butcher. Of course, the bicycle was the delivery vehicle and I was forced-without much arm-twisting-to cycle all over my neighborhood every day after school, delivering meat and occasional sacks of laundry for the small laundromat next door. The perfect job!

By the time my friends were growing out of their childhood romance with bicycles, I was still hooked. A timely break up with my girlfriend when I was sixteen left me with a little money which I’d been saving for her birthday gift. Instead, I got in touch with ‘Puerto Rican Phil,’ a cycle courier who was a friend of my older brother. He got me my first real quality bike. It was not as well-known as the ubiquitous, American-made, ‘Schwinn Varsity’ or ‘Continental’, it was from Japan-a ‘Bridgestone Kabuki’-and coincidentally cost about the same amount of money as I’d saved for the gift. I quickly became known for showing up everywhere on my bike; it was my freedom machine.

The next spring I participated in a large organized bicycle event in New York City-a thirty-six-mile ride around all the five boroughs of New York-The Five Boro Bike Tour-the second of what is now an annual event. That day I and 10,000 other New Yorkers had a great time. Since I had no friends that I knew of who wanted to join me, I did it with two older men, husbands of my mom’s work mates.

The enormity of the bike ride and being swept up with 10,000 other bike enthusiasts only served to fuel my own fire of bicycle obsession. It was fantastic I thought as I looked around. The sound of the whirring wheels and the tinkling of bells enthralled me. People chatted easily as they rode, profiting from the freedom from engine noises and fumes. All of this I found exhilarating, serving to strengthen the belief forming within me that the bicycle equals liberty.

At one point during the ride I pulled over to look for my two cycle companions from whom I’d become separated-a futile exercise-it felt as if I was watching all the inhabitants of New York City cycle past me in a blurr of orange safety vests.

When I’d finally realized it was unlikely that I’d meet up with my original companions George, whom I knew vaguely from the neighborhood, pedaled up and said hello. We talked a while and decided to ride together into Staten Island. From that day on George and I became good friends, and we started on some of our own cycle adventures.

One particular trip sticks in my mind; George passed by my house after dinner and asked if I wanted to go for a ride. With no idea where we were heading we took off into the hot sticky New York summer evening. We cycled west to the Hudson River and then headed north.

At one point I turned around and couldn’t see any sign of George. I started cycling back and then saw a Carvel Ice Cream shop lit up in the darkness with the silhouette of a bike leaned on the window and there was George tucking into a cool ice cream. He calmly said, I shouted, but you didn’t hear me. I figured you’d notice I was gone at some point. He was right, and we both enjoyed a well-earned ice cream.

I then realized we were close to my sister’s house-about forty miles from where we’d started. We wound up making it there past midnight. We fell asleep in her backyard in a screened-in tent and awoke to the aroma of freshly cooked pancakes and hot coffee. My nephew was about two and a half years old then, with a new-born sister, and over the years they got used to ‘Crazy Uncle Joey’-a tag that would stay with me for many years to come-showing up and sleeping over on many two-wheeled adventures.

My older brother Larry had many friends who were influential in my life. One character among them was Kevin. When I was seventeen we went off on a one-week camping/canoeing trip which turned into a two-week adventure verging on the ridiculous; a broken-down car, hitching a ride on a small airplane and being dropped off on a lakeshore with 100 miles of rivers and lakes between us and civilization. That trip awoke in me a love of the unknown and pure, unadulterated adventure.

When I was eighteen my brother’s friend Jack introduced me to the world of motorcycles. From the back of his bike I got hooked into a new mode of transport, and a desire to cross America was born.

Jump ahead to end of August 1983; I had just graduated university, and, along with Gary-a college buddy-we were ready to head out across the country, my dream of a two-wheeled long tour was finally coming to fruition. After a weekend of partying, we folded away our college degrees and pointed our motorcycles west on a warm August Monday morning. Two Bronx boys heading out on their poorly packed bikes with their cheap camping equipment, up for whatever America would throw at them.

MAPS

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SYNCHRONICITY: the coincidental occurrence of events that seem related but are not explained by conventional mechanisms of causality

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The College Dream Realized

The wide brim of the Wyoming State Trooper’s hat shaded his face already half-hidden by his dark sunglasses, and his Midwestern drawl elongated his words. This gave me a few more seconds to formulate how I was going to try and wriggle out of this sticky situation. I took advantage of the moment to strip out of my rain gear.

How fast do you think you were going son?

Uh well, at a guess about fifty or fifty-five miles per hour? I answered feebly.

Actually, sixty-three. Do you know what the speed limit on this here road is?

Um, uh, fifty? I replied again trying to sound apologetic and clueless at the same time. The fact of the matter was I had no idea what the speed limit was, forty rang some sort of bell.

It was a tiny ribbon of road heading out of the Black Hills of South Dakota. The morning had started in our campsite with a light drizzle so we had donned our wet weather gear for the first time since Ohio, and headed out. As we left the Black Hills behind us, the snaking of the road gave way to a more open vista and the straighter roads just pleaded to be accelerated into. The sun had broken through in a cloudburst and the rays brightened the day as a sign welcomed us into Wyoming. I was lost in the moment and found myself speeding west. Gary faded in the rearview mirror and the next time I glanced into it my heart sank as I saw the blue flashing lights of the State Trooper who now stood in front of me. He took off his sunglasses to reveal his steely blue eyes, flashed a broad smile and replied, Twenty-five miles per hour.

