I didn’t think this would be my last motorcycle trip when I planned it. It almost killed me. If it had, I wouldn’t be telling you this story—Ross would.
Starting my senior year of high school, each summer Ross and I took a motorcycle trip some place for a week. Our rule was we couldn’t pay for a place to sleep. We would find somewhere out in the woods, in some field, anywhere we could set up camp for free. It was a carefree time and I looked forward to the trip each summer.
For some reason, our summer adventure in Kennebunkport, Maine, comes to mind. It was August 1975 and I was 18 years old. I was riding my Kawasaki S3 400; Ross was on his Norton 850 Commando. We were on our first trip to New England. I left my home in Quakertown, Pennsylvania, six days earlier, and headed up to Ross’s house in State College. From there, we made our way north through the Catskill Mountains along the Hudson River to Mount Washington. Kennebunkport was the last stop on our trip before we planned to head home.
I beeped my horn and motioned for Ross to pull over. We stopped on the side of the road, away from traffic, and Ross walked over to me. He was wearing a leather jacket and chaps over his blue jeans. “What’s up?” he asked.
“It’s getting late. We have to find a place to stay for the night.”
“You’re right. I saw a large field a few miles back. Let’s check it out,” Ross said.
We got on our bikes and returned to the field; it had waist-high grass and a grove of trees about 50 yards away. Ross started to ride toward the trees. This trip wasn’t our first rodeo, and we’d learned a few things from our past adventures. Once, we had had a bad experience setting up camp without first getting permission, which is why I beeped my horn and, when Ross turned around, I said, “We should ask permission first. Remember what happened in Franklin?”
He nodded. “You’re right.” He returned to the road, and we rode down a long driveway to a farmhouse on the right side of the field.
A man was standing in a trailer he’d hooked up to a tractor. We turned off our bikes and dismounted. The man jumped down from the trailer and walked over to us. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. My name is Scott, and this is my friend Ross. We’re on a trip from the Philadelphia area. We’re wondering if we could camp for the night over there in your field.”
The man sized us up, looking back and forth at us, and our bikes loaded with camping gear. “Philadelphia is a long way off. Do you do this often?”
“Yes. We go someplace every summer,” Ross said.
The man smiled. “Okay, you look like clean-cut young men. You can camp over there in the corner of the field.”
We thanked him, got on our bikes, rode down a gravel driveway that cut across the top of the field, and found a spot in which to camp. “Let’s go find a bar,” Ross said.
We ended up at a place called Jack’s. The gravel parking lot was packed. If we’d been driving cars, we wouldn’t have found a place to park. We left our bikes on either side of the front door and walked in. Johnny Cash was blasting, and the room was full of smoke.
Ross pointed to the bar where two stools were open. “Over there.”
We sat down and I put a ten on the bar. “I’ll get us started,” I said. In those days, we could drink most of the night for ten bucks.
The bartender walked up. He was wearing a T-shirt that exposed his muscular arms and tattoos. “What can I get you?” he asked.
“A shot of Jack Daniel’s and a Miller, we’d like a menu too,” I said.
The bartender returned with the drinks and a menu.
We both ordered cheeseburgers and fries. I held up my shot of Jack. Ross raised his and clinked my glass. It burned my throat as it went down. We smiled at each other. “I’m glad that farmer let us camp in his field,” Ross said.
“Me too. And it didn’t even rain today.”
Ross laughed. “I never thought we’d outrun that goddamn storm. There’s nothing worse than breaking camp when it’s raining.”
Soon, the bartender returned with the burgers.
“Another round,” I said.
We stumbled out of Jack’s after last call, at about two in the morning, shit-faced, two sheets to the wind. We rode carefully back to the field and stopped along the road. The lights were off in the farmhouse. I suggested we ride directly through the field to our campsite so we didn't wake anyone up. Ross agreed. He took the lead through the field, and I followed closely behind. I stood on the foot pegs of my bike, bending my knees, so it was easier to ride through the high grass. The fact that I was drunk off my ass didn’t help.
Then Ross disappeared! His red taillight was in front of me one second; then he was gone. I slammed on my brakes and stopped. I dismounted and slowly walked through the waist-high grass. There he was, in a ditch. A diagonal drainage ditch cut across the field, a ditch we hadn’t noticed earlier because of the high grass.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
He twisted the throttle. The rear wheel spun, and mud flew everywhere. “Get behind me and help push me out.”
