Once in a lifetime — A ride to California

I took a long motorcycle trip.

It wasn’t my first. Last April, my brother-in-law and I rode the Natchez Trace—1,500 miles that impressed us both at the time.

By September, we cranked it up a notch, riding through back-to-back tropical storms in pursuit of the Blue Ridge Parkway. That trip totaled over 2,500 miles.

We weren’t even dry before we started talking about the next ride. With no set destination in mind, we joked about flipping a coin. We discussed the Great Plains, the Arkansas mountains…

Then one of us said it.

A single, dangerous word.

California.

Day 1: Title Town.

I rolled out of Mobile early Friday morning on the same bike I’d ridden through all that rain—a 2008 Honda VTX1300 Tourer. Since then, I’d upgraded the seat, windshield, and luggage system.

The VTX is my first and (thus far) only bike. It lacks cruise control, a tour pack, or even real wind deflection—clearly outclassed by modern touring rigs.

But hey—it’s not the horse that makes the cowboy, right?

The first leg of my journey took me north—nearly the full length of Alabama—to the rocket-fueled town of Huntsville, where my brother-in-law lives. I planned to overnight with his family, then head west the next morning. Loaded with a dry bag of clothes, a compression sack of rain gear I desperately hoped to not need, and a tool roll just in case, I kissed Mrs. Ryles goodbye and took the back roads through West Alabama—otherwise known as the backside of absolutely nowhere.

I wasn’t born there, but I grew up there. Between Montgomery and Selma, along the famed Civil Rights trail, my family of eight crammed into a 1,600-square-foot farmhouse built before World War II. The roads wind through hills choked by unmanaged fence rows and tidal waves of kudzu, baking under a relentless sun.

It’s always hot, even when it’s not. The humidity hangs like a blanket. Neighbors move in slow motion. Dogs pant beneath trucks like inebriated stoners sweating through a cross-fade. Economic opportunity? There’s very little of the legal kind.

But there were stories. If you stuck around long enough, they leaked out—like how Pep, the local painter, had a son named Eric who made the best moonshine in the Blackbelt. Or how Jelly, the community drunk, once shot Buck the roofer in the foot.

Buck never pressed charges. Why would he? The nearest cop was thirty miles away and disinclined to care.

These were the stories of my childhood. Looking back, two things are clear. First, I didn’t appreciate at the time how unique a childhood it truly was. And second, I had no idea how those stories would stick with me, eventually shaping the storyteller I myself would become.

Skirting west of Selma, I listened to music and James Lee Burke’s The Tin Roof Blowdown, riding busted, winding roads—the only kind West Alabama knows. My first stop: Tuscaloosa. Home of the University of Alabama and, more importantly, a little barbecue joint called Dreamland.

Alabama isn’t known for much. But if you sit a spell, two things will surface in any conversation. First: college football—specifically the fire-and-brimstone rivalry between the Alabama Crimson Tide and the Auburn Tigers.

Disengage at your own risk. Declare neutrality, and both sides will eat you alive.

I learned that lesson early in life and, for no particular reason, chose the Tide. That was years ago, before Saban’s dominance, so I guess you could say I was lucky.

I just say Roll Tide.

The second thing Alabama is known for is a point of agreement in our SEC civil war: food.

Good food. Rich food. The kind that demands a nap. Sauced, buttered, fried, smoked, and washed down with tea as dark as the Alabama River. Dreamland’s menu is short and sweet.

Ribs or a sandwich? Well, ma’am, I’ll have the ribs and potato salad. The vibrations of my VTX will keep me awake afterwards—perks of hard-mounted handlebars and Cobra pipes.

370 miles logged. Dinner with my brother-in-law, sister-in-law, and adorable niece. Early to bed, ready for the long road west.

Roll Tide!

Day 2: Amarillo by Evening

I woke at 4:30, and by 5:10 we were rolling west out of my brother-in-law’s garage. It was cold in Huntsville—around 43 degrees—which feels a lot colder at seventy miles per hour with wind slicing through your jacket. I wore thermals, but you’re never truly warm on a bike in the cold.