He let the words linger in the air between us as the realization sank in. The expression on my face was honest as I did the quick math and thought to myself, man, I’m screwed.

Twenty-five? I said this time genuine astonishment in my voice. I had no idea, wow, I really had no idea. I was lost for words, and truly shocked at how low the speed limit was. To be honest, I had assumed I was a bit over the limit. I then went on to explain. Actually officer, we started out in rain this morning, the sun came out as we entered Wyoming, and it was very exciting to be heading west. This road’s so beautiful it’s difficult to go that slow. My friend and I are heading to California.

Nearly on cue Gary pulled up, a few minutes behind me, which wasn’t great for my argument as he was on the same road, and it would seem he had been obeying the speed limit.

You know, that’s going to cost you about a hundred and fifty dollars, the State Trooper added.

I gulped, and again spoke the truth. Man, that’s going to really kill my budget, we’ve been camping out at night, we just graduated college, and were hoping to make it to California.

Was that sympathy that flashed across his face? I wasn’t sure. He adjusted the brim of his hat and put his shades back on.

Good to see two young American boys doing something interesting, I see lots of foreigners round here; they don’t speak any English-gets pretty frustrating. You take care now. Watch this road, the speed goes up and down for the next thirty or so miles. Have a good trip.

He gave me a nod and got back into his car. No ticket, nothing, plus he had actually warned us about upcoming speed traps. I couldn’t believe my luck. Gary, who was waiting on the fringe peeling off his rain gear, came over.

What was that about?

Speeding, I answered.

I saw the sign, he said. I tried to flash you, but you were gone. Great road man. Did’ya get a ticket?

I smiled and walked over to my bike, Unbelievably, no. I was going thirty-eight miles per hour over the limit! He liked our story, and said something about us being American and speaking English. We both shrugged, re-mounted our bikes, then pulled off into the Wyoming sunshine, being very careful to obey the speed limit signs from then on.

Such was the experience of our continental crossing shaping up. People were nice, and although the well-meaning warnings from friends back in New York about speed traps had been validated, our first experience with one had turned out to be positive. We had found a human side.

The first few days of our trip had been spent finding our feet on the road. The first night camping with my brother Larry and his friend Lou was wet, but quite nice. We ate under the overhang supplied by the campsite to avoid getting drenched. Lou wasn’t a big camper but Larry was an adventurous soul who had done many a road trip with his friends. Being five years my elder his influence was strong. The fact that I was even on a motorbike was due to his friend, Jack. Now here we were, him saying goodbye to me for a change. It had been his idea to follow in his car and camp out for the first night, and I was more than happy he’d suggested it. I think he was reliving some of his adventures through his little brother and was happy that we were heading out to California. He had lived there years before but had moved back to New York after our dad died-a small thread to Larry’s other possible life. We feasted on a huge breakfast in a diner after packing up our wet camping gear.

Have a good trip little brother, he said. Was that a tear in his eye? Enjoy the journey, not just arriving.

Wise words from my then twenty-five-year-old brother, Of course we will, lots to see between here and there. He knew that all too well from crossing the continent on a Greyhound. Hopefully we’d take longer than three days, and have more adventure than could be had on a bus. Thanks La, love ya.

You too Joe. Take it easy Gary, watch the girls out there-they’d love to catch a coupla Bronx Boys! we had a good laugh at that. A big embrace for both of us was in order and an awkward handshake from Lou-a man of few words.

Don’t worry Larry, the Midwest girls don’t have a chance. Gary added.

A last check that we had everything, rain gear donned, final hugs in the diner parking lot, then we kicked our motorcycles to life.

We followed each other to the sign for 80 west then with a toot and a wave Larry and Lou turned off to head back over the George Washington Bridge. Our wheels were heading west, and spinning fast. We rolled through Pennsylvania and into Ohio under dark, wet skies, our adventure nothing yet but wheels kicking up spray from the black tarmac, but above those clouds, we were heading into the sun. The rain continued until we decided to take shelter for a while beneath a highway overpass. Trucks roared by in clouds of mist as they passed leaving us cold and wet. The romance of the road trip seemed far from our reality at that point, huddled silently beneath gray concrete with the constant drone and hiss of traffic speeding through the fine film of water covering the highway. Camping that night didn’t appeal-as a matter of fact, nothing seemed very appealing at that point. I could still feel the excitement of what lay ahead lurking in my gut, but I looked over to Gary wondering what was going through his mind.

When we became friendly in my last year of college, Gary didn’t have a motorcycle, nor did he know how to ride. As I spoke of the possibility of heading across America by motorcycle, Gary became interested. When I bought my bigger bike for the trip, Gary and I rode to Albany just for lunch. It was a fine spring day, and Gary was hooked, much in the way I had been on the back of another bike. Gary owned a beautiful Cougar car-quite sellable-so sell it he did, bought a motorcycle and taught himself to ride over the summer. Caught up in the excitement we would watch the movie Easy Rider, not letting the ending put us off too much. Now here we were; no sunshine in sight, sitting under an overpass, the spray of the passing truck wheels creating huge moving wet clouds behind them making us shiver. Did he hate me for talking him into this crazy idea? I wasn’t about to ask.

