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Outside the motel.

There’s a massive Harley-Davidson rally going on, and Dad is in the middle of it at a Harley shop. Not surprising that everyone is getting out to ride this weekend. Not surprising that everyone has Harleys in Wisconsin either. The mechanic “Monster”  is super nice, he offers us a chrome bolt which he hammers into place and some oil for the cable. It gives us enough confidence to keep going, at least to go get breakfast.

Outside the restaurant after Noon has passed:

The day warms up nicely and we ride through the landscape of Wisconsin while the sun shines brightly but the breeze keeps us cool. It’s green and lush, and we even start to see some trees change. Switching off bikes every now and then gives me a chance to reflect about the idea of riding four Japanese bikes as we wind our way into Michigan.

I sometimes that this would be the perfect trip if we were all on American bikes, considering the American automotive industry was born and died in the Midwest. Milwaukee and Detroit are home to everything, and both Harleys and Muscle Cars are one of the few products that America does best.

We drive into Michigan, and despite being delayed a couple of hours we are making good time. On the road, a string of American automotive gems comes the other direction. Deep purple hot rods, pin stripe muscle cars, and airplane (or is it boat?) inspired 50′s cruisers parade southbound one after another for about 20 miles.

We’re in the middle of nowhere, but it’s a classic car show meant just for us.

I come to realize that these American machines were made perfectly to do what I’m trying to do. Cruise, in style, with power in straight line. All the Japanese bikes we have are incredibly uncomfortable. We stop every hour or so, and I can’t stay on one bike longer than two stops without being in serious pain. One hurts my lower back, one my wrist, another one provides a constant pressure which pushes my nuts against the tank.

Nothing is falling off anymore.

I planned the route to stick along the coast, avoiding the Michigan areas you read about in the newspaper. We pass towns with sailboats and fudge shops. There are an awful lot of affluent white people with fanny packs and shorts, but oddly enough a good mix of leather clad bikers mixed among them. It seems there’s two types of people who go on road trips, the rich and the bikers. There’s probably a lot of overlap these days.

Or not. We notice in Wisconsin there are a lot of Harleys for sale on people’s lawns and on the sides of roads. Everyone has a Harley-Davidson and everyone is looking to sell it. Perhaps a sign of the times.

More clutch modifications, that cable isn’t suppose to go there.

Speedwise we start to build up confidence in ourselves as the sun starts to go down on day 2. Since we’re switching off bikes all the time to keep comfortable, each of us has a shot at the CB360T. On it, I pin the throttle and pass cars doing 75 at the CB360T’s max of 80. It’s a little slower than walking by a parked car, but it feels good to hear the bike respond as I get down into a racer’s tuck with my legs and elbows on the skinny tank.

“Every time you pass a car on the side and I follow, I shrug to the driver” my dad says.

The rest of the bikes of course have no problem with passing, even loaded down with gear they are much faster than any car I’ve ever ridden in.

We’re almost at the very tip of our trip, at the very top of Lake Michigan. I pick out a random Michigan town to make it to before the sun goes down. At this point all my destinations based on how big their names are on the map. Eager to make it to the next down and celebrate a bad trip gone good, I ride the bike as fast as it will go and I keep it there.

I hear a sound. It’s sudden, but persistent. It sounds like someone is hitting my engine with a hammer. I pull the clutch in, the sound persists. There’s nowhere to pull over on the side of the road, at this point it’s all farm land and nothing. But a mile down the road is a small hotel. It’s farther than I would like to ride, but I signal to everyone we’re making a stop.

Rob overshoots the breaking distance as normal as I pull in and pulls alongside me. I pull up my visor.

“There’s a noise coming from my bike”

“A noise? LOOK AT YOUR ENGINE!”

We could literally not get farther from home, the sun is going down, the next town is 20 miles in either direction. The only tools we have are monkey wrenches, and none of us have enough technical knowledge to even begin to fix an engine problem. I take a peek.

There’s a bolt, sticking out the side of the engine being pushed in and out. Like a jackhammer. I kill the bike. And boy, does it look dead.

That rusty bolt in the upper middle is suppose to be IN like the one to the right of it.