Sojourn Chronicles
The temperature is an unseasonal 56 degrees in January. The result of warm air over cold ground has produced one very foggy day. This scene appeared as I was traveling home from a visit with friends.
See you on the highway.
Brent
I apologize. I did not do a lot of posting here in 2023, but I plan to do more–a lot more–in 2024. This will be quick, but an important update near the end. So, let’s begin.
I motorcycled to two events last year. In June, I met up with friends at our Kentucky Backroads Campout at Lago Linda Hideaway in Beattysville, KY. We were fewer this year, but a mighty force. The roads in Eastern Kentucky are delightful. It is a motorcycling paradise. The second trip was to Wailin’ Wayne Weekend in Nelsonvile, OH, in September. I was camped out with 500 of my newest friends. I met up with old friends there, and made a few new ones. WWW is incredible for dual sport and adventure riding. Again, the roads in SE Ohio are fantastic.
And, I did a little fishing.
On another motorcycle adventure, one that was not mine but I was very involved, was when my friend Sam Manicom planned to stay at our home for two nights during his romp through the USA countryside. It ended up being six as his hydraulic clutch was busted, and needed repairs. Mike Fitterling was also here as the three of us planned to ride to the AMA Vintage Days. Mike went on solo, and I entertained Sam for four more days.
Lin and I did not travel much in 2023, but we did attend a Garrison Keillor show in Wabash, Indiana. We met up with two of her sisters and shared a Vrbo rental. It was quite nice.
For Thanksgiving, we did our usual. Turkey on the Weber.
Oh, I almost forgot. I bought another motorcycle, a 2023 Kawasaki KLR 650. This is my third KLR. I regretted moving along the last one, and when I was offered an inventory closeout deal, I bought it. As of this writing, I still have the two Moto Guzzis, the V85tt and V7iii.
And now, a health update. You may recall, I have prostate cancer. It’s low-grade, but it’s still there, a lesion about the size of a dime on my prostate. I have been poked and prodded, had four MRIs and two biopsies. Five doctors and one surgeon have told me this will not kill me. I will die of something else. My December MRI indicated no change in size, and I will be visiting my doc at the end of this month for a consultation. My latest PSA was 4, the highest limit of normal. It has been lower for the past year or so. Our strategy is “Active Surveillance.” It’s like the CIA or FBI: keep an eye on it.
I have read up on prostate cancer, and looked at all the possible interventions. I don’t want the cure to be worse than the disease. Most men will get a prostate cancer and live with it. That’s what I am doing. The very hardest part of this was learning to overcome the emotional roller coaster of having the c-word. In that aspect, I have conquered the prostate cancer and for now I have been living with it for at least three years. So what did I do at age 73? I went out and bought another motorcycle. “F..k” cancer.
On another subject, I had had the most incredible year sharing life with my best friend, lover, companion, confidant, and wife: Lin. She’s the best.
See you on the highway.
Brent
Morrow, Ohio, is this quaint small town with some historical character. It was laid out in 1845 and named after Ohio’s ninth governor, Jeremiah Morrow. The town was created when the Little Miami Railroad laid enough track alongside the Little Miami River to reach this spot.
Today, US 22/Ohio SR 3 passes through the town and intersects with Ohio SR 123. What was originally the rail line is now the Little Miami Recreation Trail, which starts near Cincinnati and ends in Springfield–74 miles of paved Rails to Trails.
I have always found this piece of Morrow fascinating. Although the depot is in very good shape, it does not appear to be used on a regular basis. It has aged well since being built about 1852. Originally, there were two rail lines meeting at this spot. The Little Miami Railroad on one side, and the Pennsylvania Line on the other, giving the building its odd shape. Careful observation reveals the Pennsylvania Line route including abutments for brides that no longer exist–something easily discovered while motorcycling near and around Morrow.
Speaking of motorcycling, the depot is a great place for a photo op. And across the street is Miranda’s Ice Cream Shop. That’s worth a stop too.
See you on the highway.
Brent
I owned a 1965 Pontiac Lemans, and drove it like a kid might do. I was 18 when I bought it. I had traded that junk of a motorcycle plus some cash for the car. It was an okay car, but nothing special.