Our first day out from New York had been fine, but the weather had turned while we were in the campsite, and it hadn’t let up the whole day. I walked over to where Gary was taking shelter from the rain. We both stared at our bikes leaning on their kickstands on the shoulder of the road. Gary looked at me and said, I guess we should get going. I nodded in agreement, and off we went into the relentless rain.

We crossed the border into Ohio and at about six in the evening we saw a cheap hotel. I couldn’t stop my hands from shivering as we signed in. After long hot showers and a change into dry clothes we walked out towards a diner. The sun was just visible-the weather possibly breaking. We smiled at each other. A big meal was in order. Walking back, looking at the setting sun we had a good feeling we would be dry the next day. Sure enough we woke the next morning to glorious sunshine and the feeling that maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all. We enjoyed good weather for the rest of the journey, except for that short drizzle in The Black Hills.

Crossing the Mississippi River was quite a big deal-we truly felt California-bound. The call letters on the radio stations even changed. It was another something I learned on the road, and I’d graduated with a degree in Mass Communications! East of the Mississippi radio stations started with a ‘W’, west of the Mississippi they start with a ‘K’. I didn’t remember learning that in school-it wasn’t earth shattering or life changing, but just another small detail of American life that I found curious.

After putting in lots of miles, camping was a great way to end the day. We cooked mostly over open fires, chatting into the night under the stars. Whereas many motorcyclists tended to use two-way radios to communicate while riding, our equipment was as basic as it could be. We communicated through hand signals and nods of the head during our days on the road. It was mostly at night that we had the chance to catch up with how each other was feeling or talk about the beautiful scenery or the crazy trucker who had passed a little too close. It was during these talks that I got to know Gary better.

He had been a friend from college. We’d met working on theater projects, but whereas I was involved in the acting, he worked backstage and had a flair for the technical side of things. He knew that was where his talent lay and it probably gave him more of an idea of where he was heading in his life. I was still on a search. This meant that I was free to immerse myself in the experience simply for the worlds it was opening up to me, but Gary, although enjoying it, was suffering a little from homesickness and the life he’d left behind.

I had brought a radio/cassette player with me to listen to the occasional local radio or the music compilation tapes which another college friend, John Clemente-or ‘Johnny C’ as he was always known in our circle-gave to me as a good luck gift. Some nights we would put on the familiar music of our college days, look up at the star-studded skies and enjoy the strange juxtaposition of it all.

The long vistas stretching to the horizon soon gave way to the rolling, dry, desert-like scenery of the Black Hills where Lincoln, Jefferson, Washington, and Roosevelt were carved into the scenery. Soon after that we met our friendly State Trooper, but then the roads flattened out again-though not for too long. Something loomed on the horizon; The Bighorn Mountains. Being the first real mountains we’d crossed at first I thought they were the Rockies. When I naively asked the gas station attendant how it felt waking up to the awesome view of the Rockies every morning, he smiled, wiping his hands clean to accept my money and said, Couldn’t tell you son, these here are The Bighorns. I paid him for the gas, felt like a fool, and climbed back on the bike. Gary heard what I said and was laughing, glad that he wasn’t the one to ask the foolish question.

On the other side of the small range we stayed in a town called Tensleep, Wyoming. It sat on the western edge of the mountains. I started to understand the romantic draw of being a cowboy; the beauty of the area was nearly overwhelming. It was in Tensleep that I witnessed admiration for a bull rider win over an unfortunate underlying, and sometimes plainly open, racial prejudice that runs often too deep in America.

The bars were allowed to stay open all night on the weekend of the rodeo. I figured I would go out and have a drink with the cowboys-the ones who were supposed to give us trouble because we were from New York. Gary was exhausted, and decided to stay back and read but my desire to socialize won out. When the cowboys found out I was from The Bronx, the beer flowed, not the fists.

It was a lot of fun, but the scene changed briefly as a drunken guy staggered out of a bar to where I and a few locals were having a laugh outside. The drunk pointed to a black guy in a cowboy hat across the street, and blurted out vehemently, Is that a nigger? We all ignored him. Then almost shouting he said again, Is that a nigger?

One of the cowboys I was with turned and quietly said, He’s a bull rider with the rodeo.

The drunkard just slithered off mumbling, Oh.

This was one of the most interesting things I’d witnessed on the trip so far-something about that whole exchange intrigued me. I had a lot to learn about my fellow Americans. Growing up in New York there was racism, but it felt different to what I had just witnessed. I couldn’t explain it. It dawned on me though that if Gary and I were a darker color, or spoke a different language; maybe our trip would have been different. It was a sad, sobering thought.

Our first experience in an Indian Reservation wasn’t what I thought it would be. I didn’t know exactly what I had in mind, but after entering and stopping into the shop which sold cigarettes and alcohol and looked more like a neglected Bodega in the South Bronx, I was disillusioned. The native people looked less like a proud nation of people, and more like a bedraggled mess shunted away from the crowds and put off into the corner to sulk at the loss of what was once their beautiful land. I was sure, or at least hoped there was more to the reservation than we saw, but I had read and heard much about the alcoholism that was rife on Indian Reservations, not so much the fault of the natives, but due more to the inappropriate way in which they had been treated. I knew intellectually that my grandparents had come from Italy to America at the beginning of the twentieth century, and were not part of the history affecting the native people, but on the other hand, I felt maybe we were all in some way implicated in the mistreatment of our fellow human beings. We were too excited crossing America for the first time to consider this for long, and when we left the official borders of the reservation, I let the situation slip from my immediate thought. One day the scene would return to the forefront of my mind.

