I think I was born with the motorcycle genome. The appeal of a motorized bike had its roots at an early stage in my life. When I was young baseball cards would clatter in the spokes of my bicycle. Of course that wouldn't have happened if I had known what they would be worth years later.

I've been riding for over 40 years. The distances I travel now are much shorter than in my heyday. But there is no amount of money that can compensate for those memories. I traveled solo as, 'The Lone Wolf.' The funny thing is, I was never alone. Looking back in time an angel was always on my shoulder.



The driver of a car merely travels from one point to another. His destination is set by the paved highway. A motorcyclist on the other hand has the curiosity of a cat. A beaten path off the main road holds the allure of adventure. I wonder where that leads? Will I see some hidden beauty of nature nestled in the back woods? Two wheels give more freedom than four. We may share the road with the four wheelers and the giant 18 wheeled behemoths, but we are individualists.

My mechanized magic carpet was also my best friend. It took me wherever I wanted to go. New horizons were opened. A lure prevailed to explore the unexplored. There was also an unsung brotherhood. Back in the '70's when riders passed each other a sign of solidarity was shown. A raised arm with a clenched fist signified two brothers of the road.



On many a long and lonesome highway I would encounter another steel mounted equestrian. Whoever had the lead would gesture to double up. Two independent souls found themselves riding side by side. No verbal words were ever spoken, but a spiritual dialogue ensued during the entire encounter. Each of us kept a safe distance, almost as if we were repelling magnets.



When we finally parted a wave signaled our sign off. In that short period of time a kinship evolved. We both shared an experience with a stranger. Again the Lone Wolf ventured on. Cars cruised by with parents fearful to make eye contact, yet the children gave the peace sign. Truckers passed showing respect of the road as they gave a blast on their air horns.


 Looking over the handle bars you peered off into a distant focal point. Yet glancing down you saw the blurred asphalt racing past your feet. Slowly lowering your foot to kiss the ground caused the souls of your shoes to be sanded away
at 65 miles an hour. There was a unique freedom. Your racing steed was at your command. Goose the throttle and endorphins surged throughout your body.






As I watched America roll by on both sides of me, I viewed parts of this country unappreciated by the hurried traveler. Time and age have taken their toll. I no longer have the stamina to trek the long distances I once mastered. One thing is for sure though; those memories will comfort me until the day I die.