In the fall of 2011, against my better judgment and with no prior experience, I attempted to ride a motorcycle from a dairy farm in Upstate New York back to my home in Dallas, Texas. This is the long-winded account of that trip in easy-to-digest line segments. For earlier portions, go here: part 1
Uncle Dick and I woke at the same time. I made breakfast for both of us: a few eggs, bacon and toast with margarine. How a veteran dairy farmer ever permitted himself to buy margarine, I will never know. As we sipped weak coffee, Uncle Dick asked me a few questions about the trip, how long it would take, what kind of route I had planned. I was hoping for a kind of folksy confidence from him, but with every question, he would pause to look up at me with a paternal worry. There is nothing quite as sobering as having your dread validated. Meanwhile, the motorcycle I still had not seen sat in the adjacent shed. Continue reading
