A 10-mile trudge down gravel roads more trafficked by mosquitoes than people. That’s the situation I faced after dumping my Honda 350 motorcycle on a patch of loose gravel. Back then (the mid 1990s), cell phones were a luxury, especially deep in the woods of northern Minnesota where I lived.
Motorcycles occupy a prominent place in our national lore. The V-twin engine, one can argue, belongs in our menagerie of quintessentially “American” items, right next to the bald eagle, the Liberty Bell and Abe Lincoln’s stovepipe hat.