That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?

If I wanted to be comfortable, I’d have taken my Silverado.

West of Huntsville, cutting across northern Alabama, our first target was Memphis. Our final target for the day? Amarillo.

Why Amarillo? Because it was almost exactly 1,000 miles west of Huntsville, and we thought that if we were going to attempt a marathon ride, we might as well start hard. Test ourselves. Bank some miles early.

That was the thinking, anyway. I needed to be home by Easter, which gave us eight days. The California loop we mapped out totaled around 5,000 miles—an average of 625 a day. Starting strong made sense.

This is the perfect time to introduce my riding buddy. I met Isaac years ago. He dated the older sister, I dated the younger. We both married well and got along from the start, but the real mischief began years later—over cigars and drinks and too many “wouldn’t it be cool if…” conversations. At some point, the subject of motorcycles came up—a longtime passion of his, and an elusive dream of mine. He didn’t have a bike at the time. I was still dreaming of my first.

I remember the moment it started. I was maybe five, living in the little town of Chelsea, Alabama. Our rental house sat on a steep hill with a wooden deck jutting out over the slope—fifteen steps to the ground.

I fell down those steps and earned my first concussion (not my last). Maybe the brain damage is to blame for what happened next, or maybe the landlord is the true villain of this story—because beneath that deck, he’d left a motorcycle.

It was some kind of cruiser, maybe a chopper. I couldn’t tell you the make or model. It was forgotten and covered in dust.

But to me? It was beautiful. Magnetic. An image I never forgot—a seed planted in my imagination. The Mouse and the Motorcycle by Beverly Cleary watered that seed. Years later, Isaac dumped on the fertilizer.

I had to have a bike.

I bought the VTX. Isaac picked up a 2009 Harley Ultra Classic. We hit Natchez and the Blue Ridge and kept dreaming up mischief until we found ourselves on the road to Memphis looking much, much farther west.

I’ve known a lot of great men, but Isaac’s top tier. Easy-going, with a constant smile and the kind of laugh that puts people at ease. Like a duck in the rain, he deflects life’s frustrations without denying their existence. He’s sharp at work, a loving husband, and one of the best dads I’ve ever known. If it’s broken, Isaac can fix it. If it’s wild and weird and over the top, you have his attention.

And if there’s an open highway and gas in the tank? He’ll be the last to tap out.

A friend like that keeps you going as the miles stack—and stack they did.

Mississippi. Tennessee. Arkansas. Then Oklahoma. And more Oklahoma. And more Oklahoma.

I-40 is an endless gray ribbon. The sun rose behind us, blazed overhead, and sank so slowly I wasn’t convinced it ever moved. The wind and my Cobra pipes roared beyond my earplugs. We chatted over our intercoms—or just rode in easy silence, trading the lead and soaking in the grind.

It was past 9 p.m. by the time we reached our hotel. But we made it to Amarillo just as the last light vanished.

We devoured a steak dinner, and we passed out. 1,000 miles in the books.

Day 3: The West—Finally, the West

Endurance riding is a tricky business. The aches and pains don’t hit all at once—or even as a steady progression. They stall, lurking in the background, fooling you into thinking, “Hey, this isn’t so bad.”

But they’re coming. Oh, they’re coming.

Fresh from the hotel, we grabbed breakfast at a Love’s Travel Stop and ran a quick inspection—tires, oil, and a fresh tank of gas. Then we were rolling again.

I had a toothache, which was no surprise. It had been bugging me for weeks, and my dentist was only halfway through fixing it. The pain could be sharp, but Isaac, as usual, gave me no room to complain.

He hadn’t told me until Huntsville that his foot was broken.

A mountain bike crash caused the injury. The original X-rays showed nothing, but the break revealed itself later. The doctor said there wasn’t much to be done.

Isaac said, “If I can walk, I can ride.” (More on that later...)

So, ride we did. Out of Amarillo…

And that’s when the real magic began.

