The Colonel

What makes travel by motorcycle so memorable is how visceral it is. You are open to the elements, and by being so, more susceptible to its proclivities. Wind, rain, snow, intense sun, and heat are all part of the journey, all part of the fabric of travel. It requires concentration, attention, and situational awareness. But it also provides the opportunity for appreciation, gratitude, empathy, wonder, and immersion in the natural world. It can take you to places you would never otherwise go, and for me, importantly, it allows me to meet, appreciate, and interact with characters. A world without people may be more beautiful in time, but it would be a sterile and sad existence.

Red Lodge, Montana

Parking my bike on the main street of the town, dressed in my riding gear felt a little surreal. I imagined as I looked around at many of the historic buildings, still in their natural condition, now almost 200 years old, what it would have been like to travel by wagon train through this incredible country, with its vast expanse of mountains, hills, wild rivers, and natural wildlife. 

People who make up the backbone of Montana are ranchers and miners. People of solid stock, unafraid of nature and an untamed land. I was brought back to reality by a woman exiting the coffee shop.

“Nice motorcycle”, she said, while sipping on her latte coffee.

“Thanks”, I said, not looking up. When I did, I was surprised to see a woman, probably in her 70’s with a beautiful face, heavily weathered, and skin the texture of leather.

“My husband was a rider,” she said, smiling. “But he passed years ago.” she continued. “We used to ride all over the NorthWest when we were young, and camp,” she said wistfully. “I miss those days.”

I could have sworn her eyes clouded over.

“So, why don’t you buy a little bike and do it again?”

This brought a smile to her face. “I don’t think so,” she said, laughing. “My daughters would kill me.”

“You never know”, I said. “They may join you.”

She just held up her latte, and said, “No, this is more their style.”

“Have a great day”, she said as she walked to her car. I noted it was a Mercedes 450 SL.

More their style indeed.

I entered the coffee shop to find Jeff, (not his real name) the marine rider from the mountain, already seated in a big, comfy chair at the front of the cafe. There were two coffees on the table.

“Have a seat,” he said. “And tell me about your trip.”

The coffee shop matched the old man perfectly. I would say that it’s exactly the kind of establishment where you would find a collection of retired ranchers, miners, police officers, firefighters, and yes, marines.

There was memorabilia on the walls, mostly patriotic American symbols, a collection of Remington and Winchester Damascus barrelled black powder weapons, and in one corner, what I can only call a set of historical photos inside a glass case. Most were yellowed, taken by what must have been box cameras or brownie cameras. All were original photos, still in their ‘contact’ 2 1/4 format. They showed pictures of soldiers from what looked like WWI on the same main street, in front of the same building. There was no indication of what the building had been, back in 1917, the date scrawled in ink on the bottom of the photos.

Other pictures showed cattlemen, dressed in their leather chaps and cowboy hats, driving posts for barbed wire fencing. A Model T Ford was in another, two ranchers with their feet on the running boards, a throwback to a more casual and laid-back era, where tough men and women made a living in these mountains.

I sat down and found the big leather chair to my liking. A thought raced through my head that this is exactly how I would build a cafe if I had the means and opportunity.

“Well, it’s been fun, but I’m only on day four Jeff, not much to say. I left Winnipeg and drove to Dickinson, ND the first night. I like to stay off the interstates. Driving on side roads is a lot more interesting and there’s more to see. Hopefully, drive through Yellowstone and make it to West Yellowstone by tonight.”

“Long ride, don’t you want to see the Park?” he asked. 

“For sure, but I’ll do it on the way home.“

“Where you off to?” he asked.

“Vancouver, BC, to see my daughter and meet up with some old friends.”

“Long trip,” he said, taking a sip of his black coffee.

“I used to ride long distances, but the old back and knees won’t take it anymore,” he said, reflexively rubbing his right knee.

“But I’ve seen this country from end to end and top to bottom, so I’ve seen enough,” he said smiling.

“I’ll bet you have. Being in the Marines you’ve probably traveled a lot more than me.” I said.

He shook his head in a whistful sort of way, saying,” Well most of the places I’ve visited, no sane person would want to have been there.”

I didn’t say anything, not wanting to bring up any bad memories from his past. He continued, “WWII was tough, lost lots of friends, and some family, then Korea, and finally Vietnam. I retired after Vietnam.” he said resolutely.

“That must have been a hard time to be a marine?” I said.

“Yeah, hard days. Too many people died, on both sides and way too many innocents.” He smiled a sad and wry smile.

“So when you retired in 77, what rank were you?” I asked. 

“Full-Colonel. Started as a Sergeant in WWII in the Pacific, ended up a Colonel in the Pentagon.” There was pride in the statement, and rightly so.

“Well, I’m glad you made it. That’s a tough line of work to be in for so long. But you look in great shape, Jeff.”

“I can’t complain,” he said humbly. I try to work out every day. But it’s the bike that keeps me alive Ken. I still love waking up, throwing on my riding gear, and coming here. Lots of company, new people, like you to talk to, and interesting discussion.” he said.

“What do you do for a living?” he asked.

“I was a firefighter all my life, until I retired, just last year,” I said. “I still miss it. But, like you, I was military before firefighting.”

“Really?” he asked.

“What branch?”

“Navy. I was ROTP 1971.”

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said, slapping the table.

“I just did four years and got out. They decimated the Canadian Navy during Vietnam.” I said.

“Well it sounds like you made the right choice,” he said.

It was getting to be late morning, and I had at least an eight-hour drive ahead of me, so despite wanting to stay and talk, I said, 

“I have to get going Jeff, but it was a real pleasure meeting you.” I reached out my hand and he took it, with a very firm grasp.

“If you’re coming back through on the way home, drop in here in the morning. I almost live here when I’m not out riding,” he said, still shaking my hand vigorously. 

“I’ll do that, for sure,” I said. And with that, I got up and headed for the door. I can only hope I’m around, never mind in his shape, I thought to myself, as I exited the door.

I regret that I didn’t take his picture or get Jeff’s information when I left. But in a month from now, I’ll be through Red Lodge again. I’m hoping Jeff is still alive and kicking at 103. Maybe, he’s even still riding.

Ciao…