As my deadline for this column approached, I found myself at a loss for a subject.  While there are many issues that I am concerned about—ranging from rider safety to the impending elections and their effect on our rights and freedoms—I knew I wanted to write about riding itself.  Yesterday was my deadline and the day dawned cool and foggy in the mountains and ideas were still evading me.  That meant there was only one thing to do—RIDE!  Usually it works like a charm: hop on the bike, ride for a few hours, blow away the mental cobwebs, and, poof, my mind is filled with great ideas.  Well, it was a nice ride, and it sure cleared my sinuses, but my writer’s cobwebs were still there.  They stood out in stark contrast to all the other thoughts that had come into clear focus.  They were kinda like the spider webs in my yard on misty mornings covered in glistening dew, heavy with their accumulated weight.  And like the spider, I knew it was time to bag it and move on; tomorrow would be a new day and I would spin new ideas.

After returning the bike to its assigned place in my garage, I hung up my riding leathers and helmet and headed for the kitchen.  If riding didn’t clear my mind, it sure gave me an appetite (below is the seasonal recipe I decided to whip up, I hope it satisfies you like it did me).  After my spicy hearty dinner, I spent some time in front of the fireplace to chase the fall chill from my bones and enjoy some moto-reading.  Ever dedicated to the southern motto of “GIT-R-DONE,” I was still searching for ideas; they did not arrive.  So I trundled off to bed in hopes that the next day I would wake up with the idea.

This morning arrived and it was a rather rude awakening at that.  I woke to the indisputably worst alarm clock—charley horses.  My calves were locked in tight knots of painful muscles, and then in that blinding flash of pain and light my idea arrived.  I remembered the first and thankfully worse time that I have been so awoken.  It was 1990, August to be exact, and my mom, God rest her soul, had passed away in May of that year.  It had been a hard, painful year for me, to say the least, and I took a three-week, round-the-continent ride to work through my grief and honor her memory.  She was exactly five feet tall and unstoppably independent, a great southern lady and a big supporter of my riding motorcycles; she would take on anybody who spoke ill of bikers.  Well, I was on my last leg of that journey, crossing Canada and headed east.  I started in Winnipeg and had gotten to Sault Ste. Marie just after dark, at what was supposed to be my last gas stop of the day.  I asked the kid at the station if there were motels along the lake.  His answer was, yeah, lots of them.  So I rode east after passing what should have been a foreboding string of vacancy signs in town.

Those were the last vacancy signs I would see until almost dawn.  As I rode mile after mile eastward, unwilling to turn around and backtrack, I passed NO VACANCY signs in uncountable number.  The evening fog rolled in and I slowed to an almost crawl, now far too late to even consider turning around.  Finally I began to look for a place just to park the bike and roll out my sleeping bag.  I was fatigued and frozen; even though it was August, it was already getting cold that far north, and I had left all my heavy thermal gear at home.  At last I stopped at a pullout with a picnic table, and as I pulled over I realized that the last sign I had seen about a mile back did not have that evil red NO in front of the VACANCY.  I wheeled around, checked in at 6:00 AM, and was firmly told checkout was noon with no late option.  I crawled fully dressed and booted into that bed and passed out, only to awake before the alarm with two tennis balls of charley horse in my calves.  They hurt more than words could relate.  I had ridden from Winnipeg to the northern suburbs of Toronto, more than half that time with my legs pulled up tight against the motor to keep warm.  I learned a lot of lessons that night, some of which I obviously forgot last night since this morning, Charley Rode Again!

Pulsating Pumpkin Soup

Everyone associates pumpkin with pie and the holidays.  While this is a great holiday soup, it is a welcome treat all year long.  In fact, it is so hearty that it is a one-dish meal.  I especially enjoy this after a cold ride--it will gently warm you and satisfy your hunger.  Try it and you will feel your palate pulsating just like your bike’s motor.

3 1/2 cups canned pumpkin puree
2 cups vegetable broth
1 cup heavy cream
2 tablespoons onion powder
1 teaspoon garlic powder
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon ground allspice
1 tablespoon dried parsley
1 teaspoon dried cilantro
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon white pepper
One 9-ounce package cheese tortellini

1. Combine all the ingredients, except the tortellini, in a large saucepan.  Stir well to mix, place over medium heat, and cook for 20 to 25 minutes, stirring often.
2. While the soup cooks, bring a pot of salted water to a boil, add the tortellini, and cook until al dente. Drain.
3. To serve, place several tortellini in each bowl and ladle the soup over them.  If there is leftovers, store the tortellini and soup separately so the tortellini remain firm.

Makes 6 to 8 servings 

Column copyright Bill Hufnagle 2006. Recipe reprinted with permission from "BIKER BILLY'S HOG WILD ON A HARLEY COOKBOOK", published by Harvard Common Press, Boston copyright Bill Hufnagle 2003.