Prior to this trip, I’d never been west of Denver—but I’d spent most of my life dreaming of cowboy buttes, snowcapped ranges, deserts, and cactus fields. Maybe it was old Westerns, or just the spell that sweeping vistas have always held over me. The West called to my soul.

Despite traveling through 27 states east of the Mississippi, I’d never crossed that imaginary line where the trees thin, the hills rise into mountains or flatten into bare desert, and the congestion of “back east” gives way to endless potential.

It’s the American Dream in real life—not the two-car, McMansion kind, but the original dream. The pioneer’s dream. The adventurer’s dream. The one about wide-open space and the freedom to be your own man—to build a life, even if “build” really means claw it from stone with your bare hands.

The dream of expansion. The frontier dream.

I’d carried it for years. And finally—after all the fantasizing, all the waiting—it was happening.

We reached New Mexico, passed through Cimarron Canyon and around Eagle Lake, and rolled into the ski town of Taos. From there, we circled Wheeler Peak and reached the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge—where we parked the bikes and lit our first stogies of the trip.

The view was breathtaking. Miles of sweeping plains, mountains on the horizon, wind ripping at my Bama hat, and the gorge plunging 800 feet down to the twisting Rio Grande below.

Was it beautiful? Everything I hoped for?

It was more.

Inspiring to a degree no photo could express. It’s something you have to see. Experience. I sat on a concrete table, puffing a MonteCristo White Series, trying to wrap my mind around where I was: nearly 2,000 miles from home, in under 48 hours, astride a two-wheeled noise machine.

Surreal? Yeah, you could say that.

Isaac and I sat there, smoking and talking about everything but the view—maybe because the view defied words.

Eventually, the cigars burned out. We saddled up and headed south through Santa Fe, then Albuquerque. I cracked a Bugs Bunny joke about taking a wrong turn, but beyond that, there wasn’t much to say.

The scenery defied description—otherworldly, and still just the beginning. We hit Arizona and reached Flagstaff late. Exhausted, we devoured Subway sandwiches, half-watched a movie, and crashed.

746 miles logged. More to come.

Day 4: Driving Like Maniacs

We’d agreed to reach Santa Monica—the westernmost point of our trip—by Monday night. That would give us five days to return, hopefully at a more relaxed pace (or not—I’ll let you guess).

From Flagstaff, we followed I-40 across the Prescott National Forest, through the Mojave, and into the endless sprawl of Los Angeles. The ride was direct, only 480 miles, so we booked a hotel in Barstow, east of LA, to get a jump on the return leg.

Arizona was easy. We’d crossed most of it in the dark and didn’t know what to expect. As it turned out, no deserts or cactus—just trees, mountains, rolling hills, and winding roads. It was also the first day saddle-sore truly set in.

That pain is cumulative, and I found myself more and more excited about fuel stops. My VTX lacks a fuel gauge, so I reset the trip odometer at each stop and started hunting for gas around 120 miles. Isaac carried a small tank of backup gas on his Harley, which came in handy more than once.

Everything is bigger out West—including the gaps between gas stations. My legs hurt. My shoulder hurt. My right wrist ached from throttle control. Most of all, my butt hurt.

I stretched across the highway pegs, twisting in the saddle—anything for relief. But sometimes, all you can do is settle in and bear it. It’s part of the adventure.

We reached California mid-day and were briefly disappointed to find no photo-ready welcome sign. A few miles later, a black bear-themed sign rose from the Mojave like a sandstone welcome mat. I was in the lead, and without asking Isaac’s vote, I whipped my bike off the highway and spun for a position just in front of the bear. 

Picture time!

Did I mention we were in the desert? Do you know what deserts have?

Sand. A ton of it. Loose, beachy sand that swallows motorcycle tires and turns a great photo op into an even better story. Wrestling my 750-pound VTX back to the blacktop took muscle. Isaac’s 1,000-pound Harley nearly became a permanent fixture.

We laughed all the way to Victorville and stopped at In-N-Out for Double Doubles with animal fries. Then it was back on the bikes, back on the highway…

And into the real madness.

I’ve survived Birmingham’s spaghetti junctions, dodged coke-fueled Atlanta commuters, and even won the Houston 500. But nothing—and I mean nothing—compares to Los Angeles at rush hour.

