There is always two sides to the same wooden nickel. My last post told you of the events of my travels to the 2026 Sturgis Rally, but there is, of course, the story that lives on the other side of said nickel.
This rally for me almost didn’t happen for various reasons. For I’m not sure why the struggle, but for the first time that I can remember, every day I kept talking myself out of going. I touched on it in the previous post, with my Road King having an issue, the Toys ‘r’ Us tent, the heat and whatever else I could come up with, I felt like for once this 12 o’clock hour clause was actually going to be implemented. Now that’s just crazy talk.
The truth is this my gut was telling me not to go. My head was telling me one thing, my heart was telling me another and my gut in all it’s glory, was telling me not to go. A little known fact about me is I dream every night, in detail. I usually can’t remember much after I wake up but sometimes I do. Some dreams are vivid and in color, some are on repeat, but nonetheless, every night. Do I usually listen to my gut? I always take it into consideration, but for me I’ve purchased more lottery tickets based on this midsection of my body with no results, so there’s that. But these dreams…
As motorcyclists, there are lots of things we must consider and one of them is whether or not this steed we straddle is going to get us there and back. I may have this carefree way about me with a ‘send it’ attitude, but this is serious business. Breaking down on the way to work is one thing but when you need to figure shit out on the side of a road with help hours away, it takes on the classic scenario of the old Tracy Lawrence song Find Out Who Your Friends Are. Rolling my pant-leg up for help went away in my mid-20’s and besides, when I pull my helmet off and set it on the road next to the motorcycle as the universal sign for help, the biker community usually comes running. Did I mention these dreams?
It truly was more serious then I make it out to be. There were plenty of Rally updates on social media about the many early-rally accidents, and over the years I know this is always a possibility. New riders, old riders alcohol and just people not paying attention can make a fun event not so fun. All this along with these dreams of previous rallies where close calls that I remember came back to life. I was completely in this head of mine with the what-if’s and maybe’s that I wondered if it was worth it. I hadn’t actually ridden to the rally for the last three years, and I also wondered if the old man in the mirror could actually do it anymore.
I needed to prove it to myself. I needed to get back to this ride, to this place in my head where life lives
Send it. Those words keep coming back to me. I needed to prove it to myself. I needed to get back to this ride, to this place in my head where life lives. I needed to be the young man that still gets up in the morning thinking he can do anything. The two sides of the same wooden nickel – How old you are versus how old you feel. Internal struggle versus life’s real struggles. I’m not dead yet, and why all the worry? Maybe it’s the fear of letting myself down, but for crying out loud I let myself down every day with my eating habits.
I needed this ride. Not so much to Sturgis, but a ride far enough to get out of my own head. I needed this ride to know why I ride and in some way to prove that my gut isn’t always right and my dreams are just that. It was a good rally for me although it was a quick trip but with many hours in the saddle to put my head in a better place. You know, like inside my helmet.
Well, for a few weeks prior to this year’s 86th annual rally I wasn’t sure I was going to make it. I always have the clause written in that the plug can be pulled right up to the last minute and the trip could be canceled. This year I felt like things were just working against me and due to poor planning (zero planning) the heat, this ridiculously small three-man tent I’ve only used once before, and a few weird dreams telling me to pull the plug. On top of that, I needed a new back tire to make the trip and due to once again, poor planning (no planning) I had to get it installed at work a couple of days before. Oh, and did I mention, on a morning ride to work just a few days before all this my Road King went into limp mode at a stop sign and just like the the term “limp” I made it to work without any throttle. Ugh. After Wayne put it on the lift, it was determined that we don’t know exactly the issue. So what do you do? You pack your suitcases and go. Screw it, let’s ride.
