Discovering the best parts of a motorcycle trip — and it's not hitting a deer

I wanted to get an early start on my trip so I left my house in Erie, Pennsylvania, at 5 a.m. I was headed to Norfolk, Virginia, to take a class to renew my Merchant Mariner Credential, the Coast Guard-issued license I use to captain tugboats from Seattle to Alaska and Hawaii. Wet fog gave way to cold, clear, empty road as the caged headlight on Prancer, my 2020 Triumph Bonneville T-120 Black, plunged its dagger high beam into the darkness. Google maps was set to avoid highways and tolls, not because I mind the speed, but because I feel safer not having to compete for the attention of other drivers, and my own vanity prevents me from purchasing anything but the smallest of windscreens.

I was playing it safe, you see, when the deer bolted over a ditch on my side of the road and I felt the knock of something hard on my leg, and the bike shifting beneath me.

Editor's note: If the writer's name sounds familiar to long-time Common Tread readers, it's because he used some of his free time at sea to create the Highside/Lowside comic strip.

It was all over quickly. I was going 55 mph. I had time to pull in the clutch and swerve left, into the empty opposing lane. The deer and I collided, and somehow, thankfully, I managed to keep the bike up. It’s better to be lucky than good, as one of my favorite old captains used to say. There was no time to process the event as it happened, so I pieced it together after I pulled the bike to the side of the road and put the hazards on. The pulsating rhythm of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ “Isis” sounded through my earbuds. I undocked my phone and turned on the flashlight while Karen Orzalek sang the words “wild night” to me again and again. It was roughly 45 minutes into my first motorcycle road trip of real length, and I couldn’t help but agree. Wild night, indeed.

The damage was as follows: Headlight knocked down on its axis, engine guard bent backward toward my leg, right shin and knee hit but not injured (enough deer hair on my leg to knit a small plushy), saddlebag and strapped-down backpack filthy with hoof-mark grass stains, pannier rail bent inward against the shock, disposition rattled, but salvageable. After I realized that everything could be adjusted and bent back into place, without busting out any tools or calling for help, I decided it was best to just forget about the whole thing and get on with the trip.

I saddled up and with enough enthusiasm to compensate for my creeping trepidation, slammed her into first and… killed the engine. The kickstand was still down. Thanks, Triumph. After cursing myself up and down with the full privilege afforded me by my profession, I got her going again and tried to focus on how nice it would be to sit down in Punxsutawney, my first stop, for a cup of coffee and a hot meal. A couple minutes down the road and I began really noticing the signs warning of deer “Next 4 miles” placed about every four miles or so apart. I redoubled my efforts to bend my disposition back into place.

If you’re wondering about the deer, as far as I know, like myself, it survived our encounter. I chalked up the incident as a glancing blow (anytime anyone uses the word “bodied” it’s safe to say they’re using hyperbole). I don’t even know for certain that it was a deer. For all I know it was some rare cryptid; a seeker of night riders that bolts towards the sound of a roaring engine, checking for the application of fresh chain lube and rendering judgment accordingly. I must have passed muster and was allowed to continue relatively unscathed. Thank you chain lube demon, or whatever your name is. Creating your own mythologies to cope with near-death experiences is the best thing about motorcycling.

Punxsutawney, the home of Punxsutawney Phil, our nation’s harbinger of spring, was a welcome sight. It took me some time to find a restaurant that was open, as it was Labor Day, but I found a nice spot to rest my weary psyche. Apparently, I needed the reprieve, because after I pulled into the perfect parking spot, right in front of the large picture windows of the busy establishment, I forgot to place my kickstand and threw my bike onto its side in front of everyone who cared to watch. Picture that. My clutch lever and mirror were remarkably fine. Engine guards and saddlebags are the best thing about motorcycling.

Something-something lucky than good, and I was in for coffee and a good, hot meal that inflation hadn’t yet caught up with, but not before fixating on the surprising amount of deer hair still affixed to my riding pants more than two hours after my close encounter. “I hit a deer,” I wanted to say to the waitress, but didn’t.  “I could have died,” I whispered to the ethereal steam rising from my coffee.

Hunger sated and caffeinated, I was soon back underway. On this leg of the trip, I began noticing a habit I’d developed. Because I live in constant fear of looking dumb, I always double push the turn signal button to make sure I cancel it. Not that weird, but now I was double pressing it any time I: saw a deer sign, witnessed roadkill, saw a cop car, experienced an awkward in-helmet memory, or passed by a graveyard. It was now my own secret prayer, a sacred ritual, born of Mother Triumph, Father anxiety, and the Holy Spirit of the road.

I stopped for gas in Maryland and it was time to call home. I’d texted my wife about the accident but hadn’t called yet because she’d been asleep, or I’d been riding. The boss was not impressed. She’d been worried from the very start about my plan to ride to Norfolk and had even dreamt that morning of a deer darting into the road at me.

“What side of the road?” I asked.

“Right to left,” she told me.

I don’t believe in the supernatural or metaphysical or what have you, but I do at times get a tingle in my spine when things don’t add up, or when they do. My wife had dreamt, at approximately the same time that I was struck by a deer, that I was struck by a deer, from the same direction that I was struck from, and that she had put herself between the deer and me to shield me. It does make one wonder. I reassured her the best I could. My nine-year-old asked if I was OK and put the issue to bed.

