Motorcycle: The Only Real Way to Travel

I fired up my motorcycle and rode away from my modest ranch style house. There was much on my mind, and I hoped a jaunt down the highways would help me sort out my thoughts. As I rode through the neighborhood, I could smell the aroma of honeysuckle. It was then that it really hit me. I wouldn't have even noticed the honeysuckle if I'd been traveling in my car. It was such an awakening that I paid close attention to the smells, sights, and sounds as I traveled.

Have you ever noticed the pungent smell of fresh asphalt? As I rode over stretches of freshly built road, I remember that I've always associated that smell with progress. I was raised on a dusty gravel road, and when the county finally tarred the road, the rich aroma of tar told us that civilization was on the way to our farm.

Continuing on my journey, I rode past a hayfield that had just been mown. I immediately associated that smell with my childhood and the endless miles I walked alongside a hay wagon throwing bales higher and higher. Each year it seemed as if I could throw them a little higher and a little farther. I inhaled deeply and for a moment, my limbs felt as if they were again seventeen. I wondered what other reminders there would be on this journey.

In the distance I beheld a whiff of smoke. Instead of a normal trash fire, someone was actually barbecuing with charcoal. What is it about the smell of lighter fluid and ignited charcoal that excites me? Perhaps it's the memories of family gatherings where we would stand around the grill watching the coals turn white. Finally slapping pork steaks onto the grill just to hear the welcoming sizzle. I slowed a bit to enjoy this rich aroma before cracking the throttle and continuing my journey.

Not all things discovered on a ride are positive things. A few miles down the highway I passed by the carcass of a deer that had been hit by a truck a few days prior. It carried the smell of death to remind me that nothing is perfect and nothing on this earth is forever. The stench seemed to travel with me for a while as if to remind me that I had better enjoy the time I have, because death will stop us in our tracks.

As if to clear my head, I throttled a little higher until the big twin was sailing down the highway. Finally slowing down as I approached a small town, I inhaled deeply and was transported to another place and time. Some merchant had parked by the side of the road and was cooking and selling kettle corn. Underneath my helmet, I grinned widely. I remembered the happy hours running through the fairground at the St. Francis County Fair. The kettle corn, grilled burgers, and corn dogs served to remind me that even as a grown up, I must never get too busy to play. There should always be a time for a ride on a Rock-O-Plane or a Tilt-a-Whirl.

Riding through the small town, I traveled for a while behind a large diesel truck. The smoky aroma of diesel fuel instantly assaulted my senses. My memory was instantly stimulated as I remembered my family going to the bus stop to pick up my sister when she worked out of town. I'd see people coming and going on those huge silver Greyhound buses, inhale the aroma of the fumes, and think to myself, "Everybody is going somewhere but me. Some day I'm going to go somewhere, too." I no longer live in that small town. I've made my home in several states, and enjoyed cultures around the United States. I guess I finally did go somewhere.

Speeding through a weather front, I thought to myself, "It smells like rain." People laugh when I say this and they ask me what rain smells like. The only way I can describe it that rain smells like a rusty screen door that has just been rained on. When I ride my motorcycle and I'm greeted with that smell, I know it's almost time to find a place to ride out the storm. It always serves to remind me that our lives are never at a constant. We have times of great joy, times of monotony, and times of great storms. When we travel through these times, they shape us into who and what we really are. The most important thing about the storms is to not ride them out alone. Share the experience with friends and loved ones. Make them your place of shelter.

Returning home I continued to allow the smells of the open highway bring memory after memory to my cluttered mind. By the time I had pulled into my own driveway, my mind had calmed and I was thinking clearly. Each memory put my present into perspective.

Pulling the motorcycle into the garage, I shut it off, removed my helmet, and listened to the bike cool in the darkness. Inhaling one more time, I smelled a pot of fresh coffee. I smiled, dismounted, and walked into the house. The smell of home.