The ride there was pretty uneventful. Along the way I spoke with riders headed in both directions and I realized for some it was their first trip and for others it was a similar situation – last minute with minds changed to go is not unusual, and the length of how long to stay to be determined. Even I wasn’t sure how long I would be gone but deep down I knew it would be determined by weather, my mood or even the tolerance of a three-man tent. Little did I know…
750 miles later, I was confused. Not because of the heat or dehydration, but why it was 750 miles. I did go a different way but when Jeff leaves the station traveling at 70 mph, what time does he arrive at the rally? 11 and a half hours later I rolled into the campground. I needed a shower and to set up camp. Boy that tent looks really small. I throw all my gear in it and head into town to get something to eat. Once I got to Main Street I parked and headed to the Loud American for the usual beer and beef tip basket. It’s great walking around checking things out, and running into people you know. I’ve known Buffalo Mike for years coming to the rally and to see him within an hour of getting here is crazy. But is it really crazy? What’s crazy is this ritual of him putting his helmet with horns on my head. I guess we all have our thing and this happens to be his. He’s a great guy but if its hot and you’re sweaty, lets just shake hands. Hopefully, this helmet/horn/hair thing will end up in the Sturgis Museum as a tribute to the man who loves this rally.
After walking around a bit I decided to head back to Lamphere Campground and call it a day. As I parked the bike next to this 3-man dome tent I actually thought back to a couple of trips I made where I had the wrong rain suit packed. Apparently, I had mistakenly packed my wife’s rain suit for a trip to Boston, then forgot to take it out and replace with mine for the second trip with the Ride 50 at 50 boys. Anyone who has read any of my stuff knows the rain suit struggle was real. This tent is going to be a tight fit. I wonder who thought that three men would actually get into this thing. As I literally crawled into this torture device I knew it would be even harder to get out of in the morning.
Tuesday morning. Rough night sleeping even with ear plugs in, but necessary with Glenco Campground close by. I’m happy to have survived the night with a couple of hours of sleep, but I still need to get out of this tent with some dignity. I’m an early riser and it’s still dark but there is no way I’m even getting my socks on inside this dome from hell. Everything I packed with me is also in here so there’s that. I unzip the door and make my way outside and climb into an upright position, gather myself and head to the campground HQ for coffee. Last year while sitting at a table by myself, a guy and his girlfriend came over and asked me about my BMW F700 GS that was parked in front of us. We talked for about an hour about life and the rally, and all the things motorcycle related. He was a former member of a 1% club and had the tattoo of the club on his neck. I’ll admit, he is a great looking guy and a wonderful conversationalist, and I enjoyed talking to him and his girlfriend. The same thing happened again this year. Sitting at the same table, they walk up and sit down with me and we picked up where we left off. This to me is what this rally really is. We said what we always say – see you next year as hands were shaken.
I rode into town and parked on Main Street. Not much going on as it’s 8 am so I walk around a bit. It’s already hot and I’m figuring out what is on the agenda today. I walked over to the Indian Motorcycle display and met Pat Cornell who has set several world records on his Indian. I have followed him on social media during his record-braking ride and it was a pleasure talking to him. 146,000 miles in 146 days? I rode 750 yesterday to get to the rally and my ass was kicked. I didn’t mention that to him.
Back over onto Main Street, I see a guy changing his oil on a Kawasaki Vulcan 900. On Main Street. At 9 am. I have seen some weird stuff, but c’mon man. I’m not sure what the other guy is doing, but this is a first for me. (editor’s note; it was more serious than changing oil, But c’mon man)
Did I mention how hot it is? I walked over to a house on Lazelle Street where for the last 17 years a family has put up a stand and sold bottle water and soda. I have stopped here for years and watched their two girls grow up. I spoke with Kathy, their mother, as she was working the stand by herself until one of the girls comes to help. By the way, both girls are now flight attendants and they paid for college working during the rally. Again, this is what the rally is to me. Did I take a picture? Sorry, I didn’t. I walked over to he J&P Cycle corner and sat down on a bench in the shade. The rally is starting to get busier and I’m a people watcher so a bench is a great place to be. It never fails. Someone always sits down right next to me. I mean right next to me. This older guy and his wife were walking in the store and he said with a grump tone “I’m sitting here” and he did. She went in while he and I talked about the usual. They’re from Missouri and I heard about how she wants him to get a new helmet and he doesn’t want too. I heard about how she is ten years younger at 65 than he is. I heard how she brings the small dogs with them and he likes that. You know, life story stuff. She came back out and said let’s get you a new helmet – he said NO! and she walked back in. I said communication is the secret to a lasting relationship and he agreed.
