The bike’s handlebars are bent so that I have to hold them at an odd angle just to ride straight.  I am more than a bit worried that at any moment the bike will fall apart, that the already cranky CB360 engine will explode and launch the front wheel off leaving me flipping around on the pavement again.

But with only a couple of turns left in the forest, I make the conscious decision to suck it up and ride like I mean it.  If there’s any one thing that caused the crash, and will cause another crash, it’s being scared.

Bicyclists are still running through The Tunnel Of Trees and at a moderately fast pace, I pass a couple as I lead Rob, Jon, my Dad and Jenny through the last few turns.  We come out of the forest and arrive at a big log cabin diner busy with bicyclists and quite a few Harley Davidson riders.  It’s about 1:30pm, and we’re pretty hungry.

I pull off my helmet and try my best to relax.  It feels a bit like I’m walking through a dream, I feel pretty disconnected.

“What, you’ve got a problem?” My dad yells.  I turn around and he’s not looking at me.  He’s still got his helmet on and he’s facing two bicyclists parking the bikes in yellow lycra.

“That pass was too close!  That’s dangerous.” One of them yells back.

“You’re dangerous swerving all over the road.  How about you let us decide what’s too close?” my Dad yells back through his helmet.  It’s a bit muffled, he’s still taking off his gear.

I have no idea what’s going on.  All I think about is that I can’t afford to kick these guys asses because the cop might come back and check my VIN

“We have three feet on either side!”

“So what?”

No, I can’t beat the shit out of them.  I start to calculate how far the cop could be since I last saw him.  How many bicyclists are there?  There’s some Harley guys here too.

“Nothing, it’s not worth it.” Says the bicyclist, as he motions for his friend to go inside the crowded restaurant.

I wasn’t that sure of what was going on before and now I definitely don’t know.

“What was that about?” I ask Jon.

“You made a close pass,” he replies.
“And one of the biker’s moved over and tried to block the rest of us.” My dad adds.

Did I? Did he? I’m not sure. There was probably some asshole biker that I had to pass on the outside. I think I remember some of them hogging the whole road. I think.

I can’t really think.

“We could have taken them.” Says Rob.

Yea, he’s right I think, as we follow them into the restaurant.

Table of contents for A Lap of Lake Michigan

1. The trip I didn’t want to start
2. Leg 1 addendum
3. I’ve never lost a bag before
4. We meet a serial killer
5. Help from Monster
6. Heart Surgery On The Highway
7. The Michigan State Bird
8. The Tunnel of Trees
9. Down
10. Insurance Claims

I always thought that if I were to go down, I would make sure that all my body parts worked before I got up. Check out myself methodically, like a computer starting with my toes and moving up one side at a time. No point in going fast, might break something that wasn’t broken before.

Instead, I immediately stand up.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” I keep repeating to myself. All I know is that my bike is somewhere in the middle of the road. Jon, Rob, my dad and Jenny are nowhere to be found.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, is the driver ok?” I wonder.

I take off my gloves and walk closer to the van, now the adrenaline is pumping through me. I feel like I can push over that stupid van for being there, but what I really want to do is tear my helmet off and throw it into the forest.

I walk towards the van and a line of bicyclists in bright yellow ride by me.

The left turn signal now touching the tank.

The driver gets out of the car, she’s an old lady, in a pink sweater shaking uncontrollably. The type who might have grown sons and looks forwards to church every Sunday.

“Are you ok?” I shout.

“Yes. Are you ok?” She meekly replies. It’s a good question. I still have all my gear on, my neck hurts a bit. For some reason, I think I slept funny on it. My hands are calm, and I take off my helmet as she says, “I’m going to get my husband.”

“What? Are you sure?”

Rob rides by, he doesn’t even hesitate as he parks his bike down the road in front of the illegally insured CB77. He immediately begins to pick it up as the other two bikes drive by to help him.

“Are you sure?” I repeat to the lady. The damage on the van is worse than me. I side swiped it, and bounced off. The door closes just fine as she gets back into the car and turns around. She lives right down the road, two or three turns at the exit.

