The Plan

I planned a motorcycle ride to San Diego. Since cost was a factor, I thought it to be a modest plan, after all, I had at least a million miles of motorcycle travel under my belt. As I approach the winter of my life I realize this motorcycle-thing won’t last forever. The dull thud of steps toward elderly are becoming increasingly more pronounced. While I may not psychologically hasten toward the inevitable, neither can I ignore the obvious signs. My life’s daily agenda is shaped by determined optimism and inescapable realism. I am too young to quit and too old to omit a backup plan. 

If I were to ride a motorcycle from Texas, 1,400 miles one way, I realistically would have to break it up into a three full day trips. This presented some minor obstacles that could be overcome by careful planning. My fraternity reunion starting Saturday afternoon. To get to my first venue I would have to leave early and ride many hours every day, leaving me in a poor condition to fellowship upon arrival. With this in mind, I began to lay out a plan. I found a campsite for the first and second nights. I noted optional gas stops along the way. The plan grew steadily until an acceptable travel solution was achieved. I prepared a spreadsheet and was ready to engrave it in stone. I would simply have to deal with dragging myself into the fraternity reunion after a long day in the saddle. It would be a small price to pay. I can do this thing.

Whoa there sonny – take a deep breath – you are not in control.

Being one of those that believes in something greater than myself, I quickly came to the conclusion I would be taking the four-wheel cage (what motorcycle rider’s call enclosed four wheel transport), and reluctantly accepted it. It seems that on a return trip from camping near the bayou in Martin Dyers Jr. State Park, Amana (Dayum She’s White) – I call her Amana for short – developed a persistent cough. I didn’t have the resources to remedy the ailment and a quick fix would have lowered my confidence in an event–free ride to a worry level that would have plagued me the entire trip. I vowed not to let that ruin things; this trip meant too much to me. The Ford Fusion would be fine. Poof, contingency dusted off. That’s how I came to switch to plan B.

Plan B

There are positives of driving the cage instead of the steel horse – time – time to destination – start to finish. Unless you’re Iron Man, the daily time traveled in the saddle is much shorter mileage–wise than lounging in the luxury of a car seat. Traveling in a cage eliminates the buffeting of the wind, and incessant vibrations, all of which disturbs the tranquility of your joints and gluteus maximus. In the biker world, vibration it is a major contributor to a condition known as ‘monkey butt’, a very annoying discomfort at best and downright painful at its worst. That’s not to say there is anything that replaces “the ride.” On the contrary. The cage lacks the Zen essence of the journey, but is much less stressful on the torso, legs and neck, thereby reducing the ibuprofen dosage. By driving the automobile, San Diego can be easily reached in two days, leaving time to consider other options along the way. A myriad of possibilities open up. New spices become available to season the journey’s stew. Keeping the objective front and center, I will leave my mind open to options.

Day One

It is the second week in October, the early morning breeze flirts with an unusually warm caress dancing lightly upon my cheek. It is dark – very, very dark. Just as dark as one would expect when one begins their journey at dark–thirty. My iPhone’s song list, titled “San Diego,” is busting at the seams to cross the blue-tooth bridge, escaping through my car’s stereo speakers, finally freed to delight the ear and stimulate the mind. The pulsing music will accompany the rhythm of tires growling down the west bound highway. These vibrations will be my only companions on this trip — a journey 50 years in the making. My stomach houses butterflies — expectations are high. Channeling the dustbowl era Okies, I’m California bound. The good news is, driving, I should be able to get there a lot quicker – I can’t get there Sooner, I’m from Texas. 

I kept my headlights pointed west. The only time I looked back was in my rear view mirror as I watched the sunrise slice into view. The sun’s newborn brilliance followed me along I–20. I had escaped the hectic Metroplex unscathed before it knew I was gone. I counted my blessings. Nothing but clear skies and watch for deer signs ahead. 

The lengthy interstate through the beautiful, but somewhat monotonous, landscape of West Texas can be viewed as necessary to reach New Mexico. That I did, making my way through herds of eighteen wheelers, crossing the border at a reasonable hour.  As a side–affect of resorting to plan–b, my wallets ability to handle the monetary burden was going to be put to the test. My motel of choice was Motel 6 in Las Cruces. There are no pictures on the wall. In the past I’ve found that they’ve always lived up to their reputation of barely adequate. This room was no exception. I did have to call down to the lobby and ask that they fix the toilet, as the chain on the plunger had given up the task. They cheerfully put a new unit in and I could now flush away at will. Thanks to my well stocked red cooler, I had plenty of food. A book on my Kindle provided the evening’s entertainment. I was conked out before the sun disappeared over the horizon. 