Mid-day I decide to go to Rapid City to Black Hills Harley-Davidson. Big place, lot’s of vendors and some serious business of service, bike sales and parts and accessories. On the way over, east-bound traffic started to back up and of course mostly bikers and the like. It’s hot and not the type of situation that sells motorcycles if you know what I mean. This takes the fun right out of it. Thinking the worst is up ahead, after 30 minutes it ends up being a semi truck having mechanical issues. It could have been something worse.
I leave Black Hills Harley and head over to Texas Roadhouse just down the road. I take a seat at the bar and start the usual banter with those close by. I noticed they have a Texas Roadhouse Rally shirt and I tell the guy next to me that I’m leaving with one. He laughed, I laughed and it was game on. I asked the waiter and he was very sure that it wasn’t going to happen. I asked the shift manager and she laughed like I was kidding and said they’re only for employees. I said I would fill out an employment application if that would help. They weren’t hiring. But out of the back came the store manager with a shirt for me and I was shocked (not really). Maybe they’ll call me in to work a shift or two.
Heading back after scoring the shirt I hit hard rain on I-90. I had the idea all I needed was my rain jacket not pants on and clearly I don’t know anything. I pulled off at an exit followed by an old man and we sat at the stop sign while it rained. Knowing it wouldn’t last, it wasn’t worth putting my rain pants on over wet shoes and jeans, I stood there like a man and just let it rain on me. What about the old man? Yeah, I’ve had better conversations. He just wasn’t a happy guy. I even told him about my new t-shirt and he didn’t care. Seeing a small break in the rain, I took off for the Full Throttle Saloon.
Pictures won’t do it justice, so why bother? It’s big and loud and holds lots of people. The main reason I go is for the Michael Lichter bike show. It’s quiet in here and the custom bikes are great. And once again pictures won’t do them justice. I also spoke with a guy from Australia and we became fast friends. Lot’s in common except for his cool accent and full head of hair. I liked talking to him because he brings a perspective to the rally we in America often lose. He loves it here and the rally for him doesn’t disappoint. He shook my hand and appreciated the conversation. Likewise, my friend.
The Full Throttle Saloon is quite the place. I always go in the afternoon before the concert goers start to show up. It’s crazy enough but I don’t need more crazy. As I headed out the door to get on the Road King, I spot this individual just standing in the parking lot. I thought to myself, here’s a person who doesn’t fit in but also one that does fit into the Sturgis Rally. You can see it all here if you just look up from your phone. The people, the stories, the sights and sounds. It’s all here. For a couple of weeks, people come from all over the world to be who they want to be. Whether it’s authentic or just for show who knows or cares. But somehow I took his picture without him knowing. Welcome to the rally!
Time to head back to camp to figure out if I’m going to stay another day or head back Wednesday. Looking at the weather, there is rain in the forecast so I’m leaning on packing my suitcases and heading back. While thinking this through, I pulled up to my miniature size home only to see that one of the two poles that holds my whole life together has snapped. Yep, I might as well be sleeping in a bread sack. This was the sign I needed to pack up and leave. Oddly, I slept like a champ with a tent folding up around me. I woke up, slithered out of the tent, packed up and headed out just as the sun was coming up.
The first 180 miles we great. The temperature was cool but warming, and the Road King had been humming along great this whole trip. I stopped in Alliance Nebraska for gas and you could feel the heat rising. The rest of the ride will be miserable, and it was. But I rode like the wind, and for once I didn’t listen to music on the ride home. I thought a lot about stuff I haven’t thought of for a while. Things that needed to be sorted out or rehashed in this beautiful mind of mine. You know the one – right under this beautiful head of hair on my head.
What is next year going to be like? Have I had enough of this rally? I don’t know, but I have a few months to think about it. As for the other stuff, there will need to be more time sorting those thoughts out. After another 750 miles on Wednesday, I realized I rode there and back in 24 hours total on Monday and Wednesday and I spent a total of 36 hours at the rally. Worth it? It was, but it wasn’t easy. As for the tent? I left it in the trash. The Road King? Never missed a beat (I wasn’t worried at all).
Sometimes, the answer to most questions in this simple mind of mine is to grab the handlebars of my motorcycle and go for a ride. In my last post Tomorrow We Drive, I talked about winter riding and how we need to find those brief opportunities to get the bike out and depending on your region, those brief moments maybe few and far between. But if you’re lucky, this may not be a concern. I’ve heard there are parts of the country where you can ride in relative nice weather all year long. Oh, the luck.
