Harley and Me

by Bernadette Murphy

  The bike fires right up. We’re good to go.

  • • •

  Before starting this trip, I contacted C. Robert Cloninger, professor of psychiatry, psychology, and genetics at Washington University in St. Louis. Cloninger is known for his research on genetics, neurobiology, and development of personality. He developed a well-respected measure of personality traits that includes risk-taking variables.

  Like the Big Five personality traits I considered earlier, the psychobiological model Cloninger created is yet another way to look at the same terrain. By contrast, his model includes four dimensions of temperament: novelty seeking, harm avoidance, risk dependence, and persistence. He also developed character models to measure self-directedness, cooperativeness, and self-transcendence, and these elements shape the first four dimensions. (You can test yourself at https://tci.anthropedia.org/en/.)

  Three of these traits are crucial to create a risk-taking personality, he explains.

  1.Low harm avoidance: someone who is outgoing, risk-taking, and optimistic. If I were on the other end of this spectrum, he tells me, I would be shy, fearful, and apprehensive.

  2.Novelty seeking, which can involve being impulsive and disorderly versus being orderly and rigid. A person who ranks high in novelty seeking and low in harm avoidance would be characterized as a thrill seeker, both impulsive and risk taking.

  3.These emotional drives are then regulated by character traits—one’s conscious goals and values, and one’s capacity for self-regulation. Being self-directed, for example, means a person is responsible, purposeful, and resourceful. On the other hand, those who score low in this attribute would present personality disorders characterized by traits such as blaming others and aimlessness.

  Once Cloninger has gone through this matrix with me, he takes what little he knows of my life from our conversation to try to assess what category I best fit. “So, if you are high in self-directedness, as most people with your academic achievements are likely to be, then you would have the ability to judiciously regulate and express your emotional drives.”

  If, on the other hand, I had ranked high in novelty seeking and low in both harm avoidance and self-direction, I would present an impulsive personality disorder, he predicts. The quality of self-direction increases with age from twenty to forty-five, then levels off at the high level of maturation, he explains.

  By contrast, novelty seeking and harm avoidance do not follow a consistent direction with age, and there is little difference between the genders in this respect, except women are a little more harm avoidant and a lot more reward dependent and cooperative than men.

  He explains the frequent relationship between passionate temperament profiles (low harm avoidance, high novelty seeking, high risk dependence) and creative characteristics (self-directedness, cooperativeness, and self-transcendence).

  “So risk taking is related to creativity,” he boils it down for me. “You might even think creative writers tend to become bikers!”

  • • •

  But now, out here in the wilderness, all that knowledge doesn’t feel very relevant. We’ve moved further into Wyoming and Edna’s trip-stopping flat tire has just occurred, leaving us stranded and alone. A storm is moving toward us, we can’t raise a cell phone signal, and gunfire cracks somewhere in the tree line. At this moment, being a risk taker doesn’t seem like such a great personality trait.

  George eventually gets a hold of an Auto Club operator. By figuring out where and when we last got gas, he’s able to get a bead on our location. A tow truck is on its way, though it might take an hour or more to arrive.

  “Go on, you two,” George tells me and Rebecca as the rain clouds loom even closer. “There’s no point in all of us getting wet.”

  Edna concurs. “Really. We’ve done this before. We’ll have the bike towed to Jackson and meet you at the motel. We’ll be there before you know it.”

  Rebecca and I recall learning about the biker ethic of not leaving companions stranded the evening before with Roger and Crystal. I want to be a responsible rider who sticks with disabled comrades. But the sound of gunfire is raising the hair on the back of my neck and that storm looks far too ominous. A pickup truck, the only vehicle we’ve seen in the hour or so we’ve been stranded, passes, then circles back. Two middle-aged men greet us. They confirm the obvious: We’re basically in the middle of nowhere. “A hundred miles, actually, from the middle of nowhere.” There’s a Harley sticker on the back window of their truck. They offer to stay with Edna and George, to give shelter in their truck if needed. Nightfall is approaching fast and they urge Rebecca and me to keep moving toward Jackson. We take their advice.