I have a sailorly tattoo on my chest. It’s an octopus that is supposed to represent a Kraken. I got it done after weathering a particularly hairy storm on Lake Huron aboard a square-rigged, wooden tall ship. It was supposed to signify that I wasn’t afraid to die at sea (lake). After I found out my wife was pregnant with our son, and while working on that same tall ship, I was up the mast over 100 feet in the air, taking down the rigging for the season, when I realized I very much was afraid of death, in the sweaty palms, shaking legs kind of way, chest piece be damned. After conquering my fear of heights and barking trainees up the mast to furl sails in storms with lightning fast approaching, I was terrified again. I had to be someone’s father.

Not long after that realization, I’d sold my 1982 Honda Nighthawk 650 deathtrap. But now here I was again, on a motorcycle. Was the fear of death overwhelmed by the fear of not living? For me, I decided, it was. Maybe that was the real meaning of the krakens stabbed into the skin of those sailors of yesteryear. I continued sailing after the storm and after my second wave of fear up on that mast. I knew in my heart I would likewise continue riding after that morning. Soon after the conversation with my wife, I was full of gas, Red Bull, and on the road again and entering Virginia as the sun reached its zenith.

Air-conditioned pizza places are the best thing about motorcycling. Scratch that. Being repeatedly called “honey-bunny” by the waitress in an air-conditioned pizza place is the best part. It was becoming increasingly apparent that I had crossed over into the Southland. The pizza was delicious – high praise from a guy whose Italian-American wife grew up in a pizza shop her parents ran. (I eat a lot of pizza at home.) Then again, the meals in port after an ordeal at sea taste all the better for it.

On my way out of the restaurant, I stopped and chatted with a new rider who was out enjoying the day. I asked about Skyline Drive, a true-blue American destination road and the end of my trip for the day, and was warned that he’d heard it was really curvy and I should be careful. I smiled and nodded and assured him I would. The instantaneous friendships you find on the road is the best thing about motorcycling.

The following day, I waited for the sun to rise before finishing the trip to Norfolk, to lessen the probability of deer strikes. Honey-bunny may not get it right the first time, but you won’t catch me slippin’ twice. I was hitting a stride and regaining some of the confidence that had rattled loose the previous day. I thought, “I’ve got this,” just before my thumb involuntarily shot toward my turn signal.  Click, click, my prayer was sent as I noticed a police car on the median of the road. With great enthusiasm, for the next few miles I tapped my helmet vigorously when cruising by another rider to warn them. One Harley rider smiled wide, pointed my way, and gave me a thumbs up. Helping a brother out is the best part about motorcycling, brother.

I arrived in Norfolk ready for a reprieve from the hypervigilance I’d imposed upon myself after the deer encounter. I went to bed early. The next day I had training to do, and not the kind where you sit in a conference room and watch a slideshow. It wasn’t long until I was decked out in a fireman’s suit, on bottled air, spraying a fire hose at a large pile of hay and gasoline inside a two-story metal building. So much for the reprieve. Other activities of the day included righting a capsized life raft, clown-car cramming a bunch of people into aforementioned raft, timed water treading, and fist-fighting sea urchins of varying sizes while singing sea shanties. OK, maybe not that last one. But at the end of the day, I’d earned the certificate I came for.

I’d hoped, in some strange way, that this shock to my senses would provide some sort of reboot for my brain after the deer strike. Still, my RAM kept cycling through the incident, even as the hot flames reflected in my retinas. Task manager not up to the task. Keyword: get-over-it. Error: File not found.

Time off is the reason I do what I do. I purchase, with my time at sea, unadulterated, organic, farm-raised, time off at home. That time is precious to me and my family and I’d already been gone three days, traveling and training so I decided to make it a faster trip home.

Google Maps set to highway, luggage strapped, stomach filled with banana nut muffin, black coffee, and determination; I was ready for action. There is something special about being homeward bound. Of all the voyages I’ve taken to distant ports and cities and anchorages, none compare to the feeling of heading back home; to my family, pets, friends, and my own carved out place on earth.

At a gas station in Hagerstown, Maryland, I met a fellow rider filling up his car. He relayed stories about trips on his BMW R 1200 GS while I, in turn, told him about my trip. I noticed his prosthetic leg poking from his shorts and decided not to inquire.

An hour later, storm clouds emerged from the hill-and-valley horizon. Click, click, my thumb warned. I stared the clouds down for a good hour before I began feeling the threat of a downpour. I found a place to get gas and park before the bulk of the rain came. After checking the weather radar, I decided to wait it out, not because I won’t ride in the rain, but because I didn’t have to that time. I was playing it safe, you see…

It wasn’t until I began recognizing the roads my dear Prancer was bounding along that I started to believe I was close. 1,267 miles in four days (three travel days) and I was greeted by my wife and son and our two cats, who were very interested in what my pants smelled like — the cats, not my wife and kid.

I didn’t realize it until that moment, but all I wanted to do since the deer encounter was hold my loved ones close and tell them I’m alright. Much like in sailing, coming home safe after a good, long trip is the best thing about motorcycling.