“No fuckin’ way, I’m going to push. I’ll ride, you push.”
We switched positions. I twisted the throttle and, as before, mud flew everywhere. Ross grunted as he pushed the bike. Eventually, we wrestled it out of the ditch.
My headlight shone on Ross, covered in mud from head to toe. “I can’t climb into my sleeping bag like this. We have to go back to the beach so I can rinse off in the ocean.”
We had visited the beach earlier in the day. “I think the beach closes at sunset,” I said.
“Well, no goddamn way I will climb into my sleeping bag like this.”
We rode back to the Kennebunkport beach. Sure enough, an eight-foot gate blocked the entrance. On it hung a sign, “Closed at Sunset—No Trespassing.”
“See? Closed.”
I turned to walk back to my bike and heard a rattling sound. I whirled around and saw Ross on the other side of the gate.
“I’ll be back in a minute.” He ran toward the ocean about 20 yards away. I could see the white waves breaking in the moonlight.
A car pulled up to where I stood next to our motorcycles—a police car. The officer turned on his red lights, got out of his car, and walked over to me.
“What’s going on here, young man?” the cop asked.
I told him the story of our campsite, how we got permission to stay there, and how Ross got covered in mud. I left out the part about spending all night at Jack’s.
Ross was soaked to the skin when he returned from the ocean with his hair slicked down. He had his best sheepish grin on his face.
“That’s quite a story. Well, you’re staying at Sam Jamson’s farm. It’s good you asked permission. He’s a good guy. Go back to your campsite.” Looking at Ross, he said, “Let me open that gate first. I don’t want you climbing over the fence again.”
The cop opened the gate, and Ross walked over to our bikes. The cop turned off his flashing lights and drove away.
I looked at Ross and said, “Let’s get back to our campsite. We have a long ride tomorrow.”
It had been nine years since our trip to Kennebunkport. In that time, Ross and I had traveled up and down the eastern US on many adventures, visiting many places and meeting unique people. These trips involved too much drinking, stumbling out of bars far too late into the night, and riding back to our campsite. We were probably lucky to have survived.
I’m an average looking guy with a chunky build. I enjoyed too many cheesesteaks. I landed a well-paying job as a computer programmer and married the woman of my dreams. It was time for me to settle down. My wild motorcycle days were over.
Ross moved to Greensboro, North Carolina, and I was living in West Chester, Pennsylvania. It had been two years since we’d lived near each other. We had been talking about another motorcycle trip for some time, and now we were finally going to do it. We were talking on the phone about our impending trip. “You know, it won’t be exactly like it was before. I’m married now,” I said.
“Yeah, I know. Mr. Married Man.”
We agreed on meeting at our favorite campsite in Franklin, West Virginia, near Seneca Rocks, since it was halfway between our homes. Ross and I had visited this area often. It had many winding canyon roads, making it a perfect destination for motorcyclists.
Seneca Rocks is a razorback ridge that rises nearly 900 feet above the North Fork River. Spectacular views await anyone who can make the arduous hike to the summit. The peak is long and narrow, only 20 yards wide, making the view even more exciting.
Bill and I were computer programmers at the same company and became good friends. He was thin, shy and soft spoken, your typical geek. It surprised me when he showed an interest in the adventures Ross and I had because he was not the outdoorsy type. I was even more surprised and a bit leery when he said he wanted to come along. I hadn’t even known he had a motorcycle. Before I agreed to letting him join us, I wanted to see his bike.
“So this is it?” I said as I walked around a very ratty Honda CB650.
“Yep. It’s my brother’s bike, but I can ride it any time I want.”
I pointed to a small wet spot under the motorcycle. “What’s that?”
“It leaks a little oil. As long as I keep my eye on it and keep it filled, it’s okay.”
“Bill, we’ll be riding over a thousand miles in four days. You know that, right?”
“I know. I’ll bring a can of oil with me and fill it up when it gets low.”
With some misgivings, I agreed to let Bill come on the trip. We were set for the first week of August.
I finalized the plans for the trip with Ross. As we were talking, I mentioned that Bill was different from us, he didn’t have the experience we had on the road as this was his first motorcycle trip. We agreed to meet at a campground near Franklin. I told Bill to be at my house at 7:00 a.m., packed up and ready to go.
I mapped out our route to the campsite, careful to avoid interstates as much as possible. Winding back roads were much more fun than boring, straight interstates.
