Leanings

LEANINGS

The long way home

Peter Egan

ABOUT 14YEARS AGO, WHEN I FIRST GOT my pilot’s license, I used to regularly rent a beat-up old Cessna 150 from the Orange County airport, near the CW offices in California.

One day when I was at the airport, signing out the 150 for a weekend flight, my former flying instructor asked where I was going. “San

Francisco area,” I said, “Palo Alto airport.” “In

a 150? You must like to suffer,” he said. “Why don’t you take something faster, like a 182. You could get there two hours sooner, without stopping for fuel.” I

thought about that for a minute and then said, “Well, if I get there two hours earlier, I’ll just be back on the ground again, which is where I’ve been all week. Frankly, I’d rather be up in the air. I don’t fly just to get it over with.” He

just grinned and shook his head. The

instructor was right, of course, in the logical sense. But he was taking the professional view, and I was a mere hobbiest. I certainly don’t object to speed in an airplane, but neither do I wish myself elsewhere when it’s a clear day and I have plenty of time. It

was just another version of a basic travel conflict we often face: County road or Interstate? Biplane or retractable twin? Time versus sensation. Both have their points. Sometimes you have to slow down and think for a minute to pick the right one. Like

last weekend, when I went to Michigan to retrieve my Ducati 900SS. It

was at Greg Rammel’s shop in Northville, near Detroit. Northville is not exactly freeway close-it’s 400 miles from where I live-but I go there because I trust Greg more than myself to fiddle the desmo valvetrain and get it right. While the bike was there, he also rejetted the carbs and bolted on a set of Fast-by-Ferracci carbon-fiber mufflers. Last week, he phoned to say the Ducati was ready. “You’re going to love this thing,” he said. So

I hitched a ride to Detroit with my pal Bruce Finlayson, picked up the bike, strapped on my tankbag and hit the road. It

was a crisp Friday evening in suburban Detroit, with an autumn bite to the air. Long shadows, headlights just coming on. I rode down to nearby Saline, to stay overnight with my friends Larry and Tracy Crane. Greg

was right about the Ducati: I did love this thing. The pipes had a mellifluous basso rumble without being overly loud, and the Dynojet kit had replaced the Ducati’s lean, hunting condition at part throttle with smooth and instantaneous response. At

last, the bike was exactly the way I wanted it. I’d installed a Corbin seat and a larger, 39-tooth sprocket, and now the jetting was spot-on, so it sounded like a Ducati, rather than a Lawn-Boy. Comfortable, quick, light and beautiful to hear. After

an early breakfast with the Cranes, I walked out into one of those autumn mornings for which we live-a warming sun, deep blue high-pressure sky, the first red tinge on the maples and air that smells like the dry, clean dust of harvested corn. Days like this are achingly beautiful for their very transitory quality-we know there won’t be many more like them. Not this year. Maybe not in a lifetime. Leaving

the driveway, I was faced with a choice. Left toward 1-94, or right toward the two-lane Highway 12? The I-road would get me home faster, in seven hours, while Highway 12, winding through all those little towns and villages, would take...what? Eight hours? Ten? Had

any human ever spent 10 hours on a 900SS, even with a Corbin seat? I

looked at my watch. It was only 8 in the morning. Plenty of daylight left. Hmmm. What

was the big hurry? This was the kind of day I dreamed of all winter, all week while working. Good weather, no promises to keep and a favorite motorcycle, reborn and working better than ever. “Don’t

fly to get it over with...” I mumbled to myself. I turned right, on Highway 12. What

a day: A fine twisty road; Michigan football fans streaming into Ann Arbor; people raking their yards; garage sales; antique shoppers in minivans; kids in letter jackets; pumpkins and Indian corn for sale in farmyards; a million Harleys rolling into Sturgis (Michigan) for a toy run. I

passed a state historical site-two odd, lighthouse-like towers along the road. Pat Donnelly and I had ridden this route 27 years ago, almost to the week, on our trip to Canada and stopped at that very spot. Me on a Honda CB160, Pat on a 305 Dream. An involuntary shudder. Like Phaedrus, we were here. Smoked a cigarette on that lawn over there, hadn’t been back since. Approaching

Chicago, I opted for the interstate and the Chicago Skyway. A wonderful elevated view of steel mills, the Lake and one of the world’s great skylines. I pulled off at the Arlington Heights Guitar Center, fell in love with a black Les Paul Standard I don’t need, then got off the interstate again and rode into Wisconsin through Beloit. Past Blackhawk Farms Raceway (bike races!), through Brodhead, where the air was filled with biplanes from an antique fly-in. Up

County T, with rolling green hills, red barns, silos and 40 miles of crystalline visibility. A yellow Piper Cub flew over the road. Just like our old one. Maybe it was our old one. I

pulled into our driveway early in the evening and shut off the engine. Deafening

silence. Wind noise ringing in the eardrums. Back among the mortals. I looked at my watch. It was almost 6 p.m. By

taking Highway 12, I’d given up two hours of time-in exchange for scenery, sensations, curves, memories, bridges, skyways, steel mills, guitars, hills, upshifts, downshifts, biplanes and the harvest smells of a thousand farms. It

seemed like a reasonable trade. I’ve got all winter to be on the ground. □ 14/CYCLE