Given that I had never ridden a motorcycle or didn't know anyone who owned one, the idea of riding across the United States might have seemed absurd a few years ago. Perhaps it was "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" that got the bug in my head. Or maybe it was the realization, after racing with the Boston University Cycling team freshman year, that I loved the speed, the road and two wheels but could only go so far by pedaling.
Regardless of how I got there, I knew in summer 2005 I was going to get a motorcycle. First, I signed up for the riding course. I bought motorcycle books, travel diaries and a helmet. I got my license riding a Honda Nighthawk 250, and a few weeks later, I had my own '92 Nighthawk 750 - the 250's big brother.
With the first steps in my new biker life complete, my dream of riding cross country slowly grew into a plan. A "non-plan plan," as I called it: The route and schedule would be decided on the fly. It was set for July 2006, but after breaking my arm in a motorcycle accident in June, the plan was postponed until September. (It required that I take a semester off).
The details evolved gradually, the trip always imaginary -- in the future. Then, one day, it was real. The bike was loaded up with riding and camping gear, minimal clothing, cold weather and rain gear, tools and a huge atlas. My digital camera was clamped to the handlebars and my compact laptop with its cellular broadband card (for keeping a trip blog) was in a backpack strapped to the rear. With butterflies in my stomach and a breakfast send-off from my best friend, I was off.
The following 10 weeks were an amazing adventure, and looking back, I can't quite believe I actually did it. Just me and my motorcycle, 14,000 miles, 37 states, through baking deserts and snowy mountains, dozens of state and national parks, Motel 6's and diners. America, thick and thin.
Starting in Boston on Sept. 8, I rode south through the District of Columbia, across the Midwest and the Rockies to Seattle, south through California along the Pacific Coast Highway, east to Las Vegas, through Utah's National Parks, across the southwest, over to New Orleans, down and back up the coast of Florida, through Atlanta, Richmond and back to Boston on Nov. 16.
Along the way, there were both amazing days and days when I
wondered what the hell I was doing. There were moments when I
couldn't have felt more alive and moments when I was sure I was going to die. There were hours when I thought I could ride by myself forever and hours when I just wanted to be home. There were nights when I wanted to sit up all night to watch the stars, and there were nights when I was sure I would be eaten by a bear. There were mornings when the road and sky beckoned and mornings when the rain made me want to curl up all day in bed. There were rides when the bike flew like it was just built the day before and rides when I expected the wheels and chain to fly off at any moment.
In Iowa, I was almost killed when a bungee cord came loose and the bag holding my bike cover was sucked under the rear wheel, jamming it to a skidding halt on the Interstate. I was saved then by luck. Skidding to the shoulder, with the help of instinct and my pocketknife, I shred the cover inch-by-inch until I could pull it out. Missionaries jumped my battery and then gave me their literature. The gods of the road often came in the form of people or jumper cables.
At a biker bar in Minnesota, I learned not to ask for a local beer. In the little town of Chemult, Oregon, I met a kid waiting tables at his family's roadside restaurant who didn't know how to spell his own hometown. I had my picture taken with Penn Gillette of Penn & Teller. At a café in San Luis Obispo, California, most of the patrons were shirtless, and a hobo was playing guitar. I ate the most amazing ribs in Idaho and the world's best roast pork sandwich in Philadelphia.
I saw the divine artwork of Crater Lake and Bryce Canyon. I rode All-terrain vehicles with my cousins and hiked up a mountain with a tireless golden retriever. I flew, sailed and jet skiied. I saw the perfect Sunday morning at a plaza in Santa Fe and the Blue Angels in San Francisco with my girlfriend. I reveled in the sharp curves of mountains and rebelled against speed limits. I discovered that cops will give you a break if you pull over before they ask you to, or simply if they're from your state. I was reassured that despite too many laws, it's still a mostly free country.
I smoked hookah in New Orleans, had coffee in many a Panera Bread, pancakes at many Denny's and biscuits with gravy at too few Cracker Barrels. I learned the difference between a huge motorcycle dealership and the passionate mechanic with a garage shop and the value of a job well done. I became more optimistic about humanity because, despite all the opportunities, nothing of mine was ever stolen.
I saw the most beautiful sunsets and nearly went broke twice. I learned that fear is best when I am aware of it and happy it's there but don't let it overwhelm me. I learned that we really don't need much to live, but that good gear is priceless. I learned to love this country, its history and the pride of its people. I learned to love the road and appreciate the yearning for home. I learned to love my own company. I learned what's at stake.
But most of all, I learned that the journey is never far away. I am the traveler and I am the road. The journey is wherever I go, and there's always more road to ride.
Ben Buckman is a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences.
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