Speeds dropped from 75 to a crawl. Every lane was packed, and we inched through downtown L.A., aiming for Santa Monica. By then, my riding discomfort had reached full-blown misery. I barely cared about reaching the coast. I just wanted to be off the bike.

Eventually, we made it. We stood at the edge of the Pacific, watching the surf tumble in beneath the high rises of La La Land, roller skaters zipping along wide sidewalks just like in the movies.

After four grueling days and thousands of miles, the moment should’ve hit harder.

All I could think about was the 98 miles of traffic standing between me and my hotel—and how wrecked I already was.

“Well. You wanna do it?”

It was the only thing left to say. I grunted, and we returned to the freeway—less patient than before.

There’s a bizarre practice legal only in California. Some call it “lane splitting,” others “filtering.” Whatever the term, it means riding a motorcycle between lanes of stalled traffic, slipping past mirrors and bumpers to exploit the perks of two wheels.

We’d already wtinessed plenty of this practice on our way into Santa Monica. Back on the freeway, it resumed. Bikes darted between cars, including one cop who gave us the two-finger motorcycle wave.

Grinding along at ten miles per hour, the temptation built. Most of the bikes flying past were slim and agile. Ours? Not so much. The risk of catching a mirror or crashing into a door was real.

Still…that hotel.

“You wanna go for it?” Isaac said.

You bet.

I rolled on the throttle and hit the dashed line, threading between vehicles at triple the speed of traffic. We slipped past commuters, semis, even AI-driven taxis (yes, really), and suddenly I was inside what felt like a video game.

Some drivers eased over to let us through. Others didn’t. One SUV refused to move at all, and caught my mirror against his as a result.

I didn’t stop. We filtered in bursts, passing hundreds of cars. Isaac eventually took the lead, whipping his hulking Ultra Classic like a sport bike as we danced between steel raindrops, half-chuckling, half-cringing. Cops watched us fly by without flinching.

Finally through the gridlock and back into open lanes, I exhaled. We both laughed. Isaac declared it the most fun he’d had yet.

We made it to Barstow a little less tired than expected and ordered another pizza.

Cheers to California!

610 miles logged.

Day 5: The 100,000 Mile Mutt

After marathon rides through Texas and the desert, a low-key day sounded just right. We set our sights on mid-Utah and rolled out of Barstow, back into the California desert—this time headed northeast.

Lane-splitting and canyon carving aside, there’s a kind of magic in long-form motorcycle travel that lives only on the open, empty roads. With over 2,000 miles behind us, we’d found a rhythm.

Each morning started with a maintenance check—air, oil, windshield wash, and a fresh tank of gas.

Fuel stops came every 120–150 miles, usually paired with a lot of leg-shaking, a pack of Little Debbie donuts, and a drained energy drink.

And then: miles of open cruising. Taking full advantage of 75 and 80 MPH desert speedlimits. Embracing the microwave winds and demon sun. Twisting in the saddle to fight cramps. Swapping music recommendations. Talking about our wives. Our jobs. Future trips.

Mostly, though—we just rode. Sometimes in silence. Whoever was in the lead set the pace. When someone needed a stretch (almost always me), we pulled off.

At one such pull-off, we met BoBo—a scruffy little terrier-mix tethered to a 1994 Yamaha 1100 with Montana plates. His human, weathered and smiling, fed him snacks while we chatted, and BoBo barked at passing tourists like a bug-eyed warrior of the highway.

The rider bragged that BoBo had ridden over 100,000 miles on motorcycles. Sometimes he climbed out and rode on top of the box. Once, he even flew off at an intersection.

None of that mattered. Like us, BoBo just loved the ride.

As we returned to our bikes, I told Isaac that BoBo would definitely appear in a future Logan Ryles novel. We laughed about that little dog for the rest of the trip.

Out of California, our first major stop was Las Vegas—a city I’d never seen, but Isaac had. Born and raised there, he came armed with stories. As my tour guide, he led me to the famous “Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas” sign, then to Las Vegas Harley-Davidson, and finally down the Strip beneath the baking desert sun.

