Paul Richardson: Lessons learned from a motorcycle trip with a grandson

It began one month before his fifth birthday. This beginning turned into years containing mile after mile of adventure watching large parts of the country roll by from the saddle of a motorcycle. But the beginning would determine whether or not this little guy had the composition for just such an adventure.

It was a fixed date on my calendar to leave in mid-October and attend a rally in southern Arkansas.

Departing on Wednesday morning with a return trip on Sunday afternoon, it was a simple four days of camping, riding, and fellowship with friends old and new. This year was highlighted with a young one that wanted to go with his grandpa.

There was plenty of preparation to do as the young one had refused to don a helmet. But that had to change before he would ever be allowed to travel on the bike. He fought that item of apparel like a hardened proponent of anti-helmet laws. 

In the end he reconciled his opposition in order to become a traveling companion on the immediate trip and what turned out to be many more. The wearing of the helmet proved to be a minor point compared to loading the gear on the bike in a manner which the little one would be protected, secure and in the event of a tragic event, would be separated from the surrounding hazards. 

A little ingenuity, fabrication and modifications to existing items, provided a safe cocoon that would eject away from the hazard. It is fortunate that throughout a known and accountable 700,000+ miles there has never been an accident when I had a passenger on board.

The day finally arrived for departure and his eagerness had to be restrained as I wanted the frost to burn off, giving the temperature an opportunity to rise prior to departure. The little guy stood eagerly at the front door, watching out the window, waiting for the last hint of that white frost to disappear. Once it was gone the announcement came from him, “Time to go.” Off we went.

At the end of the first day he was still running solid and true. As the time approached when we would hit the tent and the sleeping bags I was informed, “Pappa, I’m hungry.” 

That was normal as he always had a bedtime snack. A trip to the concession stand should take care of this, I thought. After a quick review I selected a couple of his favorites; a 3 Musketeers bar and a root beer. Problem solved.

It was somewhere in the neighborhood of 3 a.m. when I awoke to someone sitting cross-legged on chest saying, “Pappa, whatcha’ doin’?” 

“Sleeping,” I said. 

“That’s no good, get up, let’s play.” 

It was then I realized how differently Grandpas and Grandmas view the world. From that day forward, bedtime snacks consisted of a banana and a container of milk. The phrase “Whatcha’ doin’,” needed to be reserved for the curious during normal waking hours.
(Paul Richardson's column, The Horse I Rode In On, is published weekly in the Neosho Daily News, Seneca News-Dispatch, the Aurora Advertiser and on the Turner Report.)