The day wore on. The midwestern sun beat down on me as I sweat inside my helmet. I just stopped for gas and something to tide me over till dinner. It felt like I was never going to make it to my next stop for the night just west of Lincoln, Nebraska. It was already 5pm and I had at least two more hours of riding my motorcycle. I was headed back west. After a trip from Oregon to Pennsylvania and almost a year of exploring the east coast best I could, I decided it was time for me to head back home. The west coast. It’s different out here. It’s unexplainable.

I raced on down the road, trying to make up time. The sun was setting up on my left as I headed north on I-29 to Omaha, Nebraska. The temperature began to cool and it became muggy. I was in a race for time and I was losing. I didn’t want to ride in the dark after a long day of riding. My body couldn’t handle it. On the first trip, I had rotated my pelvis forwards and outwards. It messed up my back so bad I couldn’t walk for several days without intense back spasms. This time I was being careful and trying not to strain myself.

The morning started in east St. Louis. A quick trek over the mighty Mississippi River and I was next to the gateway to the west. The St. Louis Arch. Majestic as it was, I was in a hurry. After blowing through downtown, I found myself out of morning rush hour and cruising down the highway. Nothing spectacular really. Missouri is a great state but interstates are boring. Every off-ramp is the same just higher gas prices than the last. I was on my third day of riding after a miserable rainy first day and a quite lovely but long second day. The hope for today would be to eat up miles.

Eating up the miles was getting harder and harder as the sunset. Every mile was like I was on a loop. Cornfield after cornfield as I got closer and closer to the Iowa border. And that’s when it happened. My 1979 Kawasaki KZ650’s motor had given up. A small oil leak had formed after the first day of riding that I had not noticed. With the number of miles I was doing, it had leaked all the oil out. The motor was seized.

I pulled the clutch in and coasted to the side of the road. Some roadside diagnosis left me feeling disappointed. I called AAA towing as the sun set behind the horizon. I waited and waited. After several calls, I finally got an answer as to when I would be picked up. Another hour. It had already been 2 hours. So I sat there and waited, watching the sun set behind the horizon. Finally, the tow truck driver showed up. We loaded up the bike and my gear and headed to the nearest town with a motel.

Hamburg, Iowa.

After the shorter-than-I-thought trip to Hamburg, the tow truck driver informed me I was in town for the busiest weekend of the year. Popcorn Festival. The driver told me that this town of roughly 900 people, was responsible for fifty-ish percent of all our microwaveable popcorn. So once a year they had a huge festival where people who had grown up and moved away came back to visit families. How big could this festival be I thought. I hadn’t seen a soul since we arrived other than the lady who ran the motel. Oh well, It was roughly 10pm and I hadn’t eaten. The dive bar’s kitchen across the street was closed as I had found out, so I walked through downtown to the 24/7 gas station.

The streets were eerily empty. The layout of the town was basic. Four streets led to an intersection in the center of town. Shops on all sides. Most looked boarded up. The rest looked like they should be boarded up. The lamp posts threw an amber light over the sidewalk. Not a soul was in sight. I made my way to the gas station which was brand new compared to the rest of the town. I walked in and got my drinks and even had a sandwich made, yes made, for me. I walked back through the center of town back to my motel where I met a man sitting outside his door right next to mine. He was the maintenance man. I would learn over the next couple of days that he liked to have sex. A lot. Several times a day. Like a lot. I could hear it. But I digress. After eating my surprisingly good sandwich, I crashed.

Panic had not set in. I was calm. My plan was to get a storage unit in town and get my bike to it. Store it. Get to the next town over and catch a greyhound to Omaha Airport and head home to Oregon. The popcorn festival was in full effect by the time I finished setting up my storage unit with an outside company who I learned did not own the local one, they just helped book units. Now I just had to get ahold of the owner of the storage facility so they could let me in. I called several times and no answer. After leaving several messages, I decided to walk around the festival and see what was to offer so as to not let my anxiety bum me out.