I loaded my clothing into a small piece of luggage called a “tank bag,” which is just a removable bag strapped to the gas tank so the proper center of gravity on the motorcycle can be maintained. A clear cellophane envelope on the top of the bag holds maps so you can read them without taking your hands off the grips. I folded the map so the first leg of the trip was visible and placed it inside. It had been years since I’d performed this ritual, and it felt good to be doing it again.
Bill showed up right on time. He turned off his bike, got off, and said, “I’m ready to go.”
“We need to do something about the sleeping bag and backpack. Part of it’s hanging down near the chain.” I took an extra bungee cord and rearranged things properly.
It was a perfect August day. It felt good to be on the road again. Because it weighs much less, the performance of a motorcycle is better than many sports cars. It has better acceleration and stopping ability. Because you can lean into curves, you can go much faster.
Of course, you are exposed to all the elements when riding a motorcycle. There is no enclosure around you like in a car; you are aware of everything. We were riding through a valley between two mountain ranges and fields of corn. I thought of an old saying; Knee-high by the fourth of July. This corn met that mark as it seemed to tower over me. I could smell flowers and, sometimes, the pungent aroma of manure from a local farmer’s field. I looked in my rearview mirror from time to time to be sure Bill was still behind me. We came to a halt at a stop sign and I heard birds chirping above the idle of my engine. Looking over at Bill, I said, “You okay?” He gave me a thumbs up with a broad smile.
Besides having nothing between you and the landscape and weather, you are entirely alone on a motorcycle. There is no radio to listen to or anyone available for a conversation. All you have is the drone of the engine and your mind. I find the sound of the engine like a path to a meditative state. I thought about the trip ahead and what it would be like to see Ross again. This trip would differ from all the others. I was married now and had a good job and a career ahead of me. The days of stumbling out of a bar drunk and riding back to our campsite were over. I sure as hell didn’t intend to end up just another DUI death statistic.
We left the valley and climbed up a mountain. A sign indicating winding roads for the next 20 miles snapped me out of my meditative state, pushing me to pay attention. Road signs for hairpin curves posted a recommended safe speed that I usually tried to double. The curve ahead had a recommended 20 miles per hour. I downshifted, leaned into the turn, and accelerated to 40.
At the top of the mountain was a small parking area with a spectacular view. I pulled in and turned off my bike. I took off my helmet, dismounted, and waited for Bill.
After about 10 minutes, he pulled in. He got off his bike and walked over to me. “These roads are amazing.”
“Yep, quite a view too.”
“My ass really hurts,” Bill said.
I chuckled. “Three more hours and we’ll be there.”
Bill and I were next to each other at one of the three traffic lights in Franklin. “We’re almost there. The road to the campground is just ahead.” Bill nodded, the light turned green, and we rode out of town.
We turned down the road to the campground and into the parking area. The campground was inside a small canyon. Six small, ramshackle cabins with faded gray siding and a site for tents sat in front of a roaring stream.
I spotted a motorcycle and Ross sitting at a picnic table facing the stream and smoking a cigar. He had unpacked his bike and set up his tent. When he heard us, he stood up and walked over, grinning. “You made it!”
We both turned off our bikes and dismounted. “Ross! It’s great to see you!” I said as I shook my friend’s hand and hugged him. “This is Bill.”
Ross and Bill shook hands. “It’s good to meet you. Ready for an adventure?” Ross asked.
“Sure am, and good to meet you too; I’ve heard so much about your past trips. This should be fun.”
We planned to make this our base camp. Ross had paid five dollars a night to stay. The canyon walls rose 200 feet above us. It was late afternoon and long shadows covered the canyon floor. I turned to Bill and said, “It’s starting to get chilly. Let’s unpack and set up camp.”
I pitched the tent next to Ross’s and unpacked my tank bag. As Bill unpacked his stuff, I put on my leather cap and walked over to Ross and sat down. The roar of the stream made a pleasing sound. Ross handed me a cigar and said, “That cap is hideous.”
“Thanks a lot.”
Neither of us usually smoked, but cigars had become a ritual for our trips. I inhaled the smoke.
“How’s Bill doing? He looks a bit uncomfortable,” Ross said as he exhaled circles of smoke into the air.
I made eye contact and said, “He’s not as rough and ready as we are, but he’ll be okay. That’s his brother’s bike. He doesn’t ride much.”
Smirking, he said, “That’s quite a ride.”
“I know. It leaks oil, too, so we’ll have to stop from time to time to keep it filled.”
