As I write this first post, I’m 17 days away from starting the “trip of a lifetime”. While we tend to use those words casually, in this case it’s quite a bit more literal than that.
A little over 30 years ago, my dad made an off hand comment about getting his motorcycle license. I jumped on it immediately, suggesting that we do the course together. Over a period of 6 weeks in the summer of 1994, we attended twice weekly motorcycle lessons, popping out for an adult beverage after class to discuss all the places we would go once licensed. The most compelling idea was to ride a Harley Davidson to the coast of the Arctic Ocean.
Two years later, my dad died after a very short battle with cancer. He was 52 years old.
Since my passion for motorcycling was reignited in the mid 20-teens, a plan has been forming to complete the trip sparked during those excited conversations. Sharing the experience with my own sons. In 2025, I turn 52 years old. Before I do, I intend to stand on the shore of the Arctic Ocean with my two boys (and partner) and toast my absent father.
The trip in its entirety will be the subject of an article for the 2025 Enthusiast Magazine. But, given the limitations on length for that format, you folks get the benefit (hardship?) of having a more fulsome, un-edited view into the adventure. A dry-run, as it were of the tighter storytelling that will appear later this year in print.
A little over 30 years ago, my dad made an off hand comment about getting his motorcycle license. I jumped on it immediately, suggesting that we do the course together. Over a period of 6 weeks in the summer of 1994, we attended twice weekly motorcycle lessons, popping out for an adult beverage after class to discuss all the places we would go once licensed. The most compelling idea was to ride a Harley Davidson to the coast of the Arctic Ocean.
Two years later, my dad died after a very short battle with cancer. He was 52 years old.
Since my passion for motorcycling was reignited in the mid 20-teens, a plan has been forming to complete the trip sparked during those excited conversations. Sharing the experience with my own sons. In 2025, I turn 52 years old. Before I do, I intend to stand on the shore of the Arctic Ocean with my two boys (and partner) and toast my absent father.
The trip in its entirety will be the subject of an article for the 2025 Enthusiast Magazine. But, given the limitations on length for that format, you folks get the benefit (hardship?) of having a more fulsome, un-edited view into the adventure. A dry-run, as it were of the tighter storytelling that will appear later this year in print.