I could feel eyes on me wherever I went. It was as if the townspeople knew I was not from there. One thing I noticed as I walked around was that college football was a big thing in this town. Many people were wearing their team’s hat and jackets. Most of them just happened to be Nebraska Cornhuskers apparel. This just so happened to be the very same day my Oregon Ducks were playing the Nebraska Cornhuskers on the football field back in Oregon. Since it was game day, I was sporting my bright green Oregon Ducks hat. Least to say, I stood out. Maybe that was what the looks were for. But I walked around nonetheless, enjoying what they had to offer.

It was not much. An old man’s voice boomed across the town-wide PA system, which I could only assume was put up to alert the people of twisters and such. A beautiful car had caught my eye down one of the side streets, so I walked towards it. I stumbled upon a car show. Nothing huge but a couple dozen exquisite classic cars, parked along both sides of the street spilling over into the adjoining parking lot. Classic Dodges, Fords, and Chevys lined up with the hoods propped open, revealing glistening chrome valve covers and bright orange engine blocks. It was glorious. A plum crazy purple Dodge Challenger R/T caught my attention. One of the most beautiful cars ever designed. Its long hood stretches out seeming to be longer than the rest of the car. The plum crazy purple shines in the sun. A litany of mustangs plagued the car show. I love mustangs but god damn are they everywhere. After a quick trip around the show, I walked back to the gas station to pick up some drinks and snacks. I walked past all the vendors selling corn paraphernalia and confederate flags and made my way back to the hotel.

By this time it was 1pm. Game time. I walked across the street to the bar hoping it would be on the tv and I could grab a bite to eat. The bar was shabby on the outside and just as bad on the inside. But I liked it. The tables looked like the same tables that may have been used for the local high school prom, and chairs from a 1987 office boardroom. I took the seat at the far left of the bar next to the wall, closest to the tv. The pregame show was on luckily. I sat at the bar and took in all the dive bar-esque wall decor. Every beer ending in ‘Light’ had a place on the wall. A bartender walked up to me. It was apparent she had lived a hard life. Been ridden hard and put away wet I think is the phrase people use to describe someone of her nature. She was angry, to say the least. She asked for my ID. I handed her my Oregon drivers license. In Oregon, when you change address’, they send you a sticker to put on your license. So to outsiders, it looks fake. I’m also 22 at the time. She asks me if it is fake. I say no. She informs she has to have the owner approve it. She walks back into the kitchen for 5 minutes. Five whole minutes to see if I can eat shit hamburgers and drink piss water. She comes back with good news! I have been accepted. Coming from a big city, I ask to start a tab. She replies with “We don’t do no tabs on popcorn festival.” She also tells me that cards are not accepted. So I walk over to the ATM and pull out $40. I walk back over and order a burger. Now I am a bit of a beer snob. I love IPA’s. Why you ask? Because it’s bitter. It is so bitter that it reminds me that no matter what, life will never be that bitter. Fitting for the situation I feel. I ask what they have on tap. Nothing. A bar with nothing on tap. Well fuck, what do they have in a bottle. No bottles during Popcorn Festival. Well, then my crusade against beer in an aluminum can must be put on hiatus. What beer do you have that doesn’t end in “Light”?

Budweiser it is.

My burger came out looking about as sad as I felt after getting broken up with in high school. But I ate it, drank my beer, and left as soon as possible to avoid the farm folk and watch the game in my room. The game finished and we won. Barely. But I’ll take it. Popcorn festival finished and the owner of the storage facility called me finally. She would meet me over there to set everything up. I walked the half mile to the facility. Did all the paperwork and got my lock. I walked back to the hotel and decided I would wait until the sun began to set to push my bike the half mile to the storage unit.

 

I sorted my things. I had a lot of camping gear I couldn’t bring on a plane or carry. I took only the essentials. Two backpacks worth. All my camping gear, motorcycle gear, and tools stayed with the bike. I loaded it onto the bike and began to push. I rolled the 500 lbs worth of broken motorcycle and useless gear to the facility. My storage unit was stationed up an incline of gravel. I unloaded the gear into the unit before starting the push into the storage unit. For twenty minutes I fought this bike up the hill. I got it to the edge where all I had to do was get it up and over the 1” lip. I couldn’t get it. I fought, I pushed, I lost my footing. I could not do it alone. But then karma or something threw in some help. A couple 12-year-old kids were walking by on the road about 30 yards away and had stopped to pick some reeds from a drainage ditch. After a few more minutes of struggling, I yelled over for one of the kids to come to assist me. I had debated for the several minutes before if I should even ask them. How creepy is that? A strange man asking for a kids help. What if I were to lock him in there? The kid took a chance and helped me. We both got the bike in easily. I thanked him and he went on his way. After locking everything up and sweating profusely, I walked back to my motel room.