The Winter Blues
I work in the motorcycle/powersports industry and I stare at this stuff all day long. I talk to many folks that buy bikes and such in the winter as well, and I guess in some sort of twisted way this is me subconsciously grabbing my handlebars to get a fix. You don’t have to always ride a motorcycle, but it helps when it comes to the I can’t ride today blues. Paycheck? Oh, that too. When you think about, talk about, work around and ride bikes all year long, and still want to go for a ride? Hi, my name is Jeff and I might have a problem.
“When you think about, talk about, work around and ride bikes all year long, and still want to go for a ride? Hi, my name is Jeff and I might have a problem.”
I’m pretty fortunate to do something I love. I’ve been lucky as an adult to really not have a job that sucked, but this particular industry has allowed me to be who I am without everyone thinking I’m crazy. There are a lot of great people I’ve met and gotten to know that I wouldn’t have otherwise had the opportunity to. Hmm, I wonder if they say the same about me? Of course they do.
Now that we’re a couple of weeks away from a new year, I know it won’t be long before the daylight lasts a little longer and the temperature becomes more comfortable. It’ll be fine, right? I’m not the only one thinking about this I’m sure. Well, except those living in a place where it’s unimaginable to reside somewhere that has seasons.
And so I sit on this cold, windy day looking at the forecast. Sunday looks like a possibility and it might be nice to ride around this small town I live in. Even a short ride can go a long way with me this time of year. And if the ride doesn’t happen you’ll at the very least find me at work thinking and talking about it.
When I look around this small town where I’ve lived for the last 55 years, it’s not hard to see it through the same eyes of when I was a kid. I couldn’t have had a better experience growing up here, and possibly so much so that it has kept me from taking the leap that so many have and moved on to bigger and maybe better places. Life is funny when we look back through those same eyes, full of nostalgia, all the while the future is happening every second around us. With each blink of the eye, the future creeps in, pushing those memories further behind us and dulling the edges ever so slightly.
We’ve seen these changes throughout the years here in town as every small town has. But when driving down the main drag each and every day, those changes seem to happen at a pace hardly recognizable. For someone who hasn’t been here for years, a drive down highway 4 through town may seem drastic. What used to be is included each time we hear I remember when.
There’s talk of pulling up the red bricks along the five blocks of Mackenzie street and replacing this stretch with a new surface. I understand both sides of the conversation of keeping the brick versus how much Mackenzie needs repaired. What’s not to love about the history, effort and appeal of a brick main. I’ve written plenty about growing up here and how this town influenced my upbringing. Even when describing to anyone who might ask where I live, I explain how we cruised main street and hung out at the pool hall. I brag about the freedom we had and the friends I grew up with and how some of my fondest memories happened on and around these same red bricks. I think you catch my drift, and maybe you’ve said the same.
Let’s not kid ourselves, Mackenzie street is tired and has been getting rougher in recent years. Obviously, if there were an easy and inexpensive way to repair the brick it would have been done. When the bricks were originally placed, traffic wasn’t anything like it is today. Trucks are bigger and heavier now and the traffic just isn’t the same as when we were cruising main back in the 70’s. You would have thought those bricks would have worn out then with all the back and forth we did on that street.
But, with everything I’ve written and remembered about this small town, it isn’t based on red bricks. Although Mackenzie street was built on a good foundation for the bricks to last this long, it isn’t about the bricks. We are the bricks. This community of those who live or once lived in and around White Cityis Mackenzie street. Each brick along those five blocks represents every one of us. I know not all have fond memories of living in White City, and for some it was just a step along their journey to where they are today, and that’s OK. For some it’s a multi-generational family of farming with their life’s work planted and ranched each year on the outskirts of town. You drove to work, brought your kids to school, and opened shop on this street, And for someone like me, who’s memories and appreciation for how I turned is priceless, thanks to so many of you who are still here with me. WE are the bricks that make up the five blocks of Mackenzie, and that won’t change.
I’m OK with leaving the bricks in place and I’m also OK with replacing them with a smoother surface. In a perfect world we could correct the issue and keep the brick. I also know that no matter the surface on Mackenzie, there isn’t any cruising down the main drag anymore, but I still have the memories. Keeping the brick won’t bring back all the businesses of a once flourishing small town but some of those old business owners still live here. That same road that took so many away to follow their dreams will also bring them back no matter the surface.
