ALT-2 Motorcycling Taking get Lost Rides
Getting Lost
I met my chauffeur' during a Patriot Guard funeral mission. I was a cager', silently wishing I was on two wheels instead of four. Standing on the running board of my car (aPT Cruiser) and photographing the hoards of bikes and their owners, he came over and introduced himself after another had questioned my identity. This was my second of many missions and, being in a car, I was relegated to the back of the entourage, as is customary. The neat thing about the PGR, though, is that no one really cared what I was riding in or on. I met many friendly faces that day and had a couple of offers to ride along next time' when I lamented my extra two wheels and roof. On a subsequent mission escorting the Moving Wall, I again ran into my future ride, who offered his card and the chance to ride along next time. Company is always nice, he stated. The PT would not be seeing any more PGR missions.
We now take get lost' rides quite frequently, perhaps once or twice every week since the last snows of winter began to fade. Armed with my Minolta 5D camera and just enough money for a diner lunch, we set out with little or no plan, just an idea or two. We tried mapping out the rides if there was something I wanted to photograph, but those were futile efforts at best. And we found more things being lost than if we had followed directions.
It never ceases to amaze me what we find when we're mindlessly cruising the winding country roads. It's now the dog days of summer, when even riding on a freeway doesn't cool you off and all you want to do is rip off your helmet and guzzle an ice-cold bottle of water or three. But, after more than five months of getting lost, this might be my last weekday ride due to a job change, and heat or not I wanted to make it a good one.I think everyone, at some point, sees a road and wonders where it leads, but shrugs it off with a thought of "next time" and ventures on to the more important destination of the day. This time, I wanted to see where the road I'd passed so many times would take us so I pointed to it. Quaint old houses, the obligatory country church and an abandoned roofless home with the unintentionally humorous sign across its beaten door proclaiming it "Not For Rent" lined the street. A shirtless old man sitting in his lounge chair watched us as we pulled up next to the "Not for" rental and I photographed it. Country music was his choice of entertainment; he was ours as I made jokes about his larger-than-mine chest and we guessed what he must be thinking of these two bikers wandering around a dilapidated old house.
We trespassed a little more, taking pictures of the collapsed back porch, the broken windows and the airy roof before going back to the business of getting lost.Left or right? Left looks good. There's a lot of farmland in central New Jersey, I've been finding out.
There's also a lot of new developments, middle class dwellings all cut from the same cloth, distinctive only in the names of the enclaves. Doesn't vinyl siding come in colors?I tend to zone out thinking such trivial things. That's the nice thing about being the passenger; I can think, even if it's useless thinking. I'm suddenly jolted to attention by a sight to my right. Pillars and flags rise up from a grove of trees and I tell my chauffeur to turn around. I have to investigate this further, thinking it must be a 911 monument or.something.
My first thought when we park and walk up to this display is a very simple "Wow".To me, we're in the middle of nowhere, albeit with houses scattered about and a county college nearby. But here in this park, is a beautiful tribute to the Vietnam Veterans from the county. The Honda is the only vehicle, we're the only visitors. A plaque stating what the memorial is all about and behind it, a bronze statue consisting of combat boots, a helmet and a rifle were the first to greet us. Fake red flowers had been placed between the toes of the boots. Each of the five tall pillars in the center contained an encased service medal with a description of it and why it's given. A flagpole held the flags of each branch of service, topped with the American and POW/MIA flags. On the back of each medal's pillar is a touching essay about the men who served during the Vietnam years, about MIAs and why it's so important to never forget. Encircling all this were smaller stones, not unlike those in a neatly maintained cemetery, each bearing a name, service branch and a year. One or two are marked as MIA's, the rest have no other information.My sense of awe overtook my sense of photographic logic. I was snapping away, trying to fill my view with what was before me in this odd place and not lining up the "perfect shot". I tried to get it all, every statement, every medal, every feeling.
New Jersey has its official' Vietnam memorial, but it's stark and large and tiring to see. There's a museum with a history of the conflict and dozens of letters and videos on the walls and a gift shop. It is, in a word, grand. But this one, with it's small circle of men long gone and the feelings of those who served and those who remember etched on towering pillars of granite; this one, with no gift shop and no computerized videos and voiceoversthis one is, in a word, perfect.
By getting lost, we discover more than we could ever think of finding with a plan.
