Motorcycle trip, snowmobile weather

It's 47 degrees at 8 a.m. on a Saturday morning in mid-October.

I am sitting on my motorcycle in our driveway.

Here's my plan: Ride to Edina to play in a daylong chess tournament. Then, over the next few days, ride through northern Minnesota. Maybe Saskatchewan, even. I've never ridden in Saskatchewan. I've even got a city in mind: Flin Flon, Saskatchewan.

My plan, though, was concocted late the night before, after beers. And I now fear I picked my final destination because the name rhymed.

I am wearing a balaclava, long underwear (tops and bottoms), snowmobile gloves, leather jacket, ski socks. I am wearing those special foot warmers that stick on my socks and over each toe. I am wearing hand warmers on body parts other than my hands.

I am trying to decide if I really want to ride my motorcycle. My Jeep, sitting right next to me, has a heater, a windshield, doors.

But then there's this: I have, for 19 straight years, taken a big motorcycle trip on my 2004 Harley Sportster. Every year, from 2005-2019, my dad (from age 70-84) and I took the trip together.

We rode our Harleys through 31 states, onto 17 ferries, away from "The Wolfman Of New Hampshire" (who was chasing us). Saw the world's oldest peanut, the world's oldest edible ham, the Platters in concert.

Since 2020 — when my dad's then-85-year-old back no longer let him ride — I've taken the annual ride solo, added five more states to the list.

I have not yet taken a trip this year. This may be my last chance before the snow flies. And, maybe, my last chance ever to ride my Sportster.

Just a few days ago, I bought my dad's 2013 Harley Heritage Softail Classic. It was a bittersweet buy.

My dad, 89 and realizing he probably won't be able to ride his bike again, made me an offer I couldn't refuse.

I couldn't refuse the offer for two reasons. First, he gave me a ridiculously good deal. Second, he added the following caveat: "Or you can just wait until I die, and you may get it for free anyway."

Yes, right. Maybe I'll turn down your first offer for the dying thing.

So I'll be selling my Sportster.

My family is not big on sentimentality. A few years ago, when we were cleaning out the garage, Lindy threw her wedding dress into the box for Goodwill. Right in front of me. As I stood there watching.

But I bought the Sportster when our oldest kid, daughter Hadley, was 6. There were days, after work, when Hadley would be standing at the end of the driveway, dressed in her helmet and riding gear, so we could tool slowly around the neighborhood as she sat in front of me and pushed the turn signals to determine which way we'd go.

There was the day, with her laughing the entire time, we made 20 straight right turns.

Or the time Henry, 6, rode his tiny gas-powered four-wheeler alongside me on our first-ever motorcycle trip as we road-tripped the three blocks to Ben Franklin Elementary.

Or the time Emma, 8, and I rode to Jeff's Little Store. A dozen hardcore bikers, engines roaring, pulled in. Then, seeing that Emma was riding with me, fist-bumped her as they walked by.

I start the motorcycle and head north, out of our driveway.

Halfway to Edina, shivering uncontrollably, I realize I've made a terrible decision. I'm actually wondering if, when I get there, my fingers will be too cold to lift my chess pieces.

At the tourney, I finish a mediocre four wins and five losses. Then meet my buddy Elliot for dinner. I check into my Edina hotel and sit by myself in the hot tub for an hour.

On Sunday, I ride to New Ulm and watch the glockenspiel, to Darwin and visit the World's Largest Twine Ball, to Alexandria and take a selfie in front of Big Ole the Giant Viking.

The temps never get above 48. I keep telling myself to think of it as a good snowmobile ride, and not a bad motorcycle ride.

I see tundra swans as I ride along the Glacial Ridge Trail Scenic Byway.

I check into my Alexandria hotel and sit by myself in the hot tub for an hour.

When I leave on Monday morning, it is 36 degrees. I put on every piece of clothing I have. I stick foot warmers over all of my body parts. I do not head north.

I ride, instead, to southwestern Minnesota and southeastern South Dakota.

The temps do not once reach 50 degrees.

Mostly I visit coffee shops for hot coffee and hot tea and hot chocolate.

I never do get to Flin Flon.