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Along Route 66
Getting More Kicks without the Corvette
You may know how it is. You're sitting through a long, cold winter evening beside the fireplace and dreaming about tours while the bike hibernates in the garage. Years ago I was in this situation. The fire crackled and Pink Floyd played in my headphones while I read an article about Route 66 in a motorcycle mag. The whole theme immediately captivated me and that very same evening Christa and I began planning a vacation, our first in the States on a motorcycle.
"Fasten your seatbelts, please," the public address system blared. "We're landing in 30 minutes at Chicago's O'Hare International Airport." Holy Moley, it's happening. I'm nervous and hope my VN 1500 survived the trip. It's been sitting here, waiting on me for three days in Lufthansa's Chicago warehouse. Immigration goes smoothly and picking up the bike is a breeze. Interfracht did a great job and all I have to do is sign three sheets and we're on our way.
Illinois
Chicago welcomes us with all the friendliness imaginable. Easy immigration, fast processing when we pick up the bike, a deep blue sky above, temperatures in the 80s, and a smiling motorcycle cop waving for us to go faster. I do exactly 55 miles per hour, but that's too slow for the busy bodies on Interstate 90. The flowing traffic carries us right downtown to a nice place to stay in the Holiday Inn close to Wacker Drive.
The next day we figure the best way to win the battle with jet lag is to set about exploring the city. But I'm not in the best of moods because I'm itching to get underway and roll on down the "Mother Road." ...
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