We were aware that the continent was whizzing by-we were trying to heed my brother’s advice, but the riding was the journey and we were enjoying every minute of it. Our first real view of the Rocky Mountains stretching from south to north across the horizon was awe-inspiring. We had waited days to witness it. We had been impressed, and even fooled by the Big Horns, but once we set eyes on the Rockies it simply took our breath away-they first appear as a bump, then as a dark shadow. We sped faster and faster west until there it was, unmistakably reaching for the heavens, the great mountain range we had only ever seen in pictures. Soon we would be riding on the roads that would take us deeper into their natural wonders.

The trip was awakening my love of nature, freedom and travel-riding on traffic-free roads, around the many lakes, across the wide rivers, camping under the starry skies were what really was inspiring me. Next stop, Yellowstone National Park.

The mountain roads climbed for miles. Our bikes leaning and banking into the contours of the landscape-we were in the Rockies! In the Yellowstone Lodge we met young people our age working there for the summer season, Europeans hiking on the wooded paths, and in the cool evening air, small crowds gathering around to watch ‘Old Faithful’ shoot its steam towards the star studded heavens. The black sky with billions of twinkling diamonds shining down and the wide white smear of the Milky Way spread across the center of it all-breathtaking. We were very far from home now, and we knew it. We had ridden our bikes here from the streets of New York, not an amazing feat, but for me it was the college dream realized.

It was as if a small seed was taking hold, a tiny imperceptible change in my view of the world. ‘How much more was possible?’ The night skies, the wild life, constantly in awe of the natural beauty we were surrounding by, made me feel a small part of a much bigger picture-my small seed being somehow nurtured. We saw bison, deer and caribou in the fields next to us as we rode and watched eagles flying overhead. We were like two kids in a candy store. We had made this happen. We were here because we both had made a decision to do it. All this beauty was here to witness for anyone who wanted to come to its greatness. All that was needed was the want to do it, and the follow through to accomplish it. This was all right on our doorstep. What was waiting further beyond? I fleetingly wondered, before pulling myself back into the moment, and what great moments they all were. We were actually crossing America.

Arriving in California was emotional for both of us. The obligatory photos were taken of two sunburnt, matted-haired Bronx Boys, with huge smiles, and shining eyes. I hadn’t learned my lesson yet on following traffic rules. I thought bikes should abide by slightly different rules of the road than cars. In Wyoming I had been lucky, but not with The California Highway Patrol.

As I was riding the hard shoulder in some traffic north of San Francisco, I was pulled over by a figure from my TV-watching youth; a CHiPS officer. Unfortunately the story about trying to make it to California didn’t hold the same weight once we were there. He was friendly, and feigned interest in our trip, but the forty dollar fine was handed to me with a smile all the same, payable by mail. Like before, Gary pulled up after the fact, obeying the law once again. It’s true that riding on the hard shoulder can’t really be explained away. I was asking for trouble, and although it was a financial blow, the romantic side of coming face to face with one of my childhood TV hero figures, complete with knee-high leather boots, dark shades and a fully dressed Harley Davidson, half made up for it.

My Aunt Mary and Uncle Angelo welcomed us when we arrived in Oakland California after crossing the continent in ten short days. We’d had a wonderful experience but we could have taken more small roads. The motorcycle riding itself had been what the trip was about, plus we’d had each other for company, which had been good for both of us. The speed and maneuverability of the bike was what had drawn me to it at first. Now it was the freedom of travel and the open roads that had me fully hooked.

I got to know all my relations in the Bay Area. My cousin Auggie had paved the road before me. He and his friends who were teenagers in the early seventies had made it to the doors of all my cousins out here. My brother was the next wave, making it by Greyhound bus. Now here were Gary and me on our motorcycles, another contingent of the crazy New Yorkers just continuing the tradition. We took BART into San Francisco. At first I thought we were meeting a friend, but found out, much to everyone’s laughter, that BART is an acronym for The Bay Area Rapid Transit-the New Yorkers had arrived! My relatives treated Gary like he was family, and after a week or so in the Bay Area, we took off to ride the coast road down to Los Angeles.

Things were moving quickly; we were enjoying it, but were still moving at a New York pace. It was setting the scene for future crossings; I would eventually learn to slow it down a bit, but this trip was about crossing America and getting to Los Angeles California, and we did.

In Los Angeles Gary and I went our separate ways. He had no desire to stay in the city area, he had friends further south and he continued on to meet them. I stayed in L.A. to see what would transpire there. If America was a melting pot, L.A. was the microcosm of the macrocosm. There were people from all over the States living in the small apartment building in Venice, California where I was staying while trying to find work; stone masons from Idaho, musicians from Michigan, and even a child actress. L.A. was such an interesting contrast to New York-so different in lifestyle, and with the Pacific Ocean out your door, it was quite beautiful. It was my first time west of Pennsylvania and walking on the boardwalk of Venice beach felt so exotic; Muscle Beach, Hollywood, Santa Monica-these place names brought to life. There was also something about having arrived overland that made it special to me. My brother and cousin had lived out here a few years back, and it was great to meet some of the people that Larry and Jen both knew.