Ross exhaled cigar smoke again, no circles this time. “You’re kidding me.”
Bill walked over to us and sat down. Ross handed him a cigar. “No, thanks,” Bill said with a weak smile.
After a bit, I asked, “What do you think?”
Looking up at the canyon walls, Bill said, “This place is fantastic. You found out about this at college, right?”
“Yep. We have a lot of cool places to visit. We normally don’t have a base camp, but since Ross and I don’t live near each other, we’re doing it this time,” I said.
“I’m hungry and ready for a drink. We can go across the road; then we don’t have to worry about riding after we’ve been drinking,” Ross said.
The place wasn’t much larger than a typical ranch house and had the word BAR painted on the roof. We arrived around 6:00 p.m., opened the door, and walked in. The bar could seat about 30 people and was half occupied.
As we sat down, I said, “I forgot how smoky this place was.”
Ross smiled. “Do you want to go someplace else?”
“No, let’s stay here. You okay, Bill?”
“I guess.”
The bartender walked up. He was tall and thin with short hair and a mustache. “What can I get you guys?”
“Do you have Jack Daniels?” I asked.
“No hard liquor, only beer. Miller or Bud.” He gestured toward the tap with two handles on it.
“I’ll take Bud,” said Ross.
Bill and I ordered Bud too. Each of us also ordered burgers for dinner.
The bartender returned with three drafts. “That’ll be three fifty.”
Ross smiled and put a ten on the bar. The bartender took the money and returned with change. “Keep ʼem coming,” Ross said.
Bill took a sip of his beer and said, “How do you guys make your trips when there’s no base camp?”
“We map out a big loop. As it gets dark, we look for a place to camp,” I explained.
“You don’t plan where you’ll camp?” Bill asked.
Ross looked at me and took a gulp of beer. “Nope, and we try to do it for free. We look for a field or path that goes back into the woods. We’ve gotten good at spotting places.”
“It didn’t always work out so well,” I said.
Bill smiled. “Why? What happened?”
“Last time we were here, we found what we thought was a perfect place to camp, way back in the woods,” I said.
Ross motioned for the bartender to come over. “Another round, please.” He turned to face Bill. “Just after we finished setting up our campsite, a pickup truck drove up on the same path we came down. A guy got out and walked over to us. He was angry and asked us what the hell we were doing on his land.”
“All I could see was a guy standing in the headlights of his truck shouldering a shotgun,” I said.
“He had a fuckin’ shotgun? Holy shit. What happened?” Bill said.
“Ross calmed him down. Usually, when people noticed we weren't riding Harleys and didn’t look like Hells Angels, we were okay. He ended up letting us stay for the night. There were some tense moments for sure. After that, we asked permission beforehand.”
With an athletic build, a handsome face, and a captivating smile, Ross could always attract the ladies. These good looks and his ability to carry on small talk resulted in him seldom leaving a bar alone. I was awkward and uncomfortable interacting with women, self-conscious about my weight and truly terrible at small talk.
Around midnight, a beautiful young woman caught Ross’s eye. “Look at her,” he whispered.
I turned to Bill and said, “It was only a matter of time. Ross will be busy for a while. I’m gonna head back to the campsite.” I motioned for the bartender. He walked over and I said, “A six-pack to go, please.”
I zipped up my leather jacket as Bill and I walked outside.
Bill said, “It’s good to breathe in clean air again.”
We could see our shadows because of the clear sky and full moon that hung just above one of the canyon walls. We walked over to the picnic table and I yanked a beer from the six-pack. “Want one?”
Bill nodded and I put two beers on the table then took the remaining four and climbed down the bank to the icy stream. I nestled the beers into a group of rocks, careful to keep them out of the strong current. I returned to the table and sat down next to Bill.
“Does that happen often?” Bill asked.
“You mean with the girls? Yep, that’s Ross. He has a way with the ladies; I always envied how he did it.” I looked up at the moon that was just setting behind the canyon wall. I emptied my beer with a long slug and said, “Let’s call it a night.” Bill nodded and we climbed into our tent.
For the end of this story, please read My Past Trip - Part Two
I like it! You’ve got a few years on me, but the vibe of when you were out riding feels about like my own adventures on a bike (bicycle, that is).
Excellent story! I wonder when we stop saying “smoked filled room”…or do we set up the years of story and hope reader is smart enough…just don’t people even considered a bar/night club/speakeasy/etc…not being smoked filled. I guess this will change when people no longer remember smoking in public….