I reassure everyone that I’m okay, and take off my gear. There’s a small hole in my boot, my gloves are bit torn up, my right side got hit harder but there’s damage on the left too. There’s a nice deep wide set of scratches about 2 inches around on my helmet in the back, might not have made it out alive without it.

The right shoulder.

Everyone works on the bike while I stand around taking in the situation. The bike is illegal, registered under a different make and model with fake plates. We’re still hundreds of miles away from home with out enough space to carry and extra person. And the bike isn’t even mine, it’s Rob’s and my dad’s. They trusted me to ride it because I’m the one who never crashes. Everything, the bike, their trust, our vacation, was broken.

“It’s okay,” I tell my dad, “when that lady and her husband come back, I’ll just pay them off. We’re 30 minutes away from a police station and none of these bikers are going to call the cops.”

The van drives back up and parks in the same spot. Out steps an old man, bald, flannel, and the perfect counterpart to the lady. He doesn’t seem particularly like the patriarch who would handle situations like these, but he’s a little more assured of himself. The old lady stays in the car.

“Dn’t worry,” he says. “I called the police.” And we stand around in the middle of nowhere exchanging information and uneasy small talk. It’s hot in the sun, especially with all my gear, which I begin to take off. Minutes pass, the old man gets in the car as I walk over to the pit crew working on the bike.

All googly eyed now.

The bike starts up, but the handlebars are bent. It is in poor condition, but it actually still runs. Rob rides in around in a small circle. Every so often, some bicyclists stop and ask if we’re okay. They’re not so bad after all.

In a way, we take similar risks and deal with the same shit. Bikes that break down, a love for mechanical things and the open road. Earlier we even saw a bicyclist that had gone down. I guess it happens to them too.

“Look,” I whisper to my dad, ”maybe I can convince him to call off the police. We can leave, everyone is okay.”

His look tells me he’s not entirely confident I can pull it off, but I think I can. I walk back over to the van. As I approach again, the old man steps out.

“Hey, you know, I don’t think there’s anything for the police to do here. You’ve got everything you need, we’ve got everything we need. There’s no reason for us to stay here.”

He thinks for a bit.

“I did call the police, and they are coming. You’re right.” I try not to crack a smile, “There is no reason for us to stay here, but you will stay.”

Then my dad walks over.

“We’re on a schedule here. We’re going to get going. We’ve been waiting for 30 minutes. Jeff will call the police and tell them not to come.” To which the old man replies:

“Yeah. Uh. Ok.”

But the police on the other end of 911 are not so understanding. The dispatcher tells me that since the accident happened on public land, the police have to check it out. He says they’ll probably be another 15 minutes, but he’s wrong. It takes them a total of an hour before the policeman arrives.

“Hello officer.” I say as he steps out of his car.

“Is that the bike?” He says.

“…yes…”

Table of contents for A Lap of Lake Michigan

1. The trip I didn’t want to start
2. Leg 1 addendum
3. I’ve never lost a bag before
4. We meet a serial killer
5. Help from Monster
6. Heart Surgery On The Highway
7. The Michigan State Bird
8. The Tunnel of Trees
9. Down
10. Insurance Claims

The day held a lot of promise as we started out on the back end of our trip. I hosed the bugs off my jacket and we sprayed down the motorcycles with the hotel’s hose. It was a cold morning, but the cleansing was almost ritualistic.

If somehow we pleased the machine Gods, maybe they could get the CB77 home safely. They had protected me so far. Even the bike broke down, I was the best to ride it. I figured I would be safe. I’ve never dropped a bike or crashed. An achievement which I am proud of.

Lined up for sightseeing.

Today would be more weary travelling on the CB77, but each mile closer to home would be one less mile we’d have to come back if the bike broke down. I tried not to think of it as I resigned myself to riding the CB77 for the day. We were in good spirits, there was an amazing section of road that had been part of the plan since day 1. When researching our route, I found it mentioned on the internet in several places.

It’s called the Tunnel of Trees, and I wish I never heard of it.

