Real Joe

“We’re never gonna get out of here because Griff has to chat with everyone walking into the damn coffeehouse.”

It’s 7:30 Saturday morning and we’re firing up our engines with some caffeine at the Blue Monday.

I’m in heaven — good coffee, two of my best friends, the start of a two-day motorcycle trip. The seeds that Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance sowed for me thirty years ago keep bearing fruit. And I’m aware of it so it’s all the richer.

I also know that I’m showing off by launching from here. Lots of Saturday morning regulars stroll by to chat with me — more so today, since Northfield is in the middle of its annual civic wingding, Jesse James Days. I started to give myself grief about it last night — “It’s a character flaw to want people I know to see me with my cycling pals” — but then I just said what the hell, we all have our shit to work on, so indulge.

I’ve been riding dirt bikes with Jim Winterer since we were juniors in high school and road bikes with Jim Douglas since we met on the job in the Faribault School District in 1978. We hooked up for a one-day ride two years ago, the Freeze Your Buns Tour, and it was a hit. This is our first overnighter. Douglas has us going to the “Little Switzerland” area in extreme northeast Iowa — a place I’ve never been — and we’re camping out. The roads will be mega-twisty, and I’m on a very fast, very nimble sport touring bike, a BMW RT1100 that I’ve borrowed from another Faribault friend, Larry Harmsen, who’s been loaning me his bikes for 25 years. So I’m doubly, triply stoked.

We take the country roads to Lake City, me in the lead since I know the way. These roads are pretty much trafficless at 8 am on a Saturday morning so it’s an ideal time to acquaint myself with the bike — turn signals, turn signal shutoff switch, horn, gear range, braking response, cornering characteristics. We’ll be in heavier traffic in about an hour once we get to the highways along the Mississippi River and I don’t want to be thinking about the bike’s controls by then.

I spot a rectangular green button just above the orange horn switch on the left handlebar. I have no clue what it is so I just push it. Holy shit, the windshield raises up. I push the bottom of the switch and the windshield lowers. This is fucking great! I hate looking through a windshield on a bike because it ruins the view — by law you have to wear goggles or glasses or have a face shield on your helmet so it means you’re looking through two panes. But it’s also tough on the body to be subjected to the full force of a 70 MPH wind all day. And even though I’m wearing earplugs and a tight-fitting helmet, at highway speeds, the wind noise punishes my ears. So this hydraulic windshield is a great gizmo. I raise it up for cruising on the flats, and lower it down for the twisties. Man, I love this bike.

We take our second break in two hours at a little scenic rest stop near Trempealeau, Wisconsin.

Douglas has the same model BMW I’m riding so I ask him a delicate question.

“How the hell do you keep your nuts from getting squashed against the gas tank on these bikes?”

Turns out both he and Larry experience the same problem, for which there’s no real solution. The seat plain sucks, the bike’s only flaw.

I announce my wish to take short rests every hour or so, not only for the sake of my family jewels, but my ears. The helmet’s a tad too tight. They both laugh at me — Douglas typically rides till he needs gas and Winterer has just completed an Iron Butt Lite Rally in which he rode 7,000 miles in 7 days on a 1981 Yamaha SR500. He’s done the 11,000 miles in 11 days Iron Butt, too. So I’m the designated wimp and they accommodate — we’re having fun yakking each time we stop and we’re in no real hurry.

We stop for fresh water at a Cabela’s near Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin. In the parking lot in front of the store, I spot this big Gold Wing decked out with King Kong in the passenger seat and what appears to be training wheels underneath. Further down is a whole row of Gold Wings, most of them with painted nature scenes on their side panels and fenders. One stands out, however — a Winnie the Pooh theme, complete with a stuffed animal Pooh on the bike’s trailer hitch.