Looking around us, the change is inevitable. I love the bricks on main street because it’s a piece of this town that’s genuine. And the fact that this discussion is happening tells me there are plenty of folks that are passionate about this. I get it. Like I said, if the bricks stay I’m good with it. If the decision is to resurface it, I’m good with that as well. Maybe the bricks can be incorporated into a sidewalk around the park as a reminder of a community that appreciates it’s past – I don’t know.
When I drive through town and hear the familiar sound of my tires rolling over the brick, and my mind’s eye sees the store fronts and the familiar faces from 1975, it always takes me back to cruising on a Saturday night. I’m also dodging the ripples in the bricks as I’m trying to get down the street. For me the memories will always be here, and for everyone who built this community brick by brick, past and on into future, it’s a job well done.
If only it could talk. If only their stories were written on the walls by those who told them in the present tense. If you look just beyond the tall grass and the trees, or the boarded up windows, you can still see the life of many. Hard work and maybe a not-so-easy life, but hopefully a happiness, the kind we wish for everyone, to be the storyline. Get up every day and make sure chores were done, kids to school, and off to your job all the while worrying about the bills and the news of the times and thinking – no wishing – for time to slow down. You know, just like we do now.
Somewhere in a box, pictures tell the real story. Brown and ivory now instead of black and white, history was made before it was history, with every flash of the bulb
For every abandoned house, business or town for that matter, there are many chapters between the hard broken backs of those who built them. So busy living every day, focusing on the small and meaningless, and wandering through their lives. Pictures and family-time were priceless. As front doors were closed for the very last time, with a final look over the shoulder, another chapter of their life was started. Somewhere in a box, pictures tell the real story. Brown and ivory now instead of black and white, history was made before it was history, with every flash of the bulb.
So here we stand on the edge of a gravel road, our high tech camera or phone in our hand, thinking of the light and angle to capture what is impossible to see. The laughter and tears, the birthday celebrations and the celebrations of life. The wins and losses and the hidden demons that some families hide that needed to be overcome. Let’s face it, life at any stage can have some dark places that the warm glow seen from the street won’t shine upon. But yet we make the best of what we have.
Even as the proprietor spun the Closed – come again soonsign around of his business in decline – or for other reasons known only to those at the coffee shop – he felt the weight of his family and a community upon his shoulders that seemed heavier than the day before. But we know this new chapter brings the high that always comes after a low. We’ll make it. Somehow we always do.
At no point have I stood at my front room window looking out at the road wondering if somewhere into the future there will be an interested photographer looking at the proper light and angle of the broken glass and naked wood of this house long left alone, and a roof, tired and weak from holding perfectly still waiting for the picture to be taken. But I have witnessed a few local businesses, once thriving, with a bell hanging above the door, close. A place where folks would catch up on the latest, spend a little money, and come back soon. Silent now, but the appreciation lives on for those who dedicated their time serving their neighbors. Maybe, we should let them know this before the bell over their shop door stops ringing.
But not all lost and abandoned stories ended in despair. Folks are usually looking for a better life and those hard decisions made at the dinner table resulted in a move, be it figuratively or literally, to do just that. Move up, move out, expand or take a chance can be scary, but we’re willing to do it because in the end we believe in us. The remnants of what is left behind can be seen from the gravel road or from the curb on Main.
The old saying “the more things change, the more they stay the same” works most of the time but lets face it, change is change. This bridge is about two and a half miles from White City and I’ve taken my motorcycles here spanning the last 16 years or so because of the cool backdrop the bridge provided. But time marches on, infrastructure needs improving and old country bridges need some lovin’ too. To me this old bridge wasn’t bothering anyone but that’s just me being selfish.
Growing up in White City Kansas, there are many places where the past is still very present. Old buildings and houses, some abandoned, a brick street running through the heart of town, an old water tower most recently repainted and a whisper of the sound of a town once thriving. Don’t get me wrong, there is life in this town of mine but you have to know where to look. White City isn’t immune to progress, after all we have seen such progress in our city streets, Co-op, school and those entrepreneurs keeping their businesses going. It’s a great place to have grown up. But, back to this old bridge.