I’ve been to Pigeon Forge. I’ve spent more time in Panama City than any self-respecting person should admit. I’m used to bright lights, tourist traps, and flashing neon.

But nothing prepared me for Vegas.

Everything was bigger. Brighter. More outrageous.

The Bellagio and Fountainebleau gleamed with polished glass, flanked by Circus Circus and New York New York. Tidal waves of pedestrians surged toward restaurants, gift shops, and shows. Traffic buzzed around us like stainless steel insects crawling across the surface of Mars.

It was clean—welcoming to the point of seduction. Everything was designed to sell us something, to pull us in and keep us there. By the time we hit an In-N-Out on the north side of town, I was practically speechless.

All I could say was, “It’s way hotter than eighty-five degrees.”

Isaac smirked. “Yeah, but it’s a dry heat.”

Yeah. Thanks. I’ll take a milkshake with my Double Double.

Post-Vegas, we re-entered the desert for a long ride north to Hurricane, Utah. The town is home to an offroad recovery company with a popular YouTube channel that Isaac watches with his daughter. He wanted to stop by their gift shop for a hat.

We arrived late, but the staff at Matt’s Offroad Recovery welcomed us in for a quick tour. Great people, and really cool gear—all custom-built. Isaac added a sticker to the inside of his tour pack.

Then we were rolling again. A quick stop at a mailbox to send postcards to Annie, then north to Richfield for the night.

Well on our way east again…

But with plenty of hard riding still to come.

444 miles logged.

Day 6: “You’re brave to attempt that in April.”

Something was bothering me—not in a loud way, but like a whisper in the back of my mind. An idea, or maybe the ghost of one. A sense that if I dug deep enough, something was there.

Isaac and I often joke that our rides are “research trips” for my writing. From the outside, it looks like a vacation. And in some ways, it is. I’m not writing, he’s not working. We’re eating good food, seeing new places, doing what we love—riding motorcycles.

But the joke is only skin-deep. He knows how much these trips feed my imagination. They don’t just expose me to new landscapes and cultures for my Mason Sharpe series—they give me space. Time. The road hums beneath me, and the hammering VTX becomes a backdrop to wandering thoughts and slowly morphing ideas.

Sometimes, I end the day empty-handed. And that’s okay.

But since New Mexico, something had stuck with me. I couldn’t shake it. I twisted it around in my mind, occasionally mentioning pieces to Isaac but mostly keeping it to myself.

Then, somewhere northeast of Vegas, lost in that brutal stretch of desert without a trace of shade in sight, it finally clicked.

“Merciless,” I said.

“What?”

“This place,” I clarified. “It’s merciless. Unforgiving. You could be stranded here and no one would ever see you. No cell signal. No water. You’d die out here, because this place is merciless.”

The word lodged in my mind.

Merciless.

Isaac’s a good friend to tolerate macabre monologues like that. He’s patient with everyone, but I think he gets me more than most. As a loyal supporter of my work, he understands how my brain works. He knew I wasn’t losing my mind under the devil Nevada sun.

Or maybe we both were. Who’s to say?

Either way, the word was perfect. Merciless. It stuck. It clarified something.

What kind of story unfolds in a place this merciless? I kept asking myself as we reached Utah and again as we set off for Grand Junction.

At a scenic overlook off I-70, we smoked breakfast cigars and took in the vast Utah landscape. I bought a butterfly necklace for Annie from a local woman who made them by hand. We called our wives. Talked about life.

And still, the word wouldn’t leave me.

Merciless, merciless…what is so merciless? Who is mercilessly caught in my mind?

I was starting to get an idea… but it was too early to tell. You can’t force these things. You have to give them time—and there’s no better time than while riding into Colorado.

By the time we reached Grand Junction, the landscape had shifted again. Trees and grass returned. We’d gained elevation. We stopped for lunch at a McDonald’s in a town called Parachute, quietly chewing double quarter-pounders and sipping Coke—not talking, because something far more interesting was happening nearby.

