Monticello, Illinois
~46 miles round trip
I don’t believe there is anything particularly monumental about birthdays. Every day represents about 1/365th of a year year more of your life more than you lived the day before. But for some reason after I graduated from college and started working a professional job, I found that if I have enough vacation time I like to take my birthday off. In the past, it provided much needed relief midweek from a job I hated. This year, as a freelancer, I didn’t need the day off so much, but I took it anyway just so I could ride my new motorcycle on my first out-of-town trip.
I took the backroads, thinking it would be a little safer and far more interesting than the freeway. Interesting was right. My first turn was blocked by a road construction detour, and I had to stop to call my husband for directions around the detour. He rerouted me to the next road to the west, which led me to Bucks Pond Road, a windy and hilly, one-and-a-half lane (unmarked) farm road with patches of gravel. Ultimately a very fun road; however, gravel, I learned quickly, is not a good road texture for a motorcycle. And people who live on backroads like to drive in the middle because they never expect anyone else to be on the road...but in spite of all odds, I made it to my destination.
While it’s true that I rode to Monticello just to spend time on my bike, I also planned to stop for lunch at the Brown Bag Cafe that I’d heard about on the square. While I was there, I met the curly-haired, outspoken 70-something owner, Harlean (yes, it sounds a bit like like Harley-Ann). She asked me why the hell I had a jacket with me on such a blazing hot summer day, and I told her I was trying to be safe since I was riding my motorcycle. Harlean, a bike riding chick in her younger days, instantly befriended me. She knew we were kindred spirits, and it didn’t take me long in our conversation to figure out that I really respected her.
A big equal rights advocate, she recounted things she did to try to make the world an easier place for nonconventional women like me to live in, including participating in marches to get equal pay for women. When I told her I didn’t think I would have survived “back in the day,” she said, “We didn’t know any better then. We woke up with rollers in our hair and that’s the way it was.” I’m not a march-on-Washington kind of gal, but I appreciate what she did, and I more-than-appreciate her taking the time to tell me about it.
After a quick discussion about tattoos and world travel, I ordered lunch from her along with a slice of what turned out to be the best peach-blueberry pie in all of southern Illinois. Don’t tell the Amish people I said that--I hear they’re vindictive and ruthless.
The creeping temperature and my uncanny ability to get lost when I’m required to retain more than four turns in my head at a time made my ride home a little less pleasant than the ride out. But still, I mark the day as a spectacular success, for a birthday to remember and for my first out-of-town ride.
