Nothing keeps the Wild Rose Squad from Canada. Undeterred by attempts ruined with rain, terrible traffic or broke down bikes, this smaller, quicker offshoot of the Wenatchee, Washington based Mild Hogs touring group always returns. Despite life’s determined pull to keep us shackled to our daily drudgery, we break free and head north during this same time window each year.
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Every hero battles an enemy, achieving their glory by overcoming foes that cause corrosive self doubt and questioning of their skill. This fire of testing purges the slag and hardens their resolve, screwing their courage to the sticking place despite violent opposition. In World Superbike racing, that violent opposition weighs just 370 lbs. with over 230 horsepower.
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We all have our local roads that we hold dear, the hidden gems, the secret stash of perfectly paved paradise that you safeguard lest the masses descend and destroy your hidden haven. It might be as short as a few miles or as long as fifty, but it’s your well-worn friend in the dance. You keep its location secret, its very existence guarded, the details only revealed on a “need to know” basis to those worthy of your trust and possessing proper riding abilities.
I will now violate that trust…
An old tire, a long wood screw, a power drill, a tire repair kit, and a rather enthusiastic motorcycle “do-it-yourselfer” with a quirky sense of humor…what could possibly go wrong here?
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Hit the reset button on all of the stereotypes you once held about the Pacific Northwest, i.e. it rains all the time, the locals are grumpy, the beer is warm and the roads are crap. True, there is a tiny spot in the state where disgruntled natives seek shelter in the local Starbucks, staring into their devices while moss grows between their toes. However, there’s more to the story.
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Too often, kind words spoken about someone are said when it’s too late. A memorial service is the wrong time to express the influence a person had on your growth, the way they counter-steered your development in the right direction, how they shepherded your life. I will not make that mistake.
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The sign in the truck made my head tilt to the side with curiosity, like a Labrador hearing the far off squeak of a chipmunk. It was a worn, hand carved wooden sign that the muddy truck displayed proudly on its back window as it hauled a rack full of dirty snowmobiles. It declared a simple, often misunderstood saying: Loud Pipes Save Lives.
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I had a new mission. My crusade was to seek the American ideal of love for our fellow countrymen everywhere I rode. The quest took me three weeks, covered eight states and over 4,000 miles. What I found brought joy, pain, and changed how I ride and write forever. All because of a quilt show in the small hamlet of High Plains.
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