  I’ve been picturing the ride into Jackson Hole, one of the most anticipated scenic moments of this trip. Now, I no longer care. The rain starts to pelt as we ride the curvy road. It stings my exposed wrists, smears my face shield, drips down the back of my neck. Goose-bumps cover my skin; my teeth chatter. We could stop and put on our rain suits, but that will make us even wetter, so we power on. Stopping for gas in Jackson takes my last ration of strength. My legs are shaky and my hands tremble from low blood sugar. By the time we pull into the motel parking lot, we’ve clocked more than five hundred miles for the day and are absolutely numb with exhaustion. I hope Edna and George are okay.

  We check into our rooms, twist off our boots, and shed our drenched riding clothes. Changed into dry jeans and shirts, we return to the front desk for recommendations on a good place for cheap eats. As we get a list of local food joints, the tow truck pulls into the lot, Edna’s pink bike tethered to the bed, still as sparkling as a Rose Parade princess.

  Once Edna’s bike is unloaded, the four of us amble to get something to eat. Here we are, in one of the most scenic destinations in the west, and we’re too damn tired to appreciate any of it. We pick the closest restaurant we can find.

  “What in God’s name was going on with the gunfire?” I ask as we settle into a nondescript Mexican restaurant booth.

  George raises an eyebrow and Edna shrugs. “No idea.” It’s a mystery that will remain unsolved.

  •CHAPTER TEN•

  RIGHT ON TIME

  The adventurer gambles with life to heighten sensation—to make it glow for a moment.

  —JACK LONDON

  Day Three: Sunday, August 25

  Jackson to Cody, Wyoming, via Grand Teton and Yellowstone National Parks: 229 miles

  Staying in a Motel 6 is never a lovely experience, and this is probably the ugliest, most uncomfortable Motel 6 I’ve ever been in: all modern edges with shiny surfaces, no sense of gentleness or comfort. No box spring for the bed; the mattress simply rests on a hard-looking platform. Harsh fluorescent lights. The bathroom is spitefully bare-bones without that most treasured of amenities, a tub. But for about ten hours, we get to be off our bikes, out of the rain, out of the alternating hot and cold wind, with bellies full and a horizontal padded surface on which to lie down. Sheer exhaustion is the most wonderful soporific. After a satisfying dinner, Rebecca and I are out cold.

  Last night at dinner, George, Edna, Rebecca, and I brainstormed how we might move forward given Edna’s hobbled bike. She learned from the tow truck driver that any repair shop who might be able to deal with her tire will be closed today, a Sunday, and likely the next day as well. She was able to get names and numbers of locals who might have a lift to change the tire or have access to a new tire. But if Edna and George are delayed longer than a day or two, they’ll have to abandon the trip altogether and turn back. They are both expected in Santa Barbara within a week to run motorcycle security for the Avon Walk to End Breast Cancer. Plus, staying in Jackson would be an expensive proposition.

  Jackson is a major gateway for millions of tourists visiting nearby Grand Teton and Yellowstone National Parks and the National Elk Refuge each year. This is the only location on our journey we had to book a hotel ahead of time and then paid double what we’re paying in other places for a Motel 6, the cheapest digs w
e could find. Staying for more than a few days might quickly wipe out a cross-country motorcycle budget.

  Though we’ve been calling it Jackson Hole, I learn that name is a misnomer. Jackson Hole refers to the entire valley in which the town of Jackson is located. The term hole derives from early trappers and mountain men who entered the valley from the north and east, descending relatively steep slopes, giving the sensation of entering a hole. These low-lying valleys are surrounded by mountains and contain rivers and streams, which make good habitat for beaver and other fur-bearing animals.

  But given the cost of food and lodging here, I imagine the only fur-bearing animals we’ll see are of the human variety adorned in pricey coats. High-end ski resorts like Aspen and Vail come to mind. According to the chamber of commerce, a strong local economy, primarily due to tourism, has allowed Jackson to develop a large shopping and eating district, centered on the town square. That, along with a sky-high cost of living, means most of the people working in Jackson cannot afford to live here. But the real abomination is the fact that this amazing natural beauty is at arm’s reach and yet stores and galleries hawk cheesy mimicry, fake imitation Indian crap, and Mangelsen images.

