This post kicks off Wandering Between the Lines – an ongoing series of motorcycle travel stories about a life spent chasing curiosity on two wheels. It’s part memoir, part travelogue, and part tribute to the unpredictable beauty of motorcycling – especially when paired with a tent, a map you mostly ignore, and a few good friends who pack light (ha!) but laugh loud.
These stories span decades, starting with dirt trails in Pennsylvania and winding through twisty backroads, half-planned moto camping trips, mailing list flame wars, and everything in between. Some tales are old. Some are recent. And many are still being written. Because this isn’t a retrospective – it’s a ride still very much in progress.
At the heart of it is one belief: The point of the journey is not to arrive.
Or, as Hunter S. Thompson famously put it:
“Life’s journey is not to arrive at the grave safely, in a well-preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, totally worn out, shouting ‘Holy shit, what a ride!’”
This isn’t a reckless charge toward the finish line—but it is a commitment to living fully, staying curious, and leaning into the next corner with joy and just a little mischief – always keeping in mind that anything can happen. And that, after all, is the point.
This is me, testing that theory.
Let’s begin.
Prologue: A Full Tank and No Plan
Before I ever twisted a throttle, the seed was planted. As a toddler, my dad called me Michael Michael Motorcycle – a nickname that wasn’t meant as prophecy, but looking back, it feels a little uncanny.
Then came the 1982 Suzuki GS400 he brought home. Just a few rides together, but they were enough to light the fire. The way I could feel every shift in temperature as we passed a hillside, the changing scents in the air, the hum of the engine beneath us. Even from the passenger seat, I was hooked.
And then there was the advice – delivered with the seriousness only a dad can muster: “Be careful what you touch after a ride. Just because it’s shiny doesn’t mean it won’t bite.” I took it to heart. One whiff of singed finger and the unmistakable smell of “what’s that – chicken?” and the lesson was learned for life.
That early magic stayed with me. And when I finally had a motorcycle of my own – a Yamaha DT125 – I did what felt most natural: I explored. With no destination in mind, just curiosity and a full tank of gas. From my home in Mountaintop, PA, I’d follow power lines, pipelines, and abandoned railbeds – anything that looked like it led somewhere new.
Seriously, I took that enduro everywhere. Of course, “everywhere” is relative – the world opened up in stages as I moved on to other rides, including the venerable Honda VFR800, a sport touring classic in its own right. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
There was no GPS, no agenda, and no real plan – just the thrill of finding out what was around the next bend. Sometimes I came back with a story. Sometimes I came back with just enough gas to get back and at least once without a chain. And every single time, I came back more certain that this – this freedom, this feeling – was something I’d keep chasing.
That lyric from Rush became very meaningful to me : “The point of the journey is not to arrive. Anything can happen” It’s become a personal compass. Because anything can happen.
That’s where the adventure begins.