I’d met up with a friend of Jen’s called Neil in a sushi bar where he ordered two miso soups. I was raised on an Italian-American blend of food and sushi had not made it to my table before. I ate the miso soup not wanting to look like a boy from The Bronx with no worldly experience, which was basically what I was. I ate it quickly, and thought it was disgusting. Neil mistakenly took that to mean I liked it, and ordered another. I got through it somehow, little knowing I would one day live in Japan and grow to love the stuff.

I also met up with a woman who was in the movie industry-another acquaintance of my cousin Jen. We met early in the day, she lined up some cocaine and we were snorting lines before I’d even eaten breakfast-definitely not my normal morning routine. Then we got into her Porsche and drove down to the Main Street Café to eat. Sitting next to me, bleary-eyed, was Rod Stewart, sipping what looked like a Bloody Mary. I felt out of my league, but this was L.A. It seemed a hazy dream, but enjoyable at the same time.

Riding up Topanga Canyon through Malibu was fantastic, it all felt surreal but I was actually feeling that maybe life in a big city would be easier in one I knew better. As new and exotic as it all felt, I was starting to realize that maybe living in L.A. was not on the cards at that moment in time. I enjoyed the vibe, but missed New York. I had been in New York my whole life as a student, maybe there was a different world waiting for me if I went back now. I knew my trip had been formed by all the people in my life; my brother, my cousin, my parents, my father’s untimely death; there were many reasons I had wanted to head out to California. My dad had been waiting to live the life he always wanted until he retired, but died at age fifty-seven before ever making those changes. I felt I didn’t want to put anything off until later. I knew it was possible to get sucked into a life I didn’t want, and years later ask the question, How did I get here? Something inside was pushing to the forefront of my being. Like the skin of an onion I was peeling back the layers and this first trip had only peeled back the brown, hard, outer skin.

Gary had had his reasons for coming west as well. He had friends from his old neighborhood in The Bronx who had moved out a few years back. They lived further south and Gary was thinking of making a permanent move too-while I partied in L.A. he stayed with his friends in Orange County.

It had been a few weeks since we spoke when I decided to call Gary, not sure what his plans had come to. When I found out he was also planning to return to New York, but was going to sell his bike and fly back, I came up with an alternate plan. Our money was running low, the eight hundred dollars each that had felt like a fortune when we started out was reaching its limits, but I suggested we ride back together across the southern states. His instant response was, When? Not one for procrastinating I said, Monday? It was now Friday. I said goodbye to L.A. and headed down to meet Gary. We spent the weekend with his friends, and with another small send off we were off into the face of the rising sun, heading back east.

We were looking forward to getting back. We didn’t tell anyone in New York about our plan figuring we’d surprise our friends and family. The ride back was just as beautiful, but the scenery quite different. We rode along the southern rim of the Grand Canyon, like two insignificant insects crawling along this vast 200 mile wide gaping colorful chasm. The Painted Desert with its colorful reds and pinks was fantastic. The pastel colors actually did make it look like someone had painted this part of the world. I thought of how this land had not changed since the beginning of time. No matter what atrocities might have occurred between the white Europeans and the natives, this land’s beauty was moving. The Petrified Forest in Arizona was fascinating-the ancient trees turned into stone over thousands of years were mind-boggling. I was discovering a love of nature, and realized that my education and all the books and photos you could see would never be a replacement for the real thing. Our whole return journey was an added bonus. We were pretty broke now, and in Indiana we caught two full days of constant cold rain. We shivered the rest of the way east, never quite getting rid of the chill of those two miserable days.

Our equipment was just not good enough to keep us in comfort through the extremes of weather and distances we were covering. Nonetheless, we were greeted by the beautiful autumn colors of western New Jersey; it was far more welcoming than any red carpet could have been. The splendor of the views from the road was familiar, but exquisite in its natural wonder all the same. This was literally our backyard and the ‘Welcome to New York’ sign should have said ‘Welcome Back’. Even though our whole journey only took a little over two months, we came home feeling like we had accomplished a great thing.

It was to be the first and last crossing for Gary, but for me it had awakened a love of travel and let me realize that in life there were always doors open to you, it was just a matter of walking through them. One of the highlights of the trip for me was having time to think and be alone on the bike. I was given some great books to read on the journey. I read Robert Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance but it was beyond me. I enjoyed reading Carlos Castaneda and Jack Kerouac too; I was always drawn to a spiritual search of some sort, and I re-found my love of reading on that trip, especially in the tent at night.

The first trip across America was a success-at twenty-one years old it filled me with ideas and showed me an America I never knew existed. The unknown, I felt strongly, was not something to be feared, but embraced. My second trip started taking shape with my ears still buzzing from the first whirlwind tour across the continent-the moment I arrived back in New York I decided I would do it again. This time I would slow it down and change the route a little; being alone I would be free to go any which way I desired.

