“The thing about passion is, you don’t summon it—either you have it or you don’t.”
– Anonymous
Day 6: Portland, ME – The Rhythm Takes Hold (September 20, 2022)
I’m deep into this Vermont motorcycle ride with two old friends—John, the puddle-hunting prankster, and Teri, his steadfast pillion warrior—and then there’s Kip, the guy that put this all together and invited me to share in the cost of riding a five state ride. We’re now chasing backroads and the thrill of the unknown.
By today, day 6, we wake up naturally, no alarm clock needed. Our bodies, minds, and souls have fully adapted to the task at hand. We’ve become a well-oiled riding machine, synced to the rhythm of the road and to each other—like Roman soldiers forged in the fires of ancient campaigns. We’ve either survived the fight for another day, or our ordeal has turned against us. There’s no in-between. We sense every curve and shadow in our surroundings, even on unfamiliar roads. The bike? It’s now as accustomed to us as we are to it.
We stirred in Portland to a merciful fifty percent chance of rain—down from yesterday’s relentless 100%.
Today, safe in my home in Southern California, I woke to that Facebook memory: three years ago to the day, when I was knee-deep in Vermont’s twisting greens, riding with the wind in my face.
But the real kicker? The flashback to day two of that trip—the large Vermont doe who must’ve been running away from a predator in hot pursuit when it leaped in a single bound out of the forest and directly onto my groin area and fuel tank of a nearly new rental Triumph Tiger motorcycle.
One second I was leading the pack, throttle steady on that sun-dappled forest service road, the scent of pine thick in the air, our first Vermont covered bridge just a few miles ahead. The next, a flash of tawny fur and wide, panicked eyes exploded from the underbrush, slamming into me with the force of a freight train. Her front hooves clipped the handlebars, her body folding over the tank like a living battering ram, the impact jarring my arms to the shoulders and sending a shockwave through the bike’s frame. And in that moment, the speed sped up so fast that it was all a blur to me—the world tilting into a kaleidoscope of green and gray as the Triumph fishtailed wildly, tires losing traction against the gravel and dirt. The Triumph that I just started earlier bonding with now catapulted “us” down the forest service road, a chaotic tangle of deer, motorcycle, and adrenaline, the doe’s weight pinning me forward as we slid and bucked over a nicely maintained Vermont forest road. Branches from nearby whipped past like vengeful spirits, the engine was still roaring in protest until, with a final, bone-rattling thud, we separated in a heap of broken plastic parts and twisted metal.
Naturally, I survived—maybe four more of my nine lives lives to go, but the deer clearly broke its rear right leg, the limb twisted at an unnatural angle, which I could see from my prone vantage point amid the scattered leaves and skid marks, her labored breaths echoing my own as I lay there, helmet cracked but intact, wondering what other parts of me were now broke or broken—ribs? Collarbone?
The dull throb in my right thigh area was already whispering the answer.
John and Teri screeched to a halt somewhere behind me, seeing the entire thing, their shouts cutting through the haze, but in that suspended second, it was just me and the doe, two wild things caught in the road’s unforgiving grip. A stark reminder that even riding in paradise, the road demands respect. Hours later MotoVermont motorcycle rentals picked up the bike and drove me to the motorcycle hotel. On the porch was a group of Harley riders who now saw me limping in. A little accident? Deer I added. And before too long I was knee deep into the story. One of them now handed me a beer. I was the center of attention. I was forced to repeat the same story over each time it became more detailed. I could now even see the deer’s eyes.
The next day I woke up, a bit sore and bruised but geared myself up in the ultimate riding machine armor. Topside: my BMW Triple Black jacket and matching rain shell—battle-tested in rain tunnels, naturally. For the lower half, Frog Toggs, the bargain-bin kings of wet-weather riding. And yeah, they deliver. Once the ride’s done, though, you toss ’em like a spent Harbor Freight tool—disposable heroes for disposable downpours.