  Last night we came up with the plan for today. Rebecca and I will ride through Grand Teton and Yellowstone while George and Edna see what can be done to fix tire. We tried to talk George and Edna into doubling up on George’s bike, joining us to see the national parks. They insisted that since they’ve been in this part of the world many times before, they’d rather spend the time getting the repair completed. Rebecca and I, who have never been here, should go on ahead. If all goes well, Edna and George will meet us in Cody, Wyoming, at the end of the day. If they strike out, Rebecca and I might then choose to turn back to Jackson after seeing the national parks to wait with them. Or we might decide to forge ahead on our own. George and Edna will be fine either way, they assure us.

  By the time we’re ready to set out, I am bundled beyond recognition. Though the day might be reasonably warm in parts of Yellowstone, there is a 60 percent chance of rain coupled with morning and evening temperatures that are frigid on a bike. I’m wearing long underwear under my armored textile pants, with a rain and wind-resistant liner zipped in as a midlayer. On top, I wear a thermal layer, a woolen shirt, and a down vest beneath my leather jacket. My hands are sheathed in heavy leather gloves with liners. Two pair of woolen socks smother my feet, which are crammed into motorcycle boots. When we wave good-bye to Edna and George, I am the Pillsbury Doughboy trying to mount Izzy Bella.

  Leaving town, we pass the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar, one of the few landmarks that had topped Rebecca’s must-do list when we’d planned out our route, renowned for its line dancing, barstools shaped like saddles, the famous country music acts that have performed there, and the general wildness said to occur. I’d been the one asking for Yellowstone and the Rockies—the big-ticket items. But we were all exhausted last night and never made it to the bar. It’s early now and the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar is shuttered. I regret we didn’t motivate ourselves sufficiently to fulfill Rebecca’s meager wish list.

  Heading toward the Tetons, I’m intensely aware of the gratitude I feel for Rebecca. She’s walked me through some of the most difficult experiences of my life, the person who got me on a motorcycle in the first place. It was this time of the year—late summer—two years ago that I first learned to ride while I watched my father die. Rebecca was steadfast in her support, as I had been for her a few years earlier when she left her marriage of eighteen years. She was with me when, even as I grieved my father’s passing, I also discovered a new freedom.

  Rebecca and I enter Grand Teton National Park within an hour. These rugged peaks jut up abruptly to the west, some of the summits snowcapped even in August, as the rising sun throws its pinkish glow on the base of the mountains. The colors slowly climb the magnificent hillsides, tossing out hues of honey, mauve, and gold. We stop at a vista point to take in the view. The Teton Range spans forty miles and is characterized by three distinct spires. The name is attributed to early-nineteenth-century French-speaking trappers—les trois tétons (the three teats)—later Anglicized and shortened to Tetons. The morning has not warmed up much yet, but stopping to take in this sight heats our enthusiasm. The peaks are breathtaking.

  After photos, we roll north toward Yellowstone. I have wanted to visit here since I was a kid watching Yogi Bear and Boo Boo in Jellystone Park. I grew up camping, hiking, and exploring Sequoia National Park in central California. I knew that the picnic basket–stealing cartoon bears were nothing like life in a real national park, but the grandeur of Yellowstone, even through that cartoon medium, always beckoned. It was a place I longed to see. And today is the day.

  Riding into Yellowstone, the road changes from being relatively straight with gentle, sloping curves to a barely perceptible climb; then, almost without knowing it, we’ve entered Yellowstone.

  The leaves are just beginning to change colors and we ride through vast openness, punctuated now and again by shadowy areas; at an elevation of nearly eight thousand feet, the terrain is broad and plains-like. In California, at this altitude, we’d see many more peaks.