An Unlikely Encounter

Heading out alone across America by motorcycle sounds like a daunting thing to do, especially at twenty-two years old, but with the previous year’s experience under my belt I felt more confident. I worked as a bartender and a land surveyor for that year between trips, and although I enjoyed my year at home, I knew the money I was saving was for another journey across America. Looking at a map, I thought that highway 2 across the upper peninsula of Michigan across the Border States with Canada looked quite nice. I was never one for doing too much forward planning, and that seemed enough. I had the camping equipment and the motorcycle, and so enjoyed my year in New York knowing I would once again be on the road.

My time back in New York was fine, I had probably drunk too much alcohol-getting a job in a local bar didn’t help-and lots of good times were had. I got to work with and know better some friends from the neighborhood; but I also realized we were all on our separate journeys.

The scene in the local bars on ‘The Avenue’, as White Plains Road was known, was quite good. You could bar hop and within six blocks the bars varied so that there was always something which would suit your mood. One bar had a pool table, which changed the vibe a bit, the other one darts or a television playing sports; it was a typical Bronx scene, and my friends were colorful, many of us now into motorcycles, and nearly everyone I hung out with had gotten at least one tattoo-I had three. I wouldn’t trade a moment of my time in The Bronx and deep down I still consider myself a boy from The Bronx, even though my travels have taken me far from those nights on The Avenue drinking in Donovan’s or Bill and Bob’s.

We would sometimes head down to Manhattan for dancing in the clubs; The Bottom Line, CBGB or The Mudd Club, rock concerts in The Garden, as Madison Square Garden was known. Cocaine and marijuana were easily found, as were other drugs, mostly hallucinogens like acid, THC, or mescaline. We didn’t always depend on drugs or alcohol to enjoy ourselves, and my friends and I were not drug addicts by any means, but we were all in our early twenties and now had money because we were no longer students. Most of my friends could handle the drugs we were using for pleasure, but I had also seen some friends and acquaintances go down paths that were hard to get back from. Unfortunately I also knew of young lives lost to overdoses-one friend’s girlfriend fell off a roof to her death while high.

Seeing the delicacy of life, and experiencing the diversity of lifestyles right at my doorstep in America, I knew I wanted to taste more of the road, and less of the mind-altering enjoyment drugs and alcohol had to offer.

The other job I had which drew me away from the bar scene was working for a Civil Engineering company-RBA. My friend Ernie got me the job-four ten-hour days a week, perfect. The best part about the job was learning about something new. I also had the pleasure of going off to upstate New York to spend entire days walking through fields and farmland with a chief surveyor, mapping out the area for one of our contracts. It was allowing me to get more in touch with the outdoor side of myself which had been nudged awake on my first journey across America. Sometimes the forested areas were so thick with undergrowth we needed machetes to cut through-I used to let my mind drift, and try to feel what it might have been like to be doing the same not even a decade before in a far-flung place called Vietnam. I had been too young to be drafted, but through my brother’s and cousin’s friends, I had always listened to stories in awe. I could not imagine what it had been like, but once in a while swinging my machete to cut through the thicket to find our next point on the map, I would try and conjure up some of those feelings I had felt while listening to veterans talking of their fear. I wasn’t obsessed with the war in a romantic way, just intrigued on a deeper level that someone just like me would actually have been in a life or death situation, where my only real fear was a mosquito bite, or a scratched arm.

I knew the job-although interesting-was only a means to an end. Ernie had his degree in engineering and a more obvious career path. We had been friends since childhood but our paths were diverging. We had motorcycles in common since he had recently bought one, and I was helping him to learn to ride, but on many other levels, we were slowly drifting apart, politically, socially, and financially. I knew my friends were all going to find their paths, but I felt much of my search was not going to be in New York or its environs.

My boss at the engineering company was in his forties and he wanted me to remain in New York and train to stay on in the company. After spending a week together in upstate New York we got to understand each other on a deeper level and he knew I’d soon be gone. When I finally told him I was leaving after being there ten months, he just nodded and said, Enjoy. He had ridden motorcycles, had done some long-distance touring, and must have seen in my eyes that that side of my life was far from over.

The previous year Gary and I had met people from all over America-people old and young doing things with their lives. The bartending job had opened my eyes wide-I served men old enough to be my father who were still using alcohol and the bar scene as their main source of life outside their jobs or homes. I knew that my days of drinking just for the sake of it were slowing down. I had already stopped smoking pot and the other more expensive drugs were taking too much fuel out of my motorcycle’s gas tank so they were starting to slip away as well.

The small abstinences were letting me see and think more clearly. On the occasional Saturday not waking up under the dark cloud of hangover, I would be full of energy; I would rise early, get on my motorcycle, and keep the vision of another cross-continental trip alive and well, until it eventually took flight.

So here I was, on the road once more with California as my destination-for now I knew I wanted to head towards route 2 in Michigan. I would make sure the general direction was west, or in this case northwest. If needed, I would consult a map, but I was so excited to be on another long distance open-ended journey I often didn’t. I was into the smaller roads and had no one to agree or disagree with about direction or where we would stay. Now I was on the other side of the border-Canada-and had piloted the bike to a dead end. I didn’t know how I was going to go around the very large expanse of water I found myself looking at-The Georgian Bay. Time for the map. I noticed a small thin dotted line tracking its way across the light blue on the map and after hunger led me to a small diner, the helpful waitress told me about the ferry. I found out the crossing times, eager to get to that small thin peninsula in Michigan which had looked so intriguing back when this trip had turned from a vague idea into a real plan.

