Rebecca and I climb the 178 stairs up the basilica’s 192-foot scenic tower where we drink in the 360-degree vista of checkerboard farmlands with patches of forest interrupting the symmetry of tilled rows. The winds buffet us; the height is dizzying. But if I keep my eyes on the distance, watch a bird as it lofts on the currents, feel the sun warm my arms and let the air ruffle my hair, I am able to absorb the beauty without the panic I normally feel with heights.
Studying the orderly farmlands below and feeling the calm of the chapels, I think of my Auntie Betty, my father’s youngest sister. Betty became a nun in Ireland, joining the Franciscan Sisters when she was nineteen, going against the vehement wishes of her family. My father came around by the time she took her vows, but her other brothers and mother remained opposed. She served more than sixty years in Africa: under Idi Amin’s terror regime in Uganda, providing teacher training to the young women there; in South Africa just prior to the abolishment of Apartheid, caring for AIDS orphans; and most recently in Zimbabwe under the crushing dictatorship of Robert Mugabe, working to prevent HIV. Now in her eighties, she’s recently retired and returned to Ireland. She has lived what appears, to outsiders, to be a calm and ordered life: that of a nun. But it’s been an existence of adventure and service and boldness and great wells of courage. But I didn’t know that about her for a long time.
I grew up saying evening prayers with my siblings and parents, kneeling before an altar created on a wainscoting ledge in the dining room of our California Craftsman house, reciting the rosary and other formal devotions. Every night, I joined in communal prayer for Auntie Betty in Africa. By the time I finally got to meet her on her first trip to California on leave from her work, it was at the most inopportune moment. My mother was institutionalized again, and I, praised in letters to Auntie Betty for my devotion to my family, was now a disgrace, pregnant at sixteen. What would this holy woman think of me? I prepared my bedroom to share with her and braced for the lectures that would certainly ensue.
I needn’t have worried. Betty was full of light and joy and acceptance, never once questioning how I ended up in this predicament, just dispensing love and support. She didn’t pressure me to make any decisions that would have pleased her or my father regarding the pregnancy. Instead, she let me come to the decisions I needed for myself.
Over the coming years, we spent hours together in California and Ireland discussing and debating tenets of Catholic theology and speculating on the origins of my mother’s illness. I was terrified I’d become mentally ill like her, and while my father would dismiss my concerns, Betty took my fears seriously and filled in pieces of the puzzle that had long been missing. So many topics had been tacitly forbidden from conversation in my household, yet Betty described my father’s young life in an orphanage and helped me to understand my own place in my family narrative.
When my second book came out, she was again in California on leave. She knew my father had stopped talking to me for two years after the publication of my first book. While my father and I had tentatively reconciled, it was predicated on not discussing the details of our détente and what had caused it. At a family gathering, Betty showed him my just-published second book, something I had been understandably reticent to do.
“Look, Eamon. Bernadette has a new book out. Aren’t you proud?”
His response was gruff and dismissive.
This tiny nun in her late seventies, no more than five feet tall with her puff of white hair, morphed into a tiger. She got in his face and with a calm but braced voice spoke to her big brother whom she adored and brooked only when provoked. “Just because you have been unable or unwilling to examine your own past and the ways you were hurt does not give you the right to stop her from speaking out about her own truth. Don’t you dare try to take away from her the joy of her work.” She put the book in his lap and walked away.
My father never did come to appreciate or acknowledge my work. But that moment of hearing her speak to him in a way I could never garner the strength to myself was one of the most healing of my life. It was the first time I could remember someone standing up for me. I realize, as I stand on the top of this basilica tower in rural Wisconsin, that she modeled for me the kind of badass woman I’d like to be. That it’s not about the motorcycle and the leathers, or looking tough, or taking chances that other people admire. It’s about standing up for who I am and creating space for the people in their lives to do the same. I don’t think she ever planned to be a patron saint for female motorcyclists. I wish I could mint a little medallion of Aunt Betty, like a Saint Christopher medal, that I could glue to the tank of my Harley.