The first time I traveled out the bridge only to see trees had been removed and construction was under way, I was a little shocked. Word travels fast around these parts and I hadn’t heard anything about the bridge being replaced. I’m not sure the county owed me a phone call, but the surprise of what I saw left me a little sad. This was a great spot to ride out to and stop, kick rocks off the edge and listen to the water pass underneath. Once in awhile there would be fresh graffiti painted on the supports giving you, at minimum, the year of the graduating class, give or take a year or more, and maybe the status in relationships tagged with a heart. A place where feelings were expressed, good or bad, with a can of spray paint. As the construction progressed, the scene turned into an unstoppable step forward.
The small town guy in me will miss this bridge for many reasons. Just like the memories of growing up in a town at a time when every storefront had a business, the constant cruising down the street on Saturday night and being home at midnight was a thing. The motorcyclist in me will miss it for a peaceful destination and appreciation for it’s service to the county. Oh, and for a backdrop for pictures.
There are plenty of places like this – old and interesting – that would make a fine place to picture my motorcycles, but this place was special. I’ve grown up in this area and watched the landscape change around me, yet it basically stays the same. You only need to know where to look.
In what seemed like an eternity, I finally met the 3 Amigos David, Andrew and Adrian. Day one, I left Sunday morning to meet up with the trio at Blip Roasters in Kansas City Mo. A beautiful morning ride, I arrived a little early and met Ian Davis the owner of Blip. While having a hot cup of coffee, I engaged in conversation with a few like-minded folks about Blip Roasters and our dedication to these two-wheeled machines. Wonderful. Shortly thereafter and without much fanfare, the 3 Amigos rode in on their Indian Motorcycles and as we say in America – Welcome! After some handshaking and introductions, these three made themselves at home. A few pictures and some video were taken and we saddled up and headed west to Junction City. Just in time as the rain began to fall. Me on my Harley-Davidson surrounded by Indians.
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It’s interesting how a group of riders deal with the dynamics of riding and spending so much time together. These three have ridden roughly 1500 miles across the U.S. so far and they have it down. They’ve known each other almost a lifetime, so a lot can be said between them without saying word. Throw an American into the mix and it gives each of them an opportunity to take a mental break from the others. See? I’m doing good things for others all the time!
After we arrived in Junction City and after a nice dinner of burgers and beer, plans were made for day two. Originally, Dodge City Kansas was on the radar but when you’re this close to the World’s Largest Ball of Twine in Cawker City, you go see it. So day two we set off under cloudy skies with that sliver of blue on the horizon letting us know that the sun would be our friend for the day. After about 100 miles, we stopped in Beloit for a cup of coffee with the anticipation of twine right around the corner. We loaded up, turned on a couple of cameras mounted to me and my motorcycle and headed down the road. What a beautiful day, with clouds floating against the big blue sky.
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No one can be fully prepared for it. The quaint little town of Cawker City holds in its possession the envy of all twine connoisseurs, the epitome of dedication and the record for balls made of twine. I would hate to be the community with the World’s Second Largest Ball of Twine. It just doesn’t have the same ring to it. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that you can’t do something. Follow your dreams and whether its balls of twine or coming to America to ride motorcycles with your best friends, just do it. The people who call you crazy secretly want to do it as well.
After a brief stop soaking in the ambiance of burlap we once again headed west on highway 24 through the rolling hills of green beneath a ceiling of blue. This stretch of road was perfect for me to think about how this all came about. You can read the previous blogs I’ve written about David, Andrew and Adrian and their journey to the U.S. But as I rode along with them, I realized that in some weird way this was going to happen. How random is this? Is it random at all? Sometimes we make things happen and sometimes it all happens for a reason. Maybe both? I believe so. Did I change some little bit of their trip by riding with them? How did we get on highway 24 when the trip is supposed to be highway 50? Yeah, that’s the stuff rolling around in my head while I have these three following me through north-central Kansas.
The rest of the ride to Hoxie was uneventful but satisfying for me. I hoped in some way these three new how great it was for me to spend a couple of days riding with them. We stopped in Hoxie for some beef jerky and a drink, and I knew it was all coming to an end. We were 20 miles north of Interstate 70 where our ride would go separate ways. We did a short bit of video, said some warm goodbyes and fired up the bikes for the final ride as the “Four Strokes” as we headed south.