I never got her name. She wore a zippered sweater and pajama shorts that were way too small. Standing at the digital kiosk, punching in her order, she ranted into her phone.

“So, he pulls us over, and he’s got the dog out, sniffing around. He asks to search the car. I’m like, why? He says the dog smelled drugs. He asks if we’ve got anything illegal. I’m like, no, nothing.”

Her voice was full of attitude, and she never stopped jabbing at the kiosk screen.

“So now he’s asking questions. Wants to search my phone. Why would I let him search my phone? We don’t have anything. Right?”

I glanced at Isaac—he was still, eyes unfocused, burger half-chewed.

He was listening, too.

“Then he’s like, ‘You know, fifty pounds of marijuana is a felony.’”

Fifty pounds? I thought. She must mean ounces. Or grams. Right?

But then—still tapping, still ranting—she said, “And I’m thinking, it’s only thirty pounds in the back. So that’s not a felony. Right? But I’m not gonna tell him that!”

I nearly choked.

I looked at Isaac—he was choking, too. We didn’t move. She finally left the kiosk, and we walked outside in silence. Without needing to say a word, we scanned the pumps—and found the rental car. She had two friends with her.

And thirty pounds of weed?

Isaac shook his head. “Man, I wouldn’t have cared if we were in a time crunch. There was no way we were leaving that table until she finished that story.”

Amen to that.

Sometimes you don’t have to hunt out the tall tales. You just order a cheeseburger and listen up.

Out of Parachute, we turned east—and the weather turned cold. Not all at once, but gradually. I wore sweats beneath my jacket and jeans. The layers helped some, but on a truly cold ride, all you can do is huddle close to the engine and endure. Like the cowboys of old muscling over mountain passes, there’s no shortcut. No comfort button.

If I wanted that, I’d have driven my Silverado.

We debated stopping in Denver or pushing to Limon. In the end, we chose a hotel in Aurora—and we’d be glad we did.

The distant Rockies had looked snowcapped from afar, but the farther we rode, the less distant they became. And that snow? It wasn’t just on the peaks anymore. It spilled lower as we climbed.

By Eagle, the snow covered the northern face of the mountains to our right—sheltered from the spring sun, piled as deep as twelve inches. We stopped for a photo, marveling that just a day earlier, we’d been sweating in the desert.

Then we got back on the bikes—and the smiles faded.

It had been spitting rain for an hour, but now it turned to snow. The mountain pass grew slick, a steady spray of ice-cold water churning from my front tire and soaking my feet and legs. Sleet turned to rain, then back to sleet again. The engine air temp gauge on Isaac’s Harley hovered just above 30 degrees.

My fingers went numb. My body shook. I gripped the handlebars and stared ahead, hoping for sunlight. A break in the clouds. Any kind of relief.

But none came.

We passed through Edwards, Avon, and Vail. The elevation climbed past 11,000 feet as we pushed past chugging trucks and wound through tunnels.

And then we descended.

An endless six percent grade, slick with melting snow and rain slurry. Runaway truck ramps flashed past sweeping curves. I engine-braked to save my actual brakes. We spoke in clipped, artificially cheerful tones. Sometimes we saw sun just a peak or two ahead—hopeful.

Then I-70 would twist back into gloom. Into rain spray. Into filth that turned my windshield opaque and left my legs drenched.

We finally stopped for gas in a mountain town I couldn’t name. The attendant offered free coffee and let us park under the pavilion. Fifteen minutes later, the sun finally broke through, and we fueled up.

Isaac chatted with a local.

“You came from where?” the man asked.

Isaac told him our route.

The guy shook his head. “You’re brave to attempt that pass in April. You never know what you’re gonna get.”

When Isaac recounted the exchange to me, all we could do was laugh.

We had no idea.

The Mile High City opened before us as we left the mountains behind. I’d enjoyed the views since New Mexico, but now, I was ready for Kansas. We’d talked about a roadside cigar in Denver. I would have liked to have seen the Bronco’s stadium.