Day Two

Early to bed and early to rise, however you end that, I was packed, loaded, and on the road extremely early. Pitch black it was. I drove relentlessly, encountering few vehicles, either traveling in the same direction or in the opposite. Finally the sky began to lighten. Spying a sign promising a rest stop, I took the next exit – I needed a break. After availing myself of the facilities, I strolled over to the bulletin board in search of anything of interest. What!? I’m in Arizona? Hmmmm … I wonder what happened to New Mexico? I certainly didn’t see it. I vowed to make sure and drive through New Mexico during the daylight hours on my return trip. That gave me minor solace on one hand and on the other I gave myself a pat on the back for having made such good time. Back in the car and away I went, not knowing I was about to discover one of several unexpected surprises I would encounter on this trip. It wasn’t on the agenda, I never even knew about it, but I was lucky enough to see the signs and perceptive enough to take advantage of it.

About 80 miles east of Tucson, Arizona is the tiny town of Cochise. I saw several signs advertising the Cochise Stronghold. I was magnetically drawn to take the exit towards the Stronghold. I told myself to stick to the plan — I fought the urge. After all, California was still quite a ways off — I was making good time — do I have enough time for a detour? I lost this round. The urge overcame me. I made a left onto US-191.  After a short photo-stop at the Cochise Cemetery, a right turn on W Dragoon Rd, a left onto Cochise Stronghold Rd, and then a right onto W Ironwood Rd, I found myself twisting and climbing my way to a well designed camping park.

During my ascent I could see why this spot was chosen; truly a stronghold promising safety and isolation from the fast changing outside world. The spirits of Apache Warriors danced among the leaves, whispering a triumphant song of bravery and victory in ancient battles. The Cochise Stronghold deserves its own story. I could have easily stayed longer. I snapped my obligatory scenic shots. The mountain’s ghosts tugged at my sleeves, inviting me to prolong my exploration. The call to hike deeper into the mountains relentlessly beckoned. It was a struggle to stick to the plan; keep moving west.

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I had good reasons to reach California in two days. My quick calculations had me in good stead. It was well worth the side-trip. The earth was spinning; the sun shined brightly; my new experience was unforgettable; I forged on.

El Centro, California

El Centro is the first town of any note upon entering California on Interstate 8. A diverse area that has over 30 growers cultivating, harvesting, and shipping produce. The town of a little over 40,000 was incorporated in 1908. It too has a Motel 6. It met all my low expectations. After a quick sleep, I was out and on the road early enough I’d be able to see the sunrise over the Anza Borrego Desert. I would have enough time to add another side–trip. The car thing was turning out to be a boon.

The Anza

A short version of a story I’ve been telling ever since I moved to Texas involves this Anza Borrego desert. I have ridden through and camped in the Anza many times. It is a heart destination. The ferocious solitude and infinite scenery never fails to overwhelm my imagination. 

“I laughingly refer to my short time in Washington State as doing a year in Bellevue. This is not the Bellevue Hospital in New York, it is the high income per capita Bellevue located to the east of Seattle, across Lake Washington. When I learned that we’d be moving to Texas, my self-assigned project was go to the Bellevue library and research the state. I picked out a large picture book of Texas from the library shelf and opened it randomly.  I laid eyes on country that looked so much like the Anza I double checked the cover to make sure I had the right book.  The picture was of the Big Bend area which is located in the southwest corner of Texas.” 

Stop the car – grab the camera – move away from the car because the sharp pings of a cooling engine can blanket the silence. The sky lightens. The Honey Mesquite, Creosote bushes, and Crucifixion Thorn become increasingly visible. It is not a glorious sunrise of epic magnitude; it is simply breath-taking. The earth is raw. No one but me breathes this air. I am at that very moment the only human alive in the universe. It is not just another sunrise – it ushers in a morning that will turn out to be one of the better days of my life.

Julian

Leaving the desert from Ocotillo, California, the Imperial Highway winds its way north, turning into Sweeney Pass Road, and then Great Overland Stage Route. Just remember S-2. Stay on S-2 and you won’t get lost. When you can’t go any farther on S-2, turn left, onto Banner Grade Road. 

Beginning a westward run up Banner Grade the view consists of sparse vegetation with a beige and a slightly darker brown background. Within what seems a blink of an eye, the two-lane road turns into a verdant, tree lined forest, twisting and turning, ever upwards towards the sky. The road is lined with Juniper, Cedar, and Pine. There are Jeffrey Pines, with some Ponderosa Pines, Coulter Pines, Sugar Pines, and Pinyon Pines. Quicker than you might like, you’re over 4,000 feet above sea level; you’ve conquered a diminutive California mountain while finding yourself entering the quaint village of Julian, population of about 1,500.