• • •
Rebecca and I meet the others in the basilica parking lot and I’m about to strap on my helmet when Donna approaches.
“I got you a little gift.” She hands Rebecca and I each a small brown bag. Inside is a devotional scapular—a small felt rectangle attached by cords to another felt rectangle, both imprinted with images of saints. The scapular, dating back to the eleventh century, is worn on the shoulders generally under clothing, one rectangle on the chest, the other on the back. It is meant to remind the wearer of a commitment to a holy life. My parents, siblings, and I wore these at points during my childhood. I haven’t seen or held one in years. In find this a remarkable gesture by Donna, a nonobservant Jew. My feet sink deeper into the water table of humanity.
We ride on to the homestead and farm owned by Ugly Verne Holoubek and his wife, Terri. J’s family ran dairy farms in Minnesota, but they were nothing like this. Those farms were dedicated to productivity, to smelly work, to perspiration, to unending effort. But this farm seems magical, a place devoted to curiosity, to learning, to exploration. Verne helped pioneer the craze for screen-printed art on T-shirts in the 1970s. He designed and printed thousands of T-shirt designs, including many for Harley. As a product of his success, he created this farm to pursue his passions: rebuilding old farm machinery, motorcycles, and cars. We sit down to lunch in the guesthouse where a number of Uglies and their wives are staying. We meet Ugly J. D., who toured with bands like the Eagles and Bruce Springsteen most of his life. Then there’s Ugly Leroy Dwight who’s traveling with his wife, Sharon.
Verne’s wife, Terri, offers to show us her quilting space. I expect a small room, a few bolts of fabric, and a solitary sewing machine. She leads us, rather, to a barn that’s been converted into a vast workshop, the walls stacked with shelves of quilting fabric arranged by color and pattern, a delight for the eyes. There’s enough inventory here to stock a small factory. An antique bed is draped with quilts dating back to the Civil War. Not only has Terri made a number of state fair award–winning quilts, she also restores and collects museum-quality quilts dating back to the late 1700s. A lovely black-and-white border collie lies in the sun by the door to keep her company.
Verne then takes us to “his” barn, which is both workshop and museum space for restoration projects. Again, the space is massive. A refurbished antique jukebox sits to one side. There’s a panel truck from the 1930s, a Duesenberg, an early ’50s Studebaker, a ’54 Mercury, a Ford Flatbed circa the early 1950s, a functioning mini Harley made for a child, along with combines and other refurbished farm equipment. When working on a project, he disassembles it completely, repairing or replacing worn parts, sandblasting each piece, then repainting it all before reassembling.
I marvel at how Verne and Terri have been able to craft lives aligned with their passions. Though I’m sure a tremendous amount of hard work has been involved, they’ve found a way to have fun and indulge their joys along the way. They are an example for me. I want to construct a life like this farm, one that includes industrious work, but work that gives pleasure and satisfaction, and to feel a sense of curiosity and exploration in all parts of my life. We tour the rest of the property, highlighted by Terri’s superb vegetable garden that’s half the size of a football field with tomatoes so big I can see them from two hundred feet away.
But the afternoo
n is wearing on, plus we plan to go to a birthday party for one of my former students living in Milwaukee, then on to the bash party at the Summerfest grounds to see one of my favorite bands, the Gaslight Anthem.
• • •
“Pull the bikes into the barn now!” Verne orders, sprinting from the house just as we’re saddling up and saying good-bye to the Uglies. “Big storm. It’s barreling towards us right now.” He points at the northeast sky. “I just got it on the radar.”
I look at Rebecca. We’ve ridden in rain before. What’s the big deal? And even if we’re not riding, why put the bikes inside?
But Verne is adamant. “You don’t want to be out in what’s on its way here,” he warns, pushing my bike through the roll-up door. “The bikes will take a beating.” We park the Harleys inside the barn and hunker down.
I’m still rather awed by the Uglies as a group and have found them to be quite reticent. I’m comfortable with Rebecca’s father and am growing comfortable with Verne, but the others feel a bit standoffish.
