Several years ago, our group of riding friends had set up a three-day trip, into BC for the first night… I don’t remember where, as I was not able to make the first day.  As often happens, work interfered with my riding schedule, and I planned to meet them for our second night.  We were booked in at the Steak Pit and Chalets in Bragg Creek, near Calgary.  Most of you will know about Bragg Creek, as this is a popular riding destination; Sundays seem to find many riders, gathering at the tavern to swap stories and share a pint.  We had never been there before, and when you clock numerous miles in a season a new and unfamiliar destination is always welcome.

With that plan in place, I left Edmonton early Sunday morning… skies were clear and the sun was shining brightly, a magnificent day for a ride.  I have always liked riding alone, as it gives me a chance to reflect… you can also then set your own timetable, stopping whenever you like (or not) depending solely upon your own whim, without regard to the desires of other riders.  I had been looking forward to this trip, so I was up and on the road very early, which gave me plenty of time to take a roundabout route.  I left the city through Devon and Calmar, stopping in Rocky Mountain House for fuel before riding west into the mountains. 

I soon found myself in Saskatchewan River Crossing, a place I ridden past numerous times but never stopped at.  I needed fuel, and decided to stop for lunch.  The place was jammed with busloads of tourists as I entered the café, and waited for fifteen minutes or so until a table became available.   Finally finding myself a space, I piled my leather jacket and helmet to mark my territory… one of the few gifts about being a bald, bearded motorcycle enthusiast is that most people find us a bit mysterious, and intimidating; as I stood in line for my food, nobody made an effort to steal my table.  I experienced the normal “sticker shock” at the price they wanted for my little bowl of chili and can of iced tea, then went back to my table fully intending to take my time and savor my lunch.

I sat alone, the warm room and hot meal a welcome break from the cool mountain air.  I am getting old enough that the chill tends to remind me of all the stupid things I did to hurt myself, when I was younger!  I sat and relaxed, enjoying fully the feeling this morning had left me with, and spent some time watching the tourists.  Many of them were from far away, and it seemed as though many had never seen a biker before; I was treated much the same way one might react to a wild animal, minus the photographs.  Again, despite the “standing room only” situation in the café, my table for four offered three empty chairs, all of which went unclaimed… despite a casual invitation for some people to use the chairs.

Finally, after about twenty minutes I heard a rough voice asking, “mind if I sit?”  I motioned to the chair across from me, and was joined by the truest biker I have ever met, before or since.  He set his lid and jacket on the table, next to mine, and went to take his turn in line.  My meal was finished; in fact I had been readying myself to leave, but this guy intrigued me a little and I decided to stick around.  One of the true gifts of traveling solo is that you can change your plans, or schedule, without too much argument!

He joined me again, and dug into his burger with tremendous enthusiasm.  Neither of us said much at this point.  When he finished eating we exchanged the usual pleasantries, then I asked him for his story.  Turns out he was from Wyoming originally, and was now eighty-six years old… his eventual destination was Alaska, where he planned to spend a month or so with friends.  He had been an avid and serious rider for most of his life, and since the death of his wife a few years earlier had sold most of his possessions and lived on the road, just exploring.  He would stay with friends or family as time and the mood allowed, and then move on when the impulse hit.  He camped a little, and stayed in motels occasionally, just for the treat of hot water.  I spent an hour or so with him, just listening to the amazing stories he shared, tales of being a biker before it became so widely fashionable and accepted, in the days when bikes were less reliable and road services less frequent, when a long ride could really be an adventure!

He talked about years spent traveling, remembered earlier machines that were not so reliable… with a note of regret that as our machines have improved, we have perhaps lost a piece of our independence and adaptability.  I listened as he told stories of a familiar type: the wrong turn that led to a special memory; the rush of sensations as you ride a new road for the first time; the eagerness as you pack your bags and set out on a crisp morning ride, heading for anywhere, and the joy of a hot breakfast an hour later; the taste of that ice cold beer at the end of a hot day’s ride; and, the mingling of emotions when you remember the special people you have met on your journey.  I shared a few stories of my own with him, but I certainly got the better half of that exchange.

Time passed, and this encounter was coming to an end… both of us needed to be back on the road, riding towards our final destinations.  We walked slowly to our machines, his GL1500 parked next to my Road King.  His machine was well worn and lightly packed, both standing as proof of his experience as a biker.  We shook hands, and I asked about his future; he looked me straight in the eye, and said: “one morning, camped beside the road, I just won’t wake up, and that’s just fine with me.”  With that, he climbed onto his bike, kicked it into gear, and rode away.  I stood, and watched him disappear into the distance, my mind still awash in the stories he had told me. 

The rest of the weekend was great, but paled in comparison to the hour I spent in the café at Saskatchewan River Crossing.  I rode south to Banff, then into Bragg Creek to meet my friends.  We enjoyed a magnificent meal at the Steak Pit, and shared a glass of wine or two before walking around town in the twilight.  I don’t remember now, if I shared this story that night… perhaps it was too big a story to tell, without some time to think it through.  The next morning, Monday of whatever long weekend this was, we headed north for Edmonton.  Back to the “real world” of work and duty for us, I for one genuinely sorry that I was not yet ready to just keep going.

As for my old biker acquaintance, although we talked for over an hour, I realized that we never introduced ourselves.  That detail didn’t seem important when we spoke, but I will always regret not knowing his name, this fine old gentleman who had given me the gift of a glimpse of the true biker spirit that he embodied.  If you are still out there, ride safe; if you have gone on, I will try to find your spirit in the wind.  May there always be a road!