Destination Dreamland, Day One
On February 3, I'm sitting on my couch late one evening, drinking wine, when I randomly read that there's a town in Northern Michigan called “Dreamland.”
I text Jason, my boyfriend who lives some 1,300 miles away, immediately. “Let's go,” I say. “Let's take the motorcycle.”
Five months later, on the third of July, we wake up in Jason's flat in Hamtramck, the Vatican City of Detroit. We pack for five days of travel, stuffing the large bag that clips to the back of the bike with clean clothes, paperbacks, all of our devices, their chargers.
We share an apple and some peanut butter, standing up in the kitchen, and hit the road. It's 12pm.
I bought myself a bright blue motorcycle helmet for the trip. I wear a black tank top under my leather jacket, black jeans tucked into my leather boots. I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror later in the day and think, whoa I almost look like a biker. Jason looks every bit the part, from the black doo-rag peeking out from under his helmet to his steel-toed black motorcycle boots. It's a look he pulls off with aplomb.
Loaded up and mounted, Jason kicks the bike into gear and we hit the highway to head north out of the city of Detroit. Our plan is to make it to Jason's grandmother's house in Traverse City, which is about 250 miles away. It's a four hour drive in a car, but Jason plans to take back roads and frequent breaks. He warns me our trip will take longer than that--when he's traveling by motorcycle, Jason often estimates his travel times by doubling whatever it would take to travel in a car.
The first time I rode on a motorcycle on the street was last June, riding on Jason's bike all around Detroit. Since then, I had only ridden with him once last August, very briefly. But I loved it then and didn't consider for a second that I might not be up to a multi-day motorcycle journey … until we left. As Jason pulled onto the interstate, the reality of the situation hit me. Interstate travel is seldom enjoyable in a car—in a motorcycle, it can be stressful. It's loud, and, especially in a city, there is traffic everywhere. Cars pass you on both sides and you're just … out there, watching them go right by.
For a second I experience a mild sense of panic, and I ask myself—can I really do this? Because if I can't I should probably speak up soon ….
I take a deep breath, think of how much I've been looking forward to this trip, how much I trust Jason, how safe he makes me feel, and I relax. I'm certain everything will be fine. I let go of worry and don't feel it again for the rest of the trip. Before long, we're out of the city and off the highway, working our way west and then north on backroads.
Our first stop is a town called Howell. Jason tells me the town is known for being the home of a former grand dragon of Michigan's KKK. A farmers' market is in full swing; we wander through and buy two chorizo tacos from a taco truck. The weather is cool and breezy; we eat them outside, then recline on the grass where Jason takes a ten-minute nap to recharge. He's a master of this trick, one he perhaps honed in his time spent on the road, serving as bands' tour manager/van driver/babysitter.
I look around while Jason naps. Michigan towns, at least outside of the Detroit area, and incredibly quaint. We make dozens of references to Pleasantville on the trip, because that's what so many of the towns feel like--something out of the past. Adorable town squares with carefully maintained buildings; baskets of blooming flowers hanging from street lamps; busy sidewalk ice cream shops with hand-painted signs.
After Jason's impressive roadside power nap, we ride for another hour or so to a rest stop just East of Lansing. Michigan has some of the nicest rest stops I've seen, with bathrooms that aren't even scary to use. There's a creek here, and we walk down beside it. The creek banks are saturated, and Jason winds up stuck in the mud up to his ankles. He extricates himself from the muck, but it doesn't look easy.
In Lansing, Jason drives us past the house where he lived as a college student. We're deep in the afternoon at this point, so he decides to get back on the interstate to make up time. After getting around Grand Rapids, we hop back onto smaller roads, heading north, our day's journey halfway in the rearviews.
At 7:30, we stop in a town called Baldwin to stretch our legs and hydrate. I'm surprised by how sore my thighs are. Riding on the back of the bike, I have my own foot plates and back rest. I hold on to Jason's waist with my hands, which is easiest when he's wearing his leather vest that laces up the sides. The ride feels like a Cadillac compared to the dirt bikes of my youth. Jason advises me to apply a consistent gentle pressure on the foot plates to help keep me grounded. It's great advice, because when I get lazy or simply forget to do so on the trip, I find myself jolted slightly off my seat by the occasional bump in the road, just enough to make my heart leap in my chest and serve as a reminder to keep my legs engaged.
I don't feel uncomfortable at all on the back of the bike, but when we stop and I hop off to stand again—that's when I feel it. This first day my legs are the most sore, either because it's our longest day of riding or because my muscles started to loosen up after that.
We arrive in Traverse City around 9:30 at night. The sun sets an hour later here than it does back in Texas, so we pull into Jason's grandmother's house just as dark is encroaching.
Jason's grandmother's house is adorable. Traverse City is adorable. It's also incredibly busy; we've arrived on July fourth eve, smack in the middle of the city's famous cherry festival.
We are sore, we are tired, and we are incredibly hungry. We walk downtown, working our way through the throngs of people until we find a bar still serving food. We have drinks and order bacon sandwiches to take back to grandma's house (she's out of town at the moment, but will be back in the morning).
We sit on the screened-in front porch and enjoy the calm and cool as we eat our sandwiches, listen to music. We laugh, we talk about our day, we talk about our plans. Eventually we drag our exhausted bodies up the stairs to the bedroom. We kiss goodnight, collapse on the bed and are both out within minutes. We sleep like the dead.
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