In Search of Real America 5-15-26
I’m turning seventy in July.
Time to celebrate!
At fifty in 2006, I threw a party down on the banks of the Nolichucky River, two bands blasting away, friends and family in lawn chairs enjoying the picnic and camaraderie.
But that venue was wiped off the map during Hurricane Helene. Gone. Many of those fine friends who came have since passed away as well, and I miss them terribly.
So the question becomes:
How does a certifiable “senior” — healthy and already well-traveled — use what’s left of the clock? You’re in the time-out huddle. Coach says, “We score more points, we win.”
Uh.
So, what are “points” for you?
That’s what we have to decide in the last quarter.
Tick tick tick.
Why Our Collective Blood Pressure Is Up
My wife is battling high blood pressure, as many do at our age, but I think much of that comes from our national situation. Watching the news.
The current government’s blatant transactional Mafia-style way of doing business has infiltrated our brains with disgust as we watch our basic human rights swirl down the drain on a daily basis.
How many more years of this? Let’s put a little more padding on the seat and call it …
Time for a Ride
So my buddy Eric Middlemass and I will mount our mechanical steeds and head out to California on Route 50 after we catch up with it in Vincennes, Indiana, on Day 2 — May 20.
Then we’ll turn back toward home at Susanville, California, and return on a northern route through some of the loveliest and loneliest acres in America.
You leave Susanville and ride north through pine forest, lava beds, and cold mountain air. Oregon opens beneath a hard blue sky. Towns thin out. Gas stations stand alone beside the highway. Idaho spreads into broad valleys beneath distant mountains. Wyoming feels raw — wind across open range, snow on the peaks, ranch towns pressed low against the land. Days narrow to fuel, weather, and the sound of motorcycles crossing the West.
Past the Black Hills, the land softens into farms, rivers, grain elevators, and humid evenings. Nebraska and Iowa pass in long green miles. Illinois and Indiana bring thicker traffic and older towns. Kentucky rises into hills again. Then East Tennessee closes around you with green ridges, narrow valleys, and heavy summer air. After the silence and distance of the West, home feels close and familiar.
Rode to Greeneville, Tennessee, yesterday to have Baja Ron’s mechanics go over my 2011 Can-Am.
BajaRon Performance Suspension began in Greeneville when Ron tackled the loose handling of early Can-Am Spyders.
His anti-sway bar transformed the machine. The stock setup let the Spyder lean too far in curves. Ron’s bar tied the front suspension together more firmly, cut body roll, steadied the chassis, and reduced rider fatigue without roughening the ride.
Word spread through Spyder forums and rider groups. Riders began traveling from around the country for the BajaRon setup.
The sway bar built the company’s reputation. Many Spyder owners still call it the first modification the machine needs.
Ron told me that fifteen years ago he flew to Greeneville from his hometown in San Diego on a business venture.
“I’m not buying anything,” he said.
By the end of the day he’d purchased a home and has lived in Greene County ever since.
I further modified my 2011 RT by expanding the breather, adding improved copper spark plug wires, expanding the lighting on both ends, and mounting car tires to replace the original Kendas.
New Generals all around became almost as significant an improvement as the Baja Ron anti-sway bar mod.
While waiting for my motorcycle to be serviced, I took photos of local historic sites downtown, including the sculpture of Andrew Johnson.
Greeneville is full of interesting historic sites, including Tusculum University, The Doak House Museum, and Johnson’s burial site.
Gene Scott grew up on a tenant farm outside Sheffield, Illinois, surrounded by hogs, motorcycles, storytelling, and the hard realities of Midwestern working life.
A lifelong reader, songwriter, photographer, and novelist, Scott writes fiction rooted in working-class America, Appalachian culture, memory, faith, loss, endurance, and the strange beauty hidden inside ordinary lives.
My paternal grandfather grew up on Harleys in the 1930s. This picture is from the late ’50s.
My dad on his Gold Wing.
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