A is for Adventure
by Brian A. Hopkins

 
I’m camped beneath the spillway at Spavinaw State Park in northeastern Oklahoma, lulled to sleep by the sound of all that water pouring over the dam. For the first time, I understand those white noise machines some people use when they sleep. The spillway here is an impressive sight – it’s got to be 300 yards long! – and tonight there’s a lot of water flowing. It’s a relaxing accompaniment to the phantom motion of the motorcycle still moving beneath me: muscle-memory from having flown the twisty stretch of Highway 10 that parallels the banks of the Illinois River earlier in the day.

I’m feeling a bit smug, being the only camper – other than the campground hosts. When I pulled up to the old couple’s RV to ask how much it would cost to pitch my tent for the night, they seemed reluctant to step away from their campfire. After all, the temperature was in the thirties! I think it was the bike that lured the husband away. You don’t see too many Triumph Tigers in Oklahoma, especially one like this, all outfitted for dualsport riding. After inquiring about the bike (“That sure ain’t no Harley!”), the campground host told me that technically Spavinaw State Park wasn’t open, this being the off-season, but that I was welcome to camp anyway … free of charge!

Fifteen minutes later, my tent was up and my sleeping gear arranged. I had 30 minutes to hike around and appreciate the dam and its spillway, then the sun was setting and the temperature was really plunging. I crawled into my North Face mummy bag, comfy and warm, feeling as if everything was right with the world. As always, Mother Nature welcomed me with open arms. Later, it rained, a new music tapped out on my tent. The wind picked up, rattling the barren winter tree limbs and rustling through old piles of oak leaves. Somewhere nearby an owl asked its eternal question and another nocturnal creature used a hollow log to tap out a tempo for nature’s midnight symphony.

I could paint a similar picture for you involving other nights in various state parks and campgrounds throughout Oklahoma. Or write about the rural backroads that led me there, some paved, some not – all of them followed purely for the love of adventure. Where does this go? What interesting thing will I find just around that next bend?

Motorcycling is one of the last freedoms for those who want to experience adventure, meet interesting people, and completely immerse themselves in the environment. Yes, you can hike or bicycle and experience the same things (even more so, some might argue), but on my motorcycle I can cover more ground, thereby seeing and enjoying more in the sparse time that work and family responsibilities allot me. I could do the same thing in an automobile, but then I’d be isolated from the environment, wrapped in a bubble whose primary purpose is to separate me from the very elements I seek; I’d be more like a passenger, rather than a participant in my own motion, losing the interaction that the bike affords me.

The motorcycle is a magnet, always drawing out interesting locals who want to know where you’re going, what you’re riding, and “Hey, aren’t you freezing your ass off on that thing?” At the gas pump, you’re bound to meet the old guy who wants to tell you about the motorcycle he owned 40 years ago, the young guy whose wife won’t let him have one (but he sure does admire yours!), or the attractive middle-aged woman longing to be taken for a ride. The Tiger lured them because it was so unusual. With my BMW, I get the standard “I didn’t even know BMW made motorcycles!” My sport-touring bike, a Kawasaki ZZR1200, generally has folks scratching their heads, having never seen a “crotch-rocket” outfitted with hard bags.

Each of these interactions serves as foundation and fuel for my spirit of adventure, because I can see it in their eyes: they wish they were the one on the bike. Looking at me in my weathered motorcycle gear, bespattered with bugs and stained with miles upon miles of road grime, they see an escape from everything presently gnawing at their soul: the nine-to-five job; the long, boring evenings spent in front of the tube being prompted when to laugh by some inane laugh-track; the Hyundai that gets 40 mpg but accelerates like an arthritic snail in a headwind. I’m the bold adventurer, the tarnished knight off on some glorious quest, the cowboy riding his steel steed off into the sunset. Of course, I’m not about to tell them I’m just an Average Joe, same as them!

A distinct aura of trepidation is often coupled with their longing. These are the people who believe motorcycles are dangerous (and are generally quick to share that opinion with those of us who know and understand motorcycling and its dangers far better than they ever will). These are the people who have weighed the perceived dangers and hardships against the adventure and decided, sadly enough, to remain at home on the couch … but their longing remains. And I believe it eats away at them over the years, slowly but surely.

Monday might find me back at my own arduous nine-to-fiver, but I’ll endure it with a patience and optimism inspired by my recent journeys and the certain knowledge that my bikes and the next weekend are just that close. And I’ll meet the challenges in my life with the knowledge that safety is gained not by avoiding risk and hardship, but rather by embracing the opportunity to rise above those challenges. I understand that safety isn't bought by barring the door and staying at home, but rather by training oneself to face everything the world is capable of throwing at you, by experiencing the fullness of adventure and learning from it.

Leaving Spavinaw in the morning, there’s thick fog, and I head south with an extra measure of caution, watching for critters and ice, both of which seem to have an attraction to Oklahoma’s roadways. The folks at the Denny’s at the junction of Highways 82 and 412 look at me like I’m nuts to be out on a bike in winter, but this is what I love, folks. This is adventure riding.

As I sit there with the heat of the restaurant raising vapors from my cold, wet gear, bacon and eggs never tasted so good. The locals are huddled beneath their woolen caps and up-turned collars, their hands wrapped tightly around steaming mugs of coffee. I can feel their eyes on me. I already know the questions they’re dying to ask.

When the waitress refills my coffee, she takes a long look out the window at the motorcycle and sighs wistfully. “I bet everyone asks you if you’re cold,” she says with a knowing smile and an intelligent laugh that says she already knows I’m not.

I just wink at her.