 

A nice shower did the trick. It was getting late. I had to figure out how to get out of this town. Everyone would be in one place tonight. Back to the bar I went. I went in at about 8pm and grabbed a Budweiser and began to drink. I sat at a table next to one of those new digital jukeboxes. A drunk man stumbled over to it and began to play the Allman Brothers I think it was. I sat back and enjoyed it. The drunk man struck up a conversation with me and I began to inquire about getting a ride to the next town over. He was too drunk to even formulate a sentence. Something about seeing someone named Chuck. I gave up. A spot opened at the end of the bar opposite where I sat earlier and I grabbed it. It was darker in here now. Almost as if it was closed. A small dim light lit up the bar from the other end. But people poured in clamoring over spots. It was getting cramped. Everyone seemed to know each other. No hostility anywhere. The angry bartender had already left. I was glad. The owner was bartending now along with a couple other girls. From what I could tell, the only African American person in this whole town was working behind the bar with the owner. She was a veteran. She knew her shit. Handling each customer perfectly and not taking any shit. She was decked out in the University of Kansas Jayhawks gear to represent her team on college football Saturday. She was a joy. Coming from a big city, I was honestly shocked to see her in a town that I assumed was just a bunch of racist farmer hicks. How could she enjoy this place?

 

People came and went. I could hear roars of laughter echo throughout the bar. Everyone was having fun. Now I sat at the end of the bar with resting bitch face. It’s just how my face is. But with the events over the past 24 hours, I’m sure it was more pronounced. The owner had left the bar to see some friends and the Jayhawk girl had left to serve the patio, leaving a new girl to man the bar. She was new to the bar I could tell but not new to bartending. She was cute. I sat at the end of the bar trying not to be creepy. I thought that if I could use some of that game I never had, I could go home with her and get a ride to the next town over in the morning. That was never going to work. Before even trying, I threw that Idea out. I had no time to waste on useless plans. Although I quickly did strike up a conversation with her and ask if she knew anyone going that way. No luck. She wasn’t from around here. It was just past 10pm now. I was on my 6th beer at this point, acquiring a small buzz. Telling myself this was my last beer, I sipped it slowly hoping I could find someone who could help. And just like the kid who helped me push my bike into the storage unit, my savior came up next to me.

 

Sitting on the corner of the bar, I was constantly being barraged with people walking up to get drinks as it was the only spot where no one was sitting. If I had to hear one more person order a god damn sea breeze, I was going to lose my mind. But a man walked up to the corner to grab some more Budweiser. He was a bigger fella, already slightly drunk, and friendly. He looked at me noticing my down and out demeanor and said “Oh come on man, it can’t be that bad! It’s Popcorn Festival!” I looked at him and smiled a bit and with nothing to lose told him that I’m not from here and my bike broke down. I let him in on my plan to get to the next town and catch a Greyhound bus to Omaha to catch a plane. He replied “Well shit, me and my wife are going to Omaha tomorrow for our anniversary. We can take you to the airport”. I was ecstatic. I finally found something. He bought me another beer and had me come outside to the patio where his wife and friends were at partying. He introduced me and we talked for the next few hours.

 

This is where I finally felt good about the whole thing. A strange man and his wife were willing to help me. I had my way out of what I was for certain 24 hours ago was a Stephen King story. No children of the corn had come out yet, I still had all my body parts, and I was not being accosted by the townsfolk. It was me, my savior and his wife, and another local man. We talked and swapped stories. They asked me what it was like in good ol’ liberal Portland and I asked what it was like in the cornfields. Bits of racism were noticed in this conversation and among the others on the patio but I was in no position to say something and upset the people willing to help. Call me a racist I don’t care. I was in trouble and needed help. So I took what I can get. Words were said that I would never say. What was even more confusing was that Jayhawk girl had finished her shift and was sitting on the patio. One of the men who wasn’t in my group but on the patio had said something racist but then told Jayhawk girl that it did not pertain to her because he knew her and enjoyed her. I thought to myself that maybe he should think about that a little harder and maybe he could see the fucking irony in that.

