The Long Way Home
“The motorcycle is like a marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it,” wrote the author John Steinbeck. I’ve been mulling over those words lately, letting them roll around in my head like the hum of my bike’s engine on a long stretch of road. There’s truth there, a kind of quiet wisdom that only reveals itself after miles of asphalt and a few close calls.
Almost all people with transportation toys—cars, motorcycles, horses, bicycles—lack a destination. Sure, we’ve got places to go, errands to run, but that’s not what I mean. It’s not just enough to ride; we need goals, a mecca, if you will. Something that pulls us forward, that gives the journey a heartbeat. For me, it’s not just about getting home—it’s about how I get there, what I see along the way, and who I’m thinking about when the road stretches out before me.
This story started out as a simple tale about my ride home, a straightforward recounting of miles and moments. But I am now more torn, my thoughts drifting toward an upcoming birthday—another trip around the sun—than the act of writing about traveling. Most people my age don’t do what I do. They don’t sling a leg over a motorcycle and chase the horizon, nor do they take the time to scribble down their thoughts or adventures. I suppose I’m an oddity in that way, a man who finds solace in the rumble of an engine and the scratch of a pen—or, more often these days, the tap of keys on a laptop.
Eventually, I think, everything I write might take on a life of its own. I can see it growing bigger and longer, sprawling out like the coastal roads I’ve been riding. If I were writing a book, I’d dive into far more detail about the ride itself—the way the throttle feels under my grip, the sting of salt air on my face, the way the landscape shifts from rugged cliffs to rolling dunes. I’d tell you about the near-misses, the moments of pure joy, the times I’ve stopped just to breathe it all in. But for now, this is a blog, a snapshot, and I’ll keep it shorter than my imagination wants it to be.
If you haven’t yet figured it out, this is a story about motorcycles, my love for adventure, and words to my loving wife at home who supports me in every endeavor, even reading my stories, no matter how imperfect they are. She’s the compass that keeps me pointed home, the reason I can chase these roads and still have a place to land. I think about her now, imagining her curled up with a cup of tea, skimming these words with that patient smile she’s perfected over the years.
And of course, we all think we have way more time left in retirement to do all the things we aren’t doing now, don’t we? That’s the great lie we tell ourselves: there’s always tomorrow. More rides, more stories, more chances to say what matters. I’m not so sure anymore. Time has a way of slipping through your fingers like sand, especially when you’re staring at it from a place as timeless as the Oregon coast.
A friend of the family gave me a great gift yesterday that I’m now savoring today: a home to spend the night in, perched right on the edge of the Oregon coast, overlooking the vast, restless Pacific Ocean. It’s not just a house—it’s a front-row seat to nature’s grand theater. Honestly, just a short distance away, the waves crash toward my barefoot feet, separated from me only by a pane of glass. I can see and hear every wave as it roars ashore, a symphony of power and rhythm. In the background, beautiful music plays softly, a counterpoint to the ocean’s wild song.
Oh my God, this is a perfect place to write! The sand from my viewpoint is beach-like, inviting, and cold—smooth underfoot in my imagination, though I haven’t stepped out yet. I see myself walking on it, tracing a path along the shore. The sand dunes rise gently, dotted with windswept pines and scrubby shrubbery, and a drop in elevation is all that now keeps me from wandering down to the water’s edge. Besides, it’s warm inside, and I’ve got YouTube music streaming through the room. Ed Sheeran’s “Perfect Symphony” fills the air now, a duet with Andrea Bocelli that weaves English and Italian into something transcendent.
The lyrics wake your very soul. Imagine someone speaking to you like this, their voice soft and sure:
“Baby, I’m dancing in the dark with you between my arms. Barefoot on the grass, listening to our favorite song. When you said you looked a mess, I whispered underneath my breath, ‘But you heard it, darling, you look perfect tonight…’”
I close my eyes for a moment, letting the words sink in, picturing my wife—my constant, my home—smiling at me across some quiet evening years ago. It’s a song that feels like a memory I haven’t lived yet.
This is a perfect spot for writing, no question about it. But yes, there are distractions swirling around me. For example, I can see a boat pounding its way southbound through the waves—not a large vessel, but one closer to shore than I’d ever dare to be if I were at the helm. It’s battling the tide, a speck of defiance against the ocean’s might. Then there’s all this custom furniture I’m now admiring: a rocking chair carved with care, a front door with intricate grain that tells a story of its own. They pull my attention, little anchors in the room that ground me when my mind wants to drift.
To make a very long blog short—or at least to try—I’ll steer myself back to my original intent: the long ride home. I’ve been on Highway 101 now for what feels like forever, a ribbon of road that hugs the coast and cuts through forests, towns, and time itself. For miles and miles, I’ve passed bicycles—not the casual kind you and I might ride on a whim and then tuck away in a garage, but adventure bicycles, kindred spirits to my adventure motorcycle. These rigs are loaded down with panniers, the cyclist’s equivalent of my own gear, packed to the brim like pack mules trudging across a frontier. The pedaling power amazes me—human endurance distilled into every turn of the wheel. I wouldn’t advise any of my riding friends to try a few miles in their shoes; they wouldn’t stand a chance against that kind of grit.
The road has its own personality today. Earlier, I rode through a stretch where the fog hung low, wrapping the pines in a ghostly shroud. The air smelled of damp earth and salt, a scent that clings to your jacket long after you’ve stopped. I pulled over once, just to listen—to the distant crash of waves, to the wind rustling through the trees, to the steady thrum of my own heartbeat. It’s moments like that when I feel most alive, most connected to the machine beneath me and the world around me.
And darling, I will be loving you till we’re seventy. That’s not too long from now, I realize with a jolt, so maybe I’ll have to up those numbers—eighty, ninety, as long as the road will carry us. And baby, I’m (also) now just stealing words from a song I just heard: “My hair’s all gone, and when my memory fades…I know you will still love me the same.” It’s another Ed Sheeran line, from “Thinking Out Loud,” that slipped into the playlist and lodged itself in my chest. My hair’s not all gone—not yet—but the gray is creeping in, and I can feel the weight of years settling into my bones. But she’ll still be there, I know it, just as I’ll be there for her.
And that, my darling, is all I have to say to you now. The ride’s not over yet—I’ve got a couple hundred miles left to weave through, a few more curves to lean into, a few more sights to tuck away in my memory. I’ll see you in two days, when the tires finally stop rolling and I’m standing at our door, helmet in hand, ready to tell you all about it in person.
Trawlercat Chronicles 