Reading the classified ads one day, I spotted a 1956 Chevrolet Nomad for sale in the town near my home. I asked my dad about it and we agreed to go take a look to see what kind of shape it was in, and more importantly, how much. I never dreamed that I would soon own it. After all, it’s a NOMAD. The seller said he needed a more reliable car because his wife was pregnant and due soon. My dad asked if he would be interested in a trade for the Pontiac, and he said yes. After he gave the Pontiac a test drive, we settled down to terms. How much?
I was ready to trade even up. My dad boldly said, how about the Nomad and some cash for the Pontiac. He agreed, and I drove the Nomad home! All it needed was an adjustment to the timing!
The Nomad needed a little TLC, a good wash and polish. It was all original, which was something of a rarity. The Nomad was Chevrolet’s two-door sports station wagon. Very distinguishable by that slanted pillar behind the door. Lots of chrome strips inside and out. It had a 265 V-8 with a four-barrel carburetor. Power Glide automatic transmission. Even the clock and radio worked.
I spent a lot of time cleaning up and polishing all the chrome that distinguishes the Nomad from the two and four-door station wagons that Chevrolet was also selling. It was my pride and joy. The coolest car.
In December, 1969, the U.S. Department of Defense conducted the first draft lottery. I sat with my mom, glued to the television watching them pull birthdays from the container. Then it came. Number 51 is November 7. My birthday. In January, I was called up for a physical, notified of being drafted in February, and on a bus to the induction center in Chicago in March, 1970. All the while, the war in Vietnam is raging on.
What to do with the car? What to do with the horse I also owned, which will be a future story from the old box of photos? The uncertainty of my future was foremost on my mind. I decided to sell the car, and it did not take long to sell.
Jumping ahead to my return from Vietnam and the U.S. Army, I went back to the guy who bought my Nomad. “Would you sell it back to me?” The answer was quick. “No!”
So, I bought a 1968 Ford Fairlane, and then a couple of months later, a 1972 Honda CL350 Scrambler motorcycle. At least I had wheels.
Of all the cars I have owned, and miles driven. That Nomad is still my favorite. When I attend a classic car show, I am always looking for a Nomad to remind me of what I once had.
See you on the highway.
Brent
From the old box of photos.
Finding that old box of photos was like discovering presents under the Christmas Tree. I thought these images of my early motorcycles, horses and cars were gone, lost to history. Merry Christmas in June!
My senior year of high school (Class of 1968), I tried to buy a motorcycle that I saw for sale along the street I took to go to work. As far as I could tell, it needed a little TLC. I told the guy I would buy it. I don’t remember how much. When I arrived home, my mom told me that the guy had called to see if it was okay to sell me the bike. Her response to him was, “He is still in high school and he is not buying a motorcycle!” I was mad. Very mad. Not destructive mad, just mad.
I had always understood that us boys were not allowed to own a car while we were in high school, but this was a motorcycle and I had been riding the Lambretta scooter that Dad bought. After I graduated, I went back to see if the bike was still was available. It was, and I bought it! It was a 1963 Harley-Davidson Sprint 250cc Scrambler. It was made in Italy by Aermacchi for Harley-Davidson. Yes, one of those. It had a kick start on the left and gear selector on the right–a four speed transmission.
I don’t think mom was very happy with that, but I had a part-time job, and paid with my own money. So, it was now acceptable. Dad was okay with it, I think, but I am sure there were discussions.
Immediately, I started giving that bike a little TLC, but it needed more than that. It needed a mechanic. Off it went to the Harley dealer. Upon its return, I gave it a paint job–cans of automotive spray paint from the hardware store. It looked reasonably good.
Even after “fixing it up,” the bike was still a piece of junk. Over the years, and after numerous purchases of motorcycles, I still think of that Sprint as the worst motorcycle I ever owned. Eventually, I traded it for a car, a 1965 Pontiac Lemans four-door sedan with a three-speed on the column.
Today, that Sprint is a collector’s item. I wish I still had it.
See you on the highway.
Brent