Douglas says, “Kill me if I ever come close to riding a bike like that.” We all mutually agree to kill and be killed. We then laugh about a group of Harley riders who waved at us through some sharp twisties a few miles back. If you take your hand off the bars to wave on a sharp turn, you’re not really riding, you’re spectating. It’s a funny form of classism that’s common among motorcyclists. Riders of loud Harleys vs. big luxury-laden touring bikes vs. sport touring bikes vs. crotch rockets. We mostly all wave at one another as we pass but we mostly all tend to look down our noses at one another, too.

We find our campground by mid-afternoon, set up our tents, and head to Balltown on a country road that’s one of the best I’ve ever ridden on — rolling, up and down twisties along the top of a ridge where you can see for 50 miles. We’re intent on pigging out on the Saturday buffet at Breitbach’s, Iowa’s oldest bar and restaurant. Douglas has been here before and raved about the BBQ ribs from cattle raised by the sixth generation owners, Mike and Cindy Breitbach, and their family.

A big, ominous-looking Harley guy and his buxom honey join us in the buffet line. He’s got a 10 inch knife attached to his belt, along with the requisite chained wallet. No eye contact is made, no conversation is initiated. We’re from different planets. Back at our table, Douglas snickers, “What could you possibly use a knife like that for?”

“Hey, it’s part of his uniform,” I say. “Someday, I’m going to get YOU one like it, only yours will be a Winnie the Pooh knife.”

Mike Breitbach joins us for a photo outside his restaurant

and we strike up a conversation with a biker couple from Iowa with Minnesota connections. The guy’s wearing an iron construction company cap with the tag line “Our erections are harder and stay up longer.” I comment on it and he and his wife both laugh. “I’m careful where I wear it,” he says.

On our return to the campground, we stop at a scenic overlook. A woman at the far end of the parking lot packs up her portable cheese and honey stand and shouts out to us, “Great day for a ride, huh?” It’s not common for a woman stranger to initiate conversation with bikers, especially when she’s all by herself. We immediately saunter over to chat and get a closer look. Mid-to-late thirties and pretty good-looking. Great smile. No dummy, as she probably sells a ton of cheese and honey to aging bikers like us who, on days like this with an extra shot of testosterone flowing through our veins, are an easy sale.

She gives us directions to the liquor store in nearby Guttenberg where we inquire if the Gallo brothers can join us around the campfire. Alas, they’re not available so we settle for some Zin that’s a notch above Boone’s Farm and head back to our campground, once again in heaven as we roll through hills and valleys bathed in the fading golden sunlight.

The campground’s firewood is a tad too green to get a rip roaring fire going, but it lasts just long enough for us to relive the day and for Winterer to enthrall us with some of his Iron Butt stories. We’re too tired to completely drain the Zin so we pack it in around 10 PM. The Wild Ones we’re not. As tour leader, Douglas promises us hot, drip coffee by 7 am. “This is the Platinum Tour, boys!”

The next morning he whines a bit when I fess up to using his only coffee filter as fire starter last night, but no matter, the man delivers. We wash down some perfectly bad donuts and are back on the road by 7:30 AM.

Early morning fog nestles in the valleys as we make our way to McGregor. The Jims decide to take in the 8 AM Mass at the local Catholic Church, so I head downtown in search of more coffee and a good spot to snap a photo of them when they come looking for me.

We’re soon in extreme SE Minnesota’s Bluff Country where we load up on breakfast in Caledonia. A five-mile stretch of the road to Houston turns out to take the cake for the weekend — a dip or an incline on nearly every tight turn. I’m working the Beemer’s brakes and throttle as best I know how. I know that I won’t soon forget this roller coaster ride.

We take a final break around 1:00 PM at an Arby’s off Highway 52 in Rochester. “On a scale of 1 to 10, how was it?” asks Douglas. Winterer’s quick off the line. “9.5. The heat was the only factor preventing it from being a ten.” I agree, but during the final 50 miles back home, I disagree. The heat helped to make the trip more memorable… and gave it its name.

Update: See the complete photo album for the trip