That moment – that last three miles summed it up for me. We’re all alike no matter where we’re from and we had just ridden across the state of Kansas together. Our pilot in the crop duster has no idea that he’s responsible for the exclamation point on this trip for me.
One of the most memorable times for me was about 3 miles north of the interstate as a crop duster came up from the field it was spraying. David was passing me shooting a little video and I pointed up at it. As David saw it circling around for another pass, he raced ahead to catch it on video as well. Andrew, Adrian and I slowed, David was about a mile ahead and I knew that he was setting up to catch me for the last time riding by as we went our separate ways. That moment – that last three miles summed it up for me. We’re all alike no matter where we’re from and we had just ridden across the state of Kansas together. Our pilot in the crop duster has no idea that he’s responsible for the exclamation point on this trip for me.
By the time I turned east heading back to White City, the 3 Amigos were a mile from Oakley where they would call it a day. I still had a few hours to go but I didn’t mind. This is where I do my best thinking. I won’t bore you with my ride but I will say that there were storms brewing in front of me and I had a date with a rain suit.
It’s a simple concept really. Write a blog about growing up in a small town and my experiences riding my motorcycles. This is how it all started and, for the most part, still is. As this blog has grown and more and more people from around the world read it, it tells me that this simple life of mine and my reflections on life from the seat of my bike have been enthralling, or at the very least humorous in some way. If nothing else it has given you a look at what goes on in this helmet of mine.
So where do I go from here? I fully enjoy writing and putting these thoughts I have out there, and I would probably still do this even if it was more in journal form. A book with real pages and an ink pen that writes in cursive hidden in the hallway next to my motorcycle helmet sort of journal. But if you know me, you know I don’t write in cursive, but in all-caps. Come to think of it, I type using four or five fingers out of the ten I have but it all seems to work out somehow.
Winter weather, like our age is all subject to perception. I’m still young at heart and there is plenty of beauty and nice days during the winter months – it’s all in how you choose to look at it.
As winter keeps me from riding as frequent, or more accurately my urge to throw away my underoos and pull up my big-boy underwear, I find the desire to ride to be that much more obvious. Winter weather, like our age is all subject to perception. I’m still young at heart and there is plenty of beauty and nice days during the winter months – it’s all in how you choose to look at it. You would think the cold weather wouldn’t bother me as much as I appear to have put on my winter layer of fat. Mind over matter…Blah! Acting like a kid in trouble, I walk past the bike in the garage on my way out the door trying not to make eye-contact with it. I’m sorry for all the nice days I didn’t ride, and I will try harder this year. But the blog goes on anyway.
It really is hard to believe this blog is going on five years now. Five years of letting my thoughts fall out of my head in this random order and putting it out there for anyone who wants to read it. I go back and read some of my past posts and it surprises me that I’m even capable of putting a sentence together. If there is one thing that surprises me the most is the top three post that I’ve written. White City Ks. 66872, Hello, My Name Is Jeff, and A Dip In The Road have been some of the most viewed posts I’ve had and I thank all of you for that. I do have my personal favorites as well and these three are right up there. Some posts are more personal than others and some don’t tell the whole story but for the most part the point comes across. And there are some things I have wanted to write about but just haven’t pulled the trigger. If you could see the draft section of this blog it would truly show how random I can be. Yikes!
It doesn’t take much to be considered big news in Small Town America. A house being built, new bleachers at the football field or a sidewalk that has been replaced with fresh concrete can top the list, and often do. Growing up in White City puts you on the side of being pro-active because for many years, if you didn’t have what you needed from the grocery store before 6pm, you just did without. If your car needed gas, you had to get it before the gas station closed, or wait until the morning when it opened. No, we didn’t roll the streets up at dark, unless it was dark at 6 o’clock.
But times do change and before you know it, the modern world creeps into these small, sleepy towns. I can remember the excitement when the Central National Bank expanded to include a drive-up window. I know, the hustle and bustle of the downtown area of White City can be daunting, but the convenience of the drive -up was welcomed. A few years later, the bank added an ATM machine in the lobby to make convenience more convenient but you had to get out of your car to use it. I don’t think the community could have handled the excitement of the drive-up ATM.
