The country ride seemed like it could go on forever but I knew I was leaving the farm land for a college town when I simultaneously saw a sign for an “outdoor gospel sing” and just past it on the other side, another for Hooters.

He waved and I couldn’t help but relate to riding something with a mind of its own. I slowed and crossed the double yellow, seeing clearly ahead that there was nothing coming. They were either old order Mennonite or just really country and while two were riding single file along the shoulder, one guy’s horse kept walking sideways and taking up the whole lane. The road straightens out considerably and you can see a straight line of road cut through the sprawling independent farms for what looks like miles. I continued through the state park and on into farmland. I got off, stretched a little and watched some old man finish up his fishing for the day. To be the first one in was like a feat of daring when we were kids. The one thing that stands out the most about it from my youth is that the water was notoriously cold. After just over an hour of great back roads, I stopped at Halfway Dam in R. In fact, I started by riding in the exact opposite direction of my destination just to get to the good stuff. I could have done the round trip in 120 miles but the interstate is just a way to get from point A to point B in a straight line without seeing anything so I stretched it out to 200 miles. (I have to say, though not intentional, using film lent a nice feel to the pictures.) Unable to find the charger for my beloved digital camera the night before, I grabbed a disposable at the drug store on my way out of town and shoved it into my jacket pocket. As soon as I stepped outside I knew it was a great day for it– blue skies and the morning was nice and cool. No worries, I’ve always loved a good solo ride. Of the two guys I ride with, it was too early for one and the other was working. The timing was better, for one thing, and I knew there would be less traffic, better weather and a decreased likelihood that I would run into 100 “bikers” riding tire to tire on some sort of pack run. For one reason or another, it kept coming up as the better day to ride. They have a big event in town every Memorial Day but I went yesterday instead. It’s a small village with a lot of history.

This year for Memorial Day, I decided to go straight to the source - the birthplace of Memorial Day, Boalsburg, Pennsylvania.

Resigned another word for quit