There were few changes since I last wandered through the community of Julian. While the Wrong Branch is no longer a biker saloon and the town had been tidied up a bit, Julian had not lost its mountain community charm.

The annual Apple Festival is one of my best memories associated with the community. The festival had concluded; I had missed the event by a week. There was no time to lament; I was passing through. However, despite any plan I may have devised, I was immediately captured by the mouth-watering smell infusing the air. It held the promise of baked apples, mixed with pure cane sugar, topped with a dash of cinnamon. I was drawn to the Julian Pie Company like a rat to a Pied Piper melody. I took the time — I ate some pie — Oh my!

Forging On

From Julian I had two reasonable route choices. I could continue on 78, passing by my dad’s last California residence in Ramona, or take the Sunrise Highway. My father was long gone, as were our horses. No time to founder in ancient memories. On the Sunrise Highway, with its many overlooks, I would have a chance to mentally revisit my desert sunrise. Daybreak felt like an event from ages past, but in reality it occurred less than a handful of hours ago.  I parked at several vantage points along the way. Remove lens cap – focus – snap – move on - repeat. As an added bonus, I caught a few shots of motorcyclists and bicyclists as they crested a ridge. My camera was pleased – so was I.     

I came off the mountain just a bit east of Lakeside. I lived there for a few years so I decided to take a quick tour of an old haunt; El Monte Park. I relived a few memories of taking my young children to the park and strumming my guitar on the cement tables under the ancient oak trees. I bathed in memories of picnics, softball and football games, and old friends. I luxuriated in the moment — I sighed. Time to forge on to El Cajon where my fraternity reunion was to be held that evening. So far, this was one outstanding day. One of many outstanding days I was soon to discover.

Larry’s House

My head filled with so many memories of the night’s host, Larry Mahr, and our Junior College fraternity. His father owned a liquor store a few blocks from our party house. You can imagine how convenient that made it in obtaining quality party stock. Since it was a little early for the reunion’s start time, I sat in my car, a short distance down his street, and mentally revisited a few of the old-times; there are so many stories that drifted in and out of my consciousness. At the appointed hour I drove up to his house. I was warmly welcomed. Decades melted away as though it had only been yesterday since we'd seen each other.

Treated to a warm California evening in El Cajon, members from 40 to 50 year ago wandered in over the next couple of hours. As reunions go, this one was top notch. Plenty of laughs, hugs, and stories were shared. We took turns speaking of what transpired in our lives since our golden college years. It was a wonderful way to top off a most memorable day.

Gary Rodemeyer, who I’d known since 1966, was kind enough to put me up for the week before my high school reunion. The plan was that Gary would come to Larry’s with another brother who lived near him, and then I would take him home so he could point the way to his house; a guarantee I wouldn’t get lost. The plan worked like a charm.

Gary’s House

Gary, Maribeth, and Dominick live in a modest home on a fairly steep incline. Their backyard overlooks a canyon leading to Mission Valley. From their back porch, looking out over the communities of Allied Gardens, Del Cerro, and across I-8, San Diego State University can be seen in the not too far distance. Since I had spent my formative years two streets south of SDSU, the view was a special treat.

The Rodemeyer’s graciously offered a room that had sliding door access to the back yard. I spent a great deal of time taking pictures, sorting pictures and typing notes on my laptop, or simply gazing over the landscape, all while perched before an umbrella covered patio table on a thickly padded patio chair. Since my body was set on the central time zone, I was typically up well in advance of the household. While enjoying the mild October weather, I watched the sky slowly welcome the dawn. My mind whirled with images of my past. Having spent over 40 years, on and off, in San Diego, I collected a vast amount of memories. I found it both amusing and endearing that various Disney characters were well placed among the professionally manicured landscape. It was so peaceful and beautiful, I was tempted to ask the Rodemeyer’s if they would adopt me.

Once the household came awake it buzzed with activity. One of the first people I encountered in the morning was a care giver who came to help attend their son Dominick. This is where Dominick’s story led me and now I want to share it with you.

Dominick

As a child, Dominick loved to ride two wheel motorcycles. At an early age he rode the sand dunes in San Felipe and the trails around his then home in Poway. It is a very popular sport in the area and it is not unusual at all for very young children to be introduced to two-wheel joy. Dominick had acquired some skill in riding and built confidence in his ability. Skill and confidence go hand in hand.