As long as we’re stuck here, I decide, it’s time get to know these guys and nudge them out of their reserved posture. To do so, I find myself saying things to amaze them. Immediately I recognize an old pattern. I’ve spent my life trying to astonish aloof, hard-to-impress men. My father, who I know on some level completely adored me, was often distracted with his own worries and inner life. After failing to get his attention in the way I desired—to get him to see me as I actually am—I did what I call my “tap-dance for daddy” routine. I do the same to get influential men to notice me, to talk to and be impressed by me. I don’t do it as a flirty come-on. It’s more my style to appear smart and interesting, to offer tidbits of information, to give the impression of being intelligent and worthy of weighty discussion. I flavor the conversation with technical terms like displacement and cubic centimeters calculated to convince Leroy, Verne, Oliver, and J. D. that I actually know something about motorcycles. I hear myself doing it, falling back on old behavior, even as I hate myself for the pretention.
“You guys, come look,” Edna calls from outside. The big roll-up doors are still open and we see massive black clouds stampeding toward us, rushing, all a-boil. The sky is sepia toned, drained of all color. Thunder booms over our heads and makes me jump, Rushes of lightning streak across the now murky sky, slashing brilliant Zorro strokes against the dimness. The air, humid and hot all day, suddenly cools but now feels charged with static. When the rain starts, it falls in fat droplets. Edna, Rebecca, and I in motorcycle gear rush out to dance in the downpour. We look ridiculous. But we’re from Southern California, a land of drought, and by now, I’ve forgotten about my mission to impress the Uglies. The rain is a benediction.
We’re laughing to the point of hiccups, putting on this pointedly unintelligent and non-grown-up display with the Uglies right behind us, probably shaking their heads. I don’t turn to look; I’m enjoying myself too much. I’m done tap-dancing for daddy. And even if I still fall into this trap occasionally, at least today I have ceased the shuffle-ball-step routine before it went on too long. I’ll settle for progress rather than perfection.
The plump raindrops turn sharp and daggerlike, turning to hail. Verne was right about bringing the bikes inside.
It’s time to get under cover and Verne has shut the large roll-up doors to keep the water out of the barn.
Soaking wet, we collapse around the bistro table and Verne hands us towels. The Uglies are drinking beer and eating chips. Someone presses a selection on the vintage jukebox. Bob Dylan starts to play. Though the weather is ferocious outside, the mood inside becomes festive. The dancing begins, though it’s mostly Edna, Rebecca, and me.
What we thought would be a passing storm turns into an afternoon downpour. The white clay road we drove in on has turned to navy bean soup. And still the rain batters. We’re stranded. Yet the mood inside is celebratory. We’re like people stranded on a lifeboat. We know deliverance is on its way and there’s nothing to do now but enjoy our time together.
I call the former student whose birthday party we were planning to attend. “We’re stuck on a farm in a downpour,” I say, words I never thought I’d ever have reason to utter. “I’m not sure we’ll be able to make it.” Two hours later, just before dusk, the rain finally stops.
Outside, two inches of rain have left the road pockmarked, puddles everywhere. The air heats again almost immediately. Rebecca and I wander down to Terri’s vegetable garden, tromping through ankle-deep puddles in our motorcycle boots. The nearly setting sun breaks through the gloom and lights up a tomato plant as if God is directing my attention to it. The sunlit tomato almost falls from its vine into my hand. It’s as big as a grapefruit and still warm from the earlier heat of the day, but washed in a sparkle of rainwater. I bite into it as if it’s an apple. Sunlight and sweetness made from rain and grace and goodness fills my mouth. Verne said to help ourselves to whatever we like from the garden, so as Rebecca collects chili peppers to bring home to California, I eat two more fat orbs of tomato. The pale red juice runs down my chin and stains my T-shirt. By the time we saddle up, we’ve abandoned all thoughts of attending either the birthday party or the concert tonight. We have been honored with a day far better than any we could have planned and we accept it as the gift it is.