But soggy boots are soggy boots. We hit the hotel in Aurora instead. Ordered our third pizza of the week. Called it a long, cold—but good—day.

Not everyone makes it through the mountains. Some get stopped in a rental car with thirty pounds of Mary Jane in the trunk.

Aurora, Colorado — 481 miles logged.

Day 7: Flat. Flat. Flat.

Something felt different that Thursday morning. Maybe it was the changing scenery. Maybe it was knowing our six-months-in-the-making adventure was nearly over. Maybe it was realizing “the West”—that mythical place I’d dreamed of since childhood—was now in the rearview.

Whatever it was, I felt subdued.

We ate a solid hotel breakfast, ran our usual tire pressure and oil check, then hit I-70 again, cranking it up as straight, flat asphalt led us east.

The sun was out. Eastern Colorado was flat, and I knew from experience that western Kansas would be flatter still. We passed legions of windmills spinning against a blue sky, then pulled into an A&W for lunch.

Root beer floats are always a good plan.

We rode on, enduring the cumulative aches of saddle sore and motorcycle palsy—a weird, tingling numbness caused by the pressure and vibration of the bike. It hit hardest in the tip of my right pinky, which, as I write this, is still numb but otherwise functional.

These ailments are just part of the ride. Part of the journey. It’s not about being a “tough guy”—it’s just riding a bike. Two wheels and a V-twin either call your name, or they don’t. It’s fine either way.

But if they do call, this is what awaits you. Sunburn, an aching back, a sore butt. Ringing ears if you skip earplugs. Cold in the morning, heat by noon, cold again by evening.

And still—you ride. What else are you going to do?

We rolled through the Great Plains. Not much to report. They were simple. Beautiful. Quiet in a way only open space can be.

On the Missouri side of Kansas City, we stopped for dinner at Jack Stack barbecue. It was solid. Then another hotel. Another long sleep. Another hard day behind us.

631 more miles logged.

Day 8: “If I could walk, I could ride.”

This was the most unplanned part of the trip. Our only real goal was to be home by Easter—and we were now well within range. We trusted the bikes. We knew what we could handle. With one more day together before splitting off, we had options.

We could head straight for Huntsville and get home early.

We could cut south into the Boston Mountains.

Or…we could keep heading east.

Kansas City may brag about barbecue, but rumor had it that St. Louis knew how to smoke meat, too. Plus, there was the Gateway Arch. And—fittingly—the setting of Knock Out, Mason Sharpe’s most motorcycle-centric adventure.

It felt like the perfect way to cap the trip. Isaac agreed.

We turned east and rolled into St. Louis just in time for lunch. A quick web search suggested a spot called Pappy’s Smokehouse.

That sounded fine to us.

Jack Stack was good. But Pappy’s Smokehouse, quite frankly, was the best barbecue I’ve ever had.

Ribs that fell off the bone. Mouthwatering sides. Sauce I could have drank with a straw. It was easily the best meal of the trip. We waddled out, barely fit to ride a couch—let alone motorcycles.

Crossing the Mississippi into Illinois, we stopped at Malcolm W. Martin Memorial Park—the same place Mason Sharpe parks his Fat Boy in Knock Out before watching the sun set behind the Gateway Arch.

It was a perfect moment. A fictional scene brought to life.

Seated on a concrete wall between train tracks, overlooking the river and city, the Gateway Arch rising in front of us—we lit up. A pair of MF The Judge cigars, rich and full-bodied, brought all the way from Mobile Bay for just this moment.

We smoked them like champions. Like conquering warriors.

“If I could walk, I could ride.”

It’s something Mason tells himself after being shot in the hip in Knock Out. He rides anyway—because he has to. Isaac loved that line when he read the book. He quoted it often when the aches of long-distance riding started to bite.

A broken foot hadn’t stopped him. A toothache hadn’t stopped me. Desert heat, mountain snow, LA traffic—we faced them all.

And we kept riding.

Because if we could walk, we could ride.

And man…

That was one amazing cigar.

Out of St. Louis we turned south for West Memphis and the final night of the trip.

530 more miles logged…and just a few more to go.