On February 9, 1986, one week before his 17th birthday, Dominick had an opportunity to ride his new three wheel cycle on hard pan (a term for hard packed earth, not sand). He confidently mounted the iron steed, twisting the throttle, eager to ride. He was off, the breeze in his face, feeling the freedom powered–cycles are famed for. Heading out in a straight line felt good. A curve was coming up and was just like a curve Dominick had mastered many time before. He hit the top of his apex at speed and leaned into it. The bike didn’t turn. What’s going on? Why aren’t we turning? Confusion crept in.

On a two wheel vehicle turning is counter intuitive. That is one of the reasons it is called counter steering. You actually turn the wheel in the opposite direction that you want to go. This holds you upright when you lean into the turn. You’re leaning to the left is compensated for by the inertia of the wheel pointed right. It doesn’t work like that on three wheels. At low speed, when you turn the handlebars the trike wants to go straight. You must lean in the opposite direction of the turn to allow the inner wheel to spin at the same speed as the outer wheel. That is the detail overlooked at that moment; not something practiced. There was no muscle memory to get him through it. In this case it was the perfect storm and it cost Dominick dearly.

 When Dominick didn’t return as scheduled, a search was mounted to look for him. He was found a few minutes later, lying in a ditch, his bike overturned a few feet away.   Dominick had been thrown from his seat and landed awkwardly, breaking his neck at the C–3 and C–4 vertebrae.  He was able to breath on his own for the minutes it took the search party to find him and into an ambulance. In the ambulance he was put on a ventilator and has been on one ever since. Many believe it was a miracle that Dominick breathed on his own from the time of the accident to the time the ambulance arrived. The result was devastating and heart breaking all in an instant — great joy resulted in terrible tragedy. It all happened in one horrific moment. Dominick would never walk, breath on his own, or be able to feed himself again.

I ask myself, “What would I do if it had been me.” Of course it is a rhetorical question and unless it actually happened to me there is no way of knowing exactly what the answer would be. More importantly, how would Dominick react?

I’m sure there had to be enormous disappointment and most certainly a period of depression. That is totally normal. The true measure is how we come out the other side of all the radical changes one must go through in just such a situation. Many people have come back from a war who had to go through similar ordeals and feelings. There are industrial accidents that have produced something akin to what Dominick was thrust into. Paralysis is not a unique experience. The only real difference is what we do afterwards that tells a tale we can learn from. Indeed, Dominick, unbeknownst to him, taught me much. From the time that he said hello from his room, knowing only I was walking down the hall to the bathroom, I felt a special kinship with this man.  I was momentarily flustered, I didn’t know what to expect. 

Every encounter I had with Dominick over the next week was positive and up-lifting. If we were dining or watching a ballgame, Dominick fit into the conversations with acumen and verve. Maribeth strove to make Dominick’s life as comfortable as possible. Even though Dominick wasn’t Gary’s genetic son, Gary did everything he could to enrich his life. How happy can a family be in life that can’t possibly have turned out the way anyone would plan? I felt the warmth and love in this household. At times I was on the verge of being overwhelmed, as I am now, sitting in front of my computer. I am sure that Gary and Maribeth often feel overwhelmed as well. I can only imagine.

Time was too short. I didn’t get up the nerve to ask the Rodemeyer’s to adopt me, it was time to move to the hotel that my high school reunion was to be held. I had to say good-bye. I’m not good with good-byes. I packed up, stowed my gear in the car, and drove the short distance to my temporary home for the next two days.

Epilogue

As many of us do, I go through bouts of depression from time to time. You know the type; you aren’t happy with results in some form or fashion in your life and you begin to feel sorry for yourself. While it is a bit more serious than that to get me in a funk, it happens. There have been times since my reunion I have brought myself out of my doldrums by saying these simple words, “Remember Dominick.” I hope by the time you have read this I will have the tattoo I've been planning ever since my trip. I want it on my upper forearm, in bold letters “Remember Dominick.” You know the spot – where if I wore a watch and you asked me what time it is, as I looked at the watch, it would be visible just to the right of the crook in my left arm. I’d rather not think that someone’s misfortune has to occur before someone else has an epiphany. This turned out to have a positive effect on me and Dominick isn’t even aware of it. I can’t thank you enough Dominick. You are truly my big-time inspiration. Maybe after reading this we can inspire a legion to feel the same way.

Dominick was given 12 years to live. As of February 13, 2018, Dominick turned 49 years old. As Gary has stated, with Maribeth’s loving care, Dominick will outlive both he and Maribeth.