We first had to cross Mackinac Bridge, which by some measures is the largest suspension bridge in America. Motorcyclists we talked to on the way mentioned that it was an annoying obstacle on our journey, as the entire bridge is grated. Grated roadways mean the bike shakes while riding, and bridges mean wind and cold. We paid the toll, and hopped on.

True to the stories, Mackinac Bridge was very cold and very windy, but half of it was paved and the pace was brisk. We arrived on the other side, not even stopping to reflect on the milestone and our small victory. It was time for the Tunnel of Trees, and then breakfast.

Always in charge of the map, and riding the CB77 in front, I memorized the route we took. I looked for a certain road, but it never came. It wasn’t of much matter to me, the lower Michigan farmland was hilly and straight, and the day warmed up quickly. Despite the CB77 being in a clunky and terrible condition, I began to appreciate the wide handle bars, the predictable and easy torque, the feeling of leading the pack.

Not too far after the bridge we found a gas station and pulled over. I stretched my legs and filled up the gas tank.

“30 miles since the bridge. We should have hit the Tunnel of Trees by now,” I mused.

I looked at the map, we had driven parallel to the tunnel of trees. Although the tunnel of trees was only 15 miles long, we’d have to ride it once up and once back down just to get to where we were.

“A tunnel of trees? Who cares?” Jon said, “That’s called a forest.”

He was sort of right. The riding that we just did was pretty nice in it’s own right, and it was unlikely it was going to get any better. I didn’t want to stomach the feeling of reversing our progress so early in the day.

“Let’s do it,” my dad commanded, “Let’s just ride it and get breakfast after the first run.”

I didn’t want to, but I agreed. Everyone else followed. We caught the entrance a couple of miles down the road and headed up.

We passed a bicyclist headed the same direction, then another one, then a pack. Then about 30 more bikers. There must have been hundreds and they were headed towards the tunnel of trees too. And then I saw it, that familiar but elusive “S” curve sign. Next 15 miles. This was the real deal.

The road narrowed into one and a half lanes, but was perfectly paved. The edges were marked in brilliant white, and the road dipped, bended, and curved like babbling brook. It was beautiful, and the day was beautiful. Just me, the bike, and about a thousand bike riders.

My relation with bike riders has always been ambivalent. On one hand, I respect their choice of transportation machinery. Bikes are mechanically simple and beautiful and the relation to motorcycles is obvious. They obsess over their bikes and upgrade their parts just like Motorcylists. Bikers also deal with a lot of the same hazards, and there’s a certain hardcoreness to choose such a rugged lifestyle.

But on the other hand, I detest bikers who only obey the rules of the road when it’s convenient to them. I also think their spandex is stupid and biker’s crusade to make helmets mandatory is bad science. Biking has been proven to be no more dangerous than walking, and it seems almost an affront on my childhood to wear a helmet on a bicycle.

These bikers didn’t bother me though, nothing bothered me. I knew the CB77 was running fine. With no weight on the back and leading the pack, I began to push. Dad, Jon, Jenny and Rob fell behind. The rules had changed when we entered the Tunnel of Trees. It was now every man for himself and his own pace, and my pace was fast.

There was something in the tunnel, a dark spot. I hit it and my back tire slid wide, my heart jumped. But I didn’t shut the throttle or mash the brakes, I recovered but I wasn’t afraid. I was connected to the bike now, it was a part of me. It was perfect. I waited behind bikers until I saw the opportunity to go. Sometimes they waved me by, sometimes they lined up, but most of the time they kept riding 3 or 4 in a line and I had to wait for a big clearing. It was no problem, everything fell into place.

“S” curves the next 5 miles. “Darn,” I though, almost at the end.

Then, a downhill off camber blind corner. I took it, but went wide. Too wide, I didn’t set up properly and the skinny tires were wrongly on my mind. There was van there, a soft blue, and it stopped, it didn’t move out of the way. Why was the van there? It looked soft. I am going to hit the van, I am going to hit this van.

I hit the van and bounced off, the bike flew. Asphalt, sky, asphalt, sky, asphalt.

Sky. Peeking through the Tunnel of Trees.