Day 9: Country roads… take me home.

The last day of a trip always carries a hint of sadness. We’d felt it before—just never after something this epic.

One final hotel breakfast, then a ride across the Mississippi into Memphis, where we found a bench by the river for one last smoke.

We talked about family, life, work. Everything but the trip. Maybe that was odd, maybe it was inevitable. Some experiences are too big to unpack right away. They need to sit, to marinate.

And most of it? It can’t—and shouldn’t—be expressed.

It’s just for you.

We geared up, took a final picture, then parted ways—Isaac heading east, me south. Three and a half hours for him. Six for me.

It’s fitting to ride alone at the end of a motorcycle tour. Technology lets you talk to your riding buddy through a helmet mic, but at the end of the day, it’s just you and the machine. Same road, separate journeys.

It’s a lot like life.

I’ve got a great wife. A handful of true friends. Family scattered here and there. Readers who’ve shown me more support than I could ever earn.

But when night falls? It’s just me with my thoughts. Me and my Maker. I think about judgment day—maybe more than I should, maybe not enough. I think about the impact I’ve made. The choices I regret. The man in the mirror I don’t always like. I wasn’t put here to enjoy him. I was put here to walk alongside God—a mystery I still don’t fully understand.

Motorcycling doesn’t cause these thoughts, but the miles give them room to wander. Space to reflect on my own mortality.

I was reminded of that mortality outside Hattiesburg, Mississippi in a way that I did not enjoy. Riding in the lefthand lane of a divided highway, I was almost out of gas. I’d already switched my tank to reserve and was painfully aware that Isaac and his backup tank were no longer available to me. If I ran out of gas this time, I’d be left to walk—maybe for miles—to bail myself out.

I was cruising around seventy. I glanced down at my GPS—still thinking about gas—and when I looked up, a silver sedan had pulled in front of me.

Maybe I’d seen him turn from the median a moment earlier. Maybe not.

What matters is, he neither accelerated nor merged right. He just coasted at about thirty.

I looked up—he was a hundred feet away. A bullseye.

I hit the brakes. Tires squealed. The rear fishtailed. Smoke filled my mirrors.

It wasn’t enough. I swerved hard right and shot past him, heart pounding. I don’t think he ever saw me.

Minutes later, I coasted into a gas station—rattled, replaying it all in my head.

What happened? What did I do wrong?

Because when you ride two wheels and everyone else rides four, it’s always your fault. Even if it isn’t.

I shouldn’t have looked down. I should’ve kept my eyes up. I shouldn’t have assumed he’d speed up.

Lesson learned.

And most of all? Thank you, Jesus. I got around him. I was okay.

On to Mobile by myself. Enjoying the smell of the water and the glisten of the Bay—yes, it was good to be home. I pulled into the drive and my neighbor appeared with a big smile on her face. 

“You made it back—and all in one piece!”

That I did.

Inside, Annie was waiting. I hugged her, shared some stories, and presented her with a bottle with an ounce of Pacific Ocean water captured inside.

I was tired. I could hardly believe it was over.

I could hardly believe I’d ridden to California on a motorcycle.

But I had.

421 miles that day. Over 5,000 in total.

What a ride.

Epilogue: The days after.

Life’s a funny thing. It feels like you’re chugging along at a steady pace—but look back, and it’s like everything happened at once. Fast. In the blink of an eye.

Every older person I know has warned me: it’s gone before you realize it. I think I’m finally starting to understand what they mean.

Nearly a week passed before I rolled the VTX out of the garage and grabbed a water hose. The bike was caked in desert dust, sleet spray filth, and bug guts.

I spent a long time scrubbing it with a soapy sponge, working the grit from the paint and polishing the tailpipes. I buffed out scratches on the front fender and gave it a fresh coat of wax.

When I was finished, all the shine was back. As I knelt alongside the bike, wiping away the last of the wax, I thought I heard something.

A whisper? A soft voice? It was too quiet to tell.

I leaned close to the engine block. I held my breath, and I heard it again. A smile crept across my face.

“Alaska,” she said.