Our newspaper, The Prairie Post  (of The White City Register), used to print the actual paper the old-fashioned way. Big machines with lots of moving parts and loud noises with presses that weren’t good for anything but printing the good and bad news of the week, and they worked hard to put out the Thursday paper. Real ink and no spell-check made for a wonderful paper that when you read it on Thursday, most of the news had already circulated around town. But it is great to read the paper and see your name in it on occasion. With computers finally making it into what is now the Prairie Post, the paper became a more streamlined operation. Still once a week, but now it’s only the quiet sound the keyboard makes as the news is entered in. And the phone ringing of course as news is breaking.
When the gas station updated their pumps to take your credit card day or night, I went up the very first day (after 6pm) just to try it out. Now that’s pretty convenient. But I think most of the locals still like to go in during business hours to hear the latest news and have a cup of coffee. After all, the paper won’t be out for a few more days. Most of the White City community works out-of-town and as you would expect, we have seen the ATM and pay-at-the-pump before, but when it changes the landscape of White City, it’s like we’re seeing it for the first time.
Change is good and there isn’t anything wrong with a little convenience. But I still find myself in a small state of panic as my internal clock strikes 5:45 pm. Milk, bread, gas and cash? Check.
Walking down the halls of either the White City grade school or high school brings back plenty of memories. Not only was the grade school big for a small town, there were plenty of steps to keep Mr. Otis or Mr. Haun happy with our physical fitness. A small gymnasium was the focal point of a lot of activities like recess when the weather was bad, basketball practice when the big gym in the high school was in use, but it also served as a lunch room, and a place for prom to be held each year. How many times did I sit there in class smelling the lunch that I was about to eat? Plenty. And what about a milk break in the morning? Why yes, thank you. We spent a big part of our lives going up and down those stairs, from class to recess to lunch and back. How many times and how many steps? We’ll figure that out someday in math class.
Worrell’s house on the corner, which by the way is no longer there, took up some of the play ground, and next to their house was a make-shift baseball diamond where I broke my ankle in sixth grade. School was almost out for the summer in 1974 and now I had a broken ankle. Who knew that in a month I would have my first motorcycle and no way to ride it? Bummer. I think it was Stan and Ron, or maybe it was Rusty and Steve that carried me from the East side of the school property, past the wind-break/walkway that separated the high school and grade school buildings to the office. My mother was called to take me to the hospital, while some of my classmates told me to quit showing off in front of the girls! Whether or not that’s what was said, that’s what I heard. If you know my mother, she drove the speed limit to Junction City getting me to the hospital, all the while, with my leg crossed and my foot dangling. Good times.
We often think about those days when school was anything but fun, but it is a compilation of the good times and bad that makes the experience what it was. Worrying about homework or a test the next day wasn’t very productive and as we all know as adults, worrying about the small stuff still isn’t productive, but it’s in our nature. When our kids are going through school, we often worry about homework, tests and grades more than they do. But we all got through it. Some better than others, but that doesn’t take away anything from those that received less from the experience than some. We all have our own personal experiences and memories of those days and it takes getting older to put it all in perspective. Maybe that should be a class; “Perspectivism: A guide to putting it all together to figure it out.”
If you sit and think about all the bus trips, field trips, games (home and away), and where Mr. Albrecht took us in band, and how it all comes together with so many students and teachers trying to achieve the same goals, it’s amazing we accomplished it at all. Being an average student, using humor to mask a lot of insecurities deep inside that full head of hair I had at the time, I look back and wish that the guy I am today could have told the kid I was back then to relax and be yourself. Comparing now to back-then isn’t fair for me but that is how it is. We grow up and realize who we are and even though we feel we haven’t changed, we did – even if just a little. We find that strength inside and we become who we really are, even though it was there all along.
What seemed like an eternity to get through school, I look back and realize, just like today, the years fly by. Thanks to all of those that had a hand in my education and helping a small town kid realize those insecurities were all in my head. While humor will get you pretty far in life, it helps to have a few friends that are willing to carry you when you need help!
In what seemed like an eternity, I finally met the 3 Amigos David, Andrew and Adrian. ![20160509_124438_HDR[1]](https://jmadog.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/20160509_124438_hdr1.jpg)
Jeff Maddox 