On the ferry I met two people who would be significant in my life for various reasons. The first guy must have been about forty-five or so and had just been through a divorce. A couple of his friends were going through similar situations. We had a nice long chat-he said he was one of the lucky ones because there were no kids involved. He told me of friends who had been through bitter custody battles, forced to pay extortionate lawyer fees on top of all the other bills of divorce, child allowance, alimony etc. His divorce was still raw and he was wary of what lay ahead, but he had a lot of time for this young guy just starting out on his own path of discovery. He seemed not to be bitter, but willing to impart some of the wisdom he had gathered as he trundled along his path of life. He talked mildly of a lot of the mistakes he had made, and why they were not bad, but something to learn from. He had come out the other side of his encounter with some money in his pocket as he had sold everything he had from his car to his couch. He had kept his camping gear, toiletries, and bought his dream motorcycle, a BMW R100. Now he was finding himself on the small roads of northern Ontario and had some good tales to tell of his last few months on the road. I enjoyed telling him about my university days, my father’s death and how it changed my view of life, my first cross-continental ride and whatever else I had to offer. He appeared to be genuinely interested and told me to take as much time as I needed in my search for meaning, myself and whatever else I was looking for. I always remember something he said to me, As soon as you think you are there, is when you have to look deeper and realize how much further you have to go. I didn’t quite understand it then, but pondered its implications time and time again. I now feel that the essence of those words were that the human condition is in a constant state of searching, and the gray areas of existence are more complicated and ever-present than you think.

Unfortunately we were going different ways when the ferry docked so our time together sipping a coffee on the Chi-Cheemaun heading northwest was all we would have together to tell our tales. Our conversation made me realize how important it is when we talk to people, and how powerful our words and ideas can be. It also helped me value every day we walk the earth as our physical journeys on this planet are very short. No matter how brief, I was glad for our time together.

The other person I met on the ferry was Frank Westerlaken. He introduced himself with a strong handshake saying his full name almost formally. Paul and I had said our goodbyes already when Frank and I met on the other side of the boat. We were heading in the same direction, me to Saulte Ste. Marie Michigan, and him to his grandparents’ on the Canadian side of the same town. He asked if I would be interested in coming over for dinner. Sure, was my short answer-not many home-cooked meals come your way traveling alone crossing the continent. As we disembarked, Paul gave a toot and a wave as he leaned off to the right, north-bound. Frank and I did the same as we banked left heading south.

It was only a forty minute ride to Frank’s grandparents’ house where I was welcomed graciously and seemed almost to be expected. It was about five p.m. or so and dinner was cooking on the stove, so we sat down for a chat and had a nice hot cuppa. Frank’s grandmother was telling us about how just about a week earlier Frank’s brother, John and his friend had stopped by on their way across Canada by motorcycles. John was on a Kawasaki GPS and his friend was on a BSA. Now that was an interesting combination of bikes. An old British classic bike from the sixties coupled with a Japanese café racer. We spoke about my cross-country trip the previous year, and I was sure they would have a great time. She talked about their approximate route, and where they were hoping to wind up. Her tone and the glint in her eyes made it obvious she was reliving her motorcycling days when she and her husband had ridden around the U.S. and Canada. We had a scrumptious roast dinner but as the days were long I was keen to roll out some miles. Shortly after dinner I continued on towards the border of Michigan and let Frank catch up with his grandparents. He was only there for a short visit before returning to the small satellite town of Brampton, near Toronto, where he worked. I smiled when he told me he was a policeman-his formal introduction and strong handshake made more sense.

I would have made it nice and dry to my campsite on the American side of the border, but for some reason the border guard decided I was trafficking drugs or something else illicit. He asked me to unpack my whole tank bag, then my saddle bags. My beautiful sunset was quickly clouding over into a blackness that smelt like rain. Re-packing everything was a pain, especially because after he was satisfied I had no illegal substances, he left me on my own, uncovered, as it started to rain. He went back into his small heated box, and I and all my gear were unnecessarily getting wet. The whole border check took a little under an hour. After packing I was left feeling angry and resentful about the whole thing. I headed on to my campsite which was about fifteen minutes away and, as I pitched my tent, I contented myself with the fact that I was on my way across America on my motorcycle with unknown adventures spread out before me. Okay, I was wetter than I should have been, but in ten hours or so Mr. Borderguard would be in his box looking for the elusive drug trafficker or smuggler of Canadian Jewels while I would be once again heading west with the sunrise reflecting in my rearview mirrors, my feet kicked up on my highway pegs, dipping and leaning into the twists and turns that highway 2 would offer up to me and my bike.

The morning had shaken off any rain that had come throughout the night and the sky was a brilliant orange. I imagined the sun rising over the New York City Skyline. What a different world I was in right now and a whole different headspace; a few weeks ago I would have been walking to work on Broadway, now I was holding open my throttle with a wide grin just knowing that nearly all of this beautiful continent was still laid out ahead of me. I yelled a quick good morning to Mr. Borderguard, knowing he was probably just waking up somewhere putting on his uniform safely out of earshot.