 

The conversation continued. Laughs were shared and so was what passes for beer. They shared stories with me about their small town. Like how there is no police officer on duty from 2am-6am. It is so small they don’t have a full-time police force. The local bank was robbed at about 3am one night and the neighboring county sheriff had to come over to investigate. Luckily the culprits were bumbling idiots and were quickly apprehended. Drunk people started stumbling out to cars and driving off. I guess that’s how it goes in the midwest. Nothing to hit but corn so why not? Sarcasm of course. It’s terrible that I have to clarify that. But anyway, back to my story. We started to finish up the night. The man said he would meet me in the motel parking lot at 10am the next morning. I agreed, thanked him and his wife, and walked back to my hotel room. Feeling good and maybe a little drunk, I fell asleep fast and hard.

 

No alarm woke me up, just my anxiety for what lies ahead. I gathered my things and waited around. By about 9:30 the thought hit me. What if he doesn’t show up? I already bought the plane ticket. I had to be in Omaha by 5pm to catch my plane. 9:45 came and I really started to get nervous. Five minutes later, he showed up in a bright orange Hyundai. At last. He jumped out and greeted me.  I gave my keys to the maintenance man who was having a post-sex cigarette outside his door and told him I was checking out. Noticeably hungover, my savior opened the trunk and I put in my stuff. He cleared out the passenger seat and I jumped in. His wife and two kids were in the back. I felt bad for cramping them up back there. I thanked them again and we sped off as we chit chatted the 50 miles to Omaha.

 

We arrived at the airport and we got out. I thanked him again and again. I told him I’ll see him at next year’s Popcorn Festival. He chuckled. I took my bags and walked in. Now I know I should have given him some money. I fully regret not giving him the $40 dollars I had in my wallet. I was just so worried about my finances after buying a $300 plane tickets. I really had nothing to give. So if this guy ever reads this, let me know. I owe you big time. Thank you. You helped me out when I really had no other options. You are a role model. Thank you.

 

After an early lunch at Taco Bell, I sat there and looked out at the airport. It was quiet and I sat in the corner of the food court. A janitor was cleaning and coming my way. He was older and jovial. He struck up a conversation and we talked for 45 minutes. I’m not one for social interaction with strangers but this was enjoyable. We talked about cars and motorcycles. He told me stories about his motorcycles and I even tried to help him figure out what was wrong with his truck. He went back to work, and I entered the TSA line. I go scanned and so did my bag. No alarms went off. I was through. Now I waited.

 

The plane came and we took off for Denver. We landed and I ran across the airport to my next terminal as it was boarding. I got on and took off for Medford, OR. It was early September, so the plane was full of people my age going back to school for the new school year. No one was talkative this time. I put on a podcast but couldn’t sleep. It was cramped. We landed again and I exited the plane. Found my ride and went home.

 

Now I don’t think this is a trip of a lifetime, but fuck. It was an experience. I wish I had made it all the way across like I did the first time, but it all worked out. As I write this, my bike still sits in that storage unit. I don’t have the time or money to go get it, unfortunately. It has been incredibly difficult for me that’s for sure. I miss it. It was my form of freedom. Put on my helmet and go for a ride. I need it back. I’ll get it back eventually. When? I don’t know. Hopefully, it’s still there. I’m not sure I trust the storage unit. But I have no other options at this point. She will be rebuilt and ridden again at some point. Just don’t ask me when.

 

My main takeaway from this trip is to remember to enjoy things. I could have stayed in my room and cried and then walked out into traffic. It crossed my mind. But I stayed calm and found a way out while milking as much joy as I could out of the situation. It was not all fun. It was stressful for sure. But I made friends and memories. So next time something goes wrong, don’t panic until you have no other options. Panic only induces bad decisions. That’s the only advice I can think of to give at this point.

 

Life is a fucking highway. Enjoy the ride.