We ride home, our bikes splatted with sludge, my lower legs painted in lumpy whitewash.
Day Nine: Saturday, August 31
Milwaukee
Though we picked up passes that would have let us ride in this morning’s Harley parade through downtown Milwaukee, we opt to sleep in. Who needs the hoopla when life, as offered, is so good? Donna is leaving today to fly back to L.A., and George and Edna will start their return trip home by noon. We enjoy a leisurely farewell breakfast with our host family.
Rebecca and I, finally on our own, meet up early afternoon to ride with the Uglies to the Summerfest grounds. Rebecca’s dad, Oliver, shows up with a woman he’d met earlier at Sturgis who flew in for the event. She’s on the back of his bike, no helmet to mess her hair, younger even than Rebecca, in raggedy jeans and stiletto heels, smoking incessantly. J. D. is along for the ride, Leroy and Sharon, too. Verne and Terri will meet us at the fairgrounds.
Yesterday, the day we expected to going to be humdrum, turns out one of the best of the trip. And today, the day we’re wandering among Harley zealots at the motorcycle equivalent of Comic-Con, is supposed to be the culmination of this entire journey.
Shirtless, sunburnt men are everywhere. And beer. The men display leather and tattoos. Their “colors” distinguish their affiliations. The women seem to rank as additional accessories, mostly in the mandatory auxiliary uniform of tight jeans and bursting cleavage. Commemorative T-shirts are on sale every five feet. And beer.
We are given VIP access to a raised platform where organizers host a party for Harley dealership owners, providing an elevated view of the moving mosh pit of leather, tats, and silicone. Rebecca talks with a woman from Alaska who, like her, has recently taken over her father’s dealership. We make small talk and think about leaving our roost to join the main festivities, but frankly, there’s not really that much to do besides fight the current of the crowds or listen to bands we’ve never heard of. (All the headliners play at night.) Less than two hours after we arrive, it’s time to leave.
Oliver invites us to an art exhibit by Ugly Paul Smith, the American designer who created the iconic Harley bar-and-shield logo and the company’s Screamin’ Eagle. The gallery parking lot is peg-to-peg with Harleys. I’m pulling off my helmet when one of the Uglies comes over to inspect my Izzy Bella, seeming to appreciate her stark lines and minimalist frame.
“You’re one of Oliver’s friends?” he asks.
I nod.
“From L.A.?”
I nod again.
“You rode here? On this Sportster?” he gestures at my bike. “She’s beautiful, no question. But, man: That would hurt.”
“Hey guys,” he calls over
his posse. “This little thing rode all the way from L.A. on this fence rail!” He claps me on the back, directing his comments at his friends: “I don’t want to hear any more bellyaching from any of you gomers about your sore asses. You’re on big cushy bikes with all that padding on your backside and this little woman rode some three thousand miles on a goddamn Sportster.”
The men high-five me, ask about our route, and generally accept me into the true biker community.
When I get back to L.A., I will be thrilled further to receive an official Uglies tank top in honor of my badass Sportster skills.
Inside the gallery, Paul Smith’s art reels me back to the 1970s and ’80s, recalling his 1976 bicentennial tribute. I would have been in junior high back then. I eat cheese cubes and drink sparkling water. It’s not that different from any other art gallery, just a lot more art on the flesh than on the walls.
Rebecca and I will head home tomorrow. The point of our journey, the Harley celebration in Milwaukee itself, has proven to be a nonevent. But the ride to get here and the coming trek to get home: That’s what it’s been about. Being stranded on a highway unsure of how things would work out and yet finding our way. Being tired beyond the kind of exhaustion I’ve known previously and yet discovering a tiny pocket of drive buried beneath the fatigue. Being unconvinced I had the chutzpah to make it this far and finding out I do. That’s what I left Los Angeles to discover. And now starting the ride home tomorrow, just Rebecca and me? I’m excited and also scared. But my well of self-confidence is bigger than before.
Harley and Me Page 18