The Upper Peninsula of Michigan is undulating, forested and known for its mosquitoes. Many lakes dot the countryside, and although still a part of the States, it feels more a country on its own or part of America’s northern neighbor. The roads are quiet and sometimes I wouldn’t encounter a car for hours at a time The people I met were more the shotgun on the gun-rack type, but I never felt threatened in any way, just about a million miles from New York City!

One day it was just about noon when off in the distance I saw what I thought to be a motorcycle. I cracked the throttle to catch up with it. When

I finally did, it was two locals out for a ride and they were slowing down to pull into a diner. When they saw my bike all loaded down, they motioned me to join them. I wasn’t ready to stop for lunch, but as I’d tried so hard to catch them up, and now they were inviting me in, I figured I might as well.

The diner was bustling with a full lunch crowd getting ready to eat. When it came out that I was from New York City-The Bronx even-the local motorcycle boys were quite interested and I must say they asked some bizarre questions. I put it down to living in a very secluded part of the world in very rural surroundings, not pure racism, although I must say when they asked me how it was living with all the niggers in New York City, and were they as bad as the fucking Indians out here. It made me feel uneasy, but all questions were asked in a normal tone sitting at the counter of a crowded diner, and no one seemed to think that any of the words being used were out of place. I briefly thought of the bull rider in Tensleep not even a year ago. I know the same conversation could not have happened as openly in a New York City diner without quite a few eyebrows being raised or even worse. I tried my best to answer their questions without offending them, but I also tried to be true to myself and not feed into their pre-conceived ideas. Hopefully I confused their world a bit, and maybe opened a small chink in their thinking.

After a big lunch and a little insight to the local mindset, I left feeling that our world needed to get together and realize that people are people, and although varied cultures, foods, music, religions, philosophies may appear to differentiate us, it doesn’t mean they should define us. We are all first and foremost human beings. We have more in common with our fellow humans than we are willing to admit, and whenever I need to bring myself back to reality, I remember a phrase that in its simple gruffness is so true: In a hundred years we’ll all be dead, a sobering thought. When you really think about it, we are sharing the here and now with people who are shaping our current world. We all have power in our thoughts, words and actions, and if we all decided to get together and realize that no past or future or prejudice has any control over us, we could all change the living moment in a second. Although we all have these strange definitions about who we are, our nationalities, our beliefs, at the end of the day, no matter what we believe, the physical forms we now inhabit will all return to dust. We’re not separate; we are all on this earthship together-a speck of dust clinging on to the life-giving heat and light of a nondescript medium-sized star swirling out in the vastness of unthinkable space. All of these thoughts went reeling through my head as I rolled out across highway 2 on a small peninsula on the gigantic continent of America.

My second ride to California was shaping up nicely. I had already met some interesting people, and the time on the bike gave me space and time to allow my head to swirl with all these new philosophical thoughts. I did not have a fancy bike with music, my camping gear was bought in a department store called Caldors, and I’d never heard of hi-tech clothing, just my leather jacket bought on Orchard Street for seventy-five dollars, and a few pairs of Levis 501 jeans. I didn’t even have a small windshield. It was me, the wind in my face, and the open road.

My conversation with Paul was still fresh in my head. I could still see his huge smile as he told me of how he had been up in northern Ontario for a few weeks camping and his love for motorcycle touring was infectious. Not that I needed to be infected with that love of touring, but it was nice to meet people who shared your interests, or should I say passions.

My trip across the northern Border States was taking on its own special shape. I’d had nice weather so far. The wettest I got was that day at the border. I was even able to find a soft spot for Mr. Borderguard, especially now that I’d had some time to rethink, and enjoy the simple pleasures of being on the road. I was enjoying the freedom to go left or right when I wanted, to stop anywhere I pleased, to camp or stay in a small hotel. I enjoyed sitting on the side of the road sometimes and just staring at the birds or the butterflies. I would write in my journal or read a book. I think back and realize how few people in our western world of absolute craziness ever get time like that. My time was even more special because it was real, true open-ended travel. I did not have a job waiting for me back home, or a job to go to. My choice to go across America by motorcycle at age twenty-two for the second time was something that was possible because I had a family. I knew in the back of my mind I could always go back to New York. My mom’s house was also my house. The ability to do that is almost unheard of for many people in our society, let alone the world. I somehow just wanted to absorb anything I could with my travel. I wasn’t afraid to be afraid; I wasn’t scared to put myself out there. That was all made possible though because I had friends and family that gave me that strength.

All of these thoughts were not conscious at the time back in 1984. I was on a search. I wanted to experience humanity. The humanity in that diner was not evil; it had just never been exposed to anything else. I was forming my own philosophies, as I was reading others. All my chance meetings were little doors into new spaces. I loved walking through those doors and exploring all that wide open space.

My motorcycle headed west, my throttle cracked open and the cool mountain air was sweeping down the plains to meet me straight in the face at seventy miles per hour. Mountains are always places to feel majesty and insignificance at the same time.

Glacier National Park is inspirational! The Rockies are full of places that make your jaw drop. At the same time, on a motorcycle you are in awe, but also in control of a powerful machine. With the flex of your wrist you power into turns, scrape your pegs as you dip and dive on the mountain roads. The higher you get, the thinner the air, and the colder it gets. The roads become more challenging; winding and looping back on themselves and your