  We make it to the site of Old Faithful just as the geyser, known to go off every ninety-one minutes, is getting ready to blow. We rush over, ungainly in our bulk, to see the show. I seem to have developed a knack for ending up at the right place at the right time. For years I worried about being late, trying to wrest control from the hands of a clock. But now when I let go, all the pieces simply fall into place. This amazes me. Even though I was certain that leaving my marriage while my daughter was still in high school was the worst case of abandonment, I see now that it needed to happen when it did. Showing up at Old Faithful at this exact moment reminds me to trust this path and to keep moving forward.

  My cell phone rings just as Old Faithful exhausts itself. Through some miracle of networking among the locals of Jackson, Edna and George have been able to source a tire and someone who can put it on. They’ll meet us in Cody later today. Our plans are back on track. “Trust” seems to be the lesson of the day.

  Rebecca and I loop to the Old Faithful Inn, possibly the largest log building in the world. The inn is gape-worthy with its multistory lobby, flanked by long frame wings containing the guest rooms. It is one of the few log hotels still standing in the United States and one of the first of the great park lodges of the American west. When the Old Faithful Inn first opened in the spring of 1904, the fact it had electric lights and steam heat was a big deal. Now, though the look is down-home rustic and hints at a hardscrabble life, the amenities are all twenty-first century.

  I scurry to the bathroom to strip off some of the many layers I’m wearing. Rebecca and I order food. Though riding a motorcycle can’t possibly burn all that many calories, it’s a tiring way to travel. Every time we stop to eat, I’m famished.

  Riding the rest of the way through Yellowstone takes the entire day. What looks like a short jaunt on the map is actually quite different. The roads are twisty, and with all the tourists, it’s slowgoing. Which is a bonus for us, offering more chances to turn off at waterfalls and to appreciate the bison and elk in a more natural habitat.

  Three-quarters around the Yellowstone loop, all the cars in front of us come to a stop. Red-and-blue lights of an emergency vehicle flash up ahead. I worry someone’s been hit by a car, but as we get closer, I see a park ranger stopping traffic so bison can safely cross the road. I think of Yogi Bear’s “Mr. Ranger, sir,” and smile. We idle our bikes, inching forward, observing the impressive creatures, their placid eyes juxtaposed against their intimidating bulk. We curve toward the southern exit of the park and skim along the edge of Yellowstone Lake, mentally recording vistas of twisted, regal trees, wind-polished stone, and spacious alpine meadows before descending toward the barren plains of Cody.

  I start to worry that we’re taking too long and that our trek is holding up George and Edna. Making it through Yel
lowstone took so much longer than I’d anticipated. The sun is lowering in the west as we pull up in Cody. I take out my phone, certain there will be irate calls from them wondering where in the world we are. Turns out, they called only two minutes earlier. When I reach them, I learn they, too, just this minute made it to town. Again, my concerns are unwarranted: Whatever it is we think we are doing, wherever we are expected, as grace would have it, we are right on time.

  We find a gingerbread-looking family-run motel on the edge of town. The young couple that owns the place offers us a hose and rags to wash down our bikes. Clearly, they’re used to hosting motorcyclists. They also tell us about the rodeo tonight. As much as I’d like to experience a rodeo, we’re all too knackered. Though we didn’t ride that many miles today, with all the creeping traffic and distractions—glorious and mundane both—the attention required was intense and meant we were in the saddle for the majority of the day.

  After a shower for the humans and the bikes alike, then a brief rest, we wander down the street to the famed Irma Hotel for dinner. George and Edna ride on George’s bike, but Rebecca and I prefer to walk, stopping to take touristy pictures with statues of bears. The Irma Hotel is a landmark built by William F. “Buffalo Bill” Cody, the city’s cofounder who named the inn after his daughter. The bar, made of polished cherry wood and mirrors, is the focal point of the restaurant and was a gift to Buffalo Bill by Queen Victoria. It’s odd to imagine such a pairing. And yet, who’s to say how life will gift us, or from whom? I think of the place I’ve been living, of the great friendships I’ve been graced with. When I keep my heart open, who knows what other gifts might arrive?