Today, we shadow the U.S./Canadian border, carving toward the remote speck of Island Pond. Our night’s haven is the Essex House and Tavern, with lunch plotted at the Wilderness Restaurant in Colebrook, New Hampshire—a perfect pit stop amid the pines. By definition, we’re all cut from the same cloth: adventure seekers who thrive on great risks, unafraid to upend our lives—even just a bit—for a taste of the different. We’re content to roam our own continent’s edges, tracing some of the world’s most stunning countryside. A dash of adventure? It’s the spark for our mental and physical fire. In these somewhat aged years, we’re stoking that passion for motorcycle riding like embers refusing to die.
In 1775, New Hampshire fired the first shot in the fight for independence from England. The state also claims Alan Shepard, the first American in space, born in Derry—his historic 1961 launch a giant leap for a small-town kid. And tragically, Christa McAuliffe, the first private citizen bound for the stars, hailed from here too. RIP.
Days 7–8: The Grind and the Glory
The miles blurred after Island Pond: rain easing into tentative sun-breaks as we snaked south through Vermont’s emerald veins, dipping into Massachusetts for a lobster roll that tasted like victory, then looping west into New York’s Hudson Valley for a night under star-pricked skies.
A flat tire on Mount Washington tested our Roman resolve—John cracking wise while Teri held the flashlight steady, me wrenching away like it was just another campaign scar. Wildlife? It whispered but didn’t charge; shadows in the brush stayed put. By now, the bikes hummed like extensions of our veins, and the group’s banter flowed as easy as the Kancamagus Highway’s curves.
Passion? No summoning required—it burned steady, fueling detours to forgotten diners and overlooks where the foliage ignited like Roman fire arrows.
Day 9: Final Pull – Ben & Jerry’s & The Long Goodbye (September 24, 2022)
“If you haven’t learned the meaning of friendship, you really haven’t learned anything.”
—Muhammad Ali
Today is the last day of our 9-day MotoVermont ride. Ben and Jerry’s was certainly not part of our planned itinerary, but the “must-visit pickings” after riding through five states are now few. No trip to Vermont would be complete without a stop at the iconic ice cream factory in Waterbury—a sweet, creamy reward for miles of twisting backroads, crisp fall air, and the rumble of engines echoing off green mountains.
We pulled up to the visitor center just as the morning fog lifted, helmets dangling from handlebars like trophies. The group—me, John and Teri, plus a couple of locals we’d picked up along the way—was buzzing with that end-of-journey high.
Inside, the factory tour was a whirlwind: churning vats of Chunky Monkey and Phish Food, free samples that melted faster than our fatigue, and a gift shop piled high with cow-themed merch.
Laughter filled the air as we debated flavors like old philosophers—Cherry Garcia for the purists, or something wilder like Imagine Whirled Peace?
But it wasn’t just about the ice cream. This stop crystallized what the whole ride had been about: serendipity, forged in the fires of shared survival—from Portland’s downpours to that deer’s wild leap onto my Triumph. We’d started in New York, snaked through New Hampshire’s White Mountains (firing that revolutionary spirit anew), dipped into Massachusetts for salty redemption, and saved Vermont’s leaf-peeping glory for last.
Rain-slicked roads tested our skills one day; that Mount Washington tire fiasco tested our patience the next. Through it all, the unspoken rule held: ride your own ride, but never leave a brother—behind.
As we saddled up for the final leg back to the border, the Ali quote hung in my mind, echoing the anonymous truth of passion’s unbidden flame.
Friendships forged on two wheels aren’t planned—they’re earned, one mile at a time. We’ve stoked these embers across states and seasons, proving that in our “somewhat aged years,” the road’s call doesn’t fade; it deepens.
MotoVermont wasn’t just a route; it was a reminder that life’s best detours feed the soul.
Until the next ride…
Trawlercat
Trawlercat Chronicles 