You know those makeshift highway memorials? It's time I made one for my mom

By Jesse Kinos-Goodin

​Harley-Davidsons have been part of my life since the day I was born.

While some may complain about the noise of their engines or the smell of their exhaust, I hear nothing but my childhood. The loud, unmistakable crack of the V-twin engine and the smell of burnt fumes instantly fills me with a sense of nostalgia.

I want to tell a story about Harleys, and the power they have to heal, but first, I need to take a ride to a place I haven't been in 25 years. A place I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to go back to.

My family was built around a love of Harleys, and they were behind some of the best memories of my life. But also my worst.

That's why I'm on the Trans-Canada Highway, headed west from Sudbury, Ontario, on a brand new Harley-Davidson Road Glide.

The highways around Sudbury, like many on the Canadian Shield, are lined with sheer rock walls, and as you ride by, it's impossible not to notice the abundance of inukshuks. They're everywhere, each one with its own secret meaning known only to the person who built it. There's also what seems to be a disproportionately large number of makeshift highway memorials, often a simple wooden cross with a name on it. It's enough to take your eyes off the road for one second, just long enough to realize that something horrible happened there.

I haven't been on a bike in four and a half years, since my oldest daughter was born. I shifted so hard riding home from work that the clutch cable broke and I rode through downtown Toronto stuck in second gear. I haven't ridden a day since.

I initially wanted to make this trip on that same bike, a 1971 Harley-Davidson, but since it's been sitting in storage for so long, it's in no shape to make the trip from Toronto to Sudbury. Instead, I reached out to the Harley-Davidson dealership in Sudbury and told them what I was planning to do and how important it was to me. Without hesitation, the owner, Greg Erixon, said he'd let me use one of his test bikes. This is another thing about riding Harleys. For me, I've always associated them with my family, but there is also a strong sense of community amongst Harley riders themselves. An unspoken bond, one strong enough that you'd let a stranger take one of your new motorcycles.  

While I was initially nervous about doing this ride on a new bike, that all washed away the second I put it in first gear and accelerated onto the highway, each shift of the gear dropping me into a deeper state of ease.

This is the magic to riding — it can make you forget about every other thing in your head.

If there is anyone that has instilled a love of Harley-Davidsons in me, it's my dad, Spanky. Before you ask, of course it's not his birth name, but it might as well be. I don't think my sister, Miya, or I have ever called him by his given name. Like many bikers, Spanky has a grey beard and grey hair. They're short now, but when he was young, they were long enough he could braid them both.

I've asked him to show me some old photos, ones of him and his friends when they were younger than me, riding Harleys. It looks like stills taken from the set of one of those 1970s biker movies, like The Wild One or Easy Rider.

He's telling me who each person is, some of whom I've known all my life but don't even recognize here, but one person catches my attention.

"Oh, her name is Officer  … something," he says, laughing. "She felt the need to stop us, I guess."

They didn't do anything wrong, but this was the '70s, and a ragtag group of bikers riding down the highway was enough to arouse suspicion (not much has changed, to be honest). Riding Harleys was more than a hobby for my parents. It was a total lifestyle, one that I was brought into the day I was born. 

Of course I know why I ride Harleys — I've never known anything else. But I want to know what drew him to them. Short answer: because they were cool, he says, and if you were going to ride, you wanted to ride the coolest.

Spanky also owned the Harley dealership in Peterborough, where I grew up, for as long as I can remember. As young as grade 8, the school bus would drop me off there so I could put in hours sweeping up in the shop, eavesdropping on the mechanics conversations. It's where I learned everything I know now about Harleys, and it helped to further instill a love for them in me that's still going strong today. But it was one instance in particular that I remember most fondly: the time my dad let me actually ride his Harley for the first time.

I was around 10 or 11 years old, my legs not long enough to touch the ground. I was on the back of my dad's bike, and we were riding down an empty rural road, surrounded by nothing but green fields and blue sky. He pulled the bike over and asked something along the lines of, "Do you wanna ride it?"

Super casual, as if he'd asked me a million times already, as if I even knew how to.

Of course I said yes. So he moved me to the front seat and slid himself to the back, all the while holding the bike up with his own feet. My job was to take hold of the handlebars, twist the throttle, and steer us down the road. He would handle everything else.

God, it was thrilling. The connection between the throttle and the noise coming out the engine was instant and loud, a direct and visceral cause and effect that filled my body with endorphins. It felt less like we were riding on two wheels connected to the asphalt, and more like we were floating.

Until I almost stalled it.

Because of course I was also terrified, and as we approached a hill, I was too scared to accelerate. The bike started to bog a little, but I still didn't dare turn the throttle anymore until I heard my dad yell, "Give it some gas!" It sounded like he was laughing.

That thrill mixed with just a little fear is probably what's kept me on a Harley for most of my life. I think it's what keeps a lot of people on them, that sense that you are doing something that many people see as dangerous or scary, but you've found a way to control it. 

My mom also had a profound love for Harleys, and I remember taking long family trips to the U.S., me on the back of her bike, my sister on the back of my dad's. The rumblings of her engine would soothe me to sleep.

Some of my best memories, but like I said, also my worst.

When I was 13, my mom was headed to Milwaukee, the home of Harley-Davidson, for the company's 90th anniversary celebrations. She and a friend had broken off from a larger group and headed north, to Beaver Lake, a small community just outside of Sudbury where my mom was born and raised. But she never made it to Milwaukee. A truck driver coming the other way fell asleep and crossed the line, hit my mom, and that was it.

It's strange, but her death only strengthened my bond with motorcycles, and on the very day I turned 16, I went into the licensing office and wrote my motorcycle test. It was winter, but it didn't matter. I needed that license as soon as possible.

Whenever I've been on a Harley, I've felt like I was riding with my mom.

Since then, whenever I've been on a Harley, I've felt like I was riding with my mom. I even took to carrying a bandana of hers with me that was recovered from the accident site. It had tiny dark specks on it, either oil or blood, and I folded it in a triangle the way troops fold flags at funerals and carried it in my pocket whenever I rode. I don't know how else to describe it, but being on a motorcycle has been my safe place. It's where I feel connected to her more than anywhere else.

My sister, Miya, felt the same way for awhile, and learned to ride because of my mom.

"I wanted to know why mom loved it so much," she says. "I think, subconsciously, that's what was behind my motivation to get on a motorcycle. And there there were moments where I felt just really clear headed and peaceful."

She's talking about that sort of Zen state you can feel on a bike. My dad told me a story about going for a ride around home and ending up in New York City, because "that's the way the turns took me," he says. It's just so easy to become lost in the moment and feel a complete connection to your surroundings.

My mom obviously felt that too.

"I think she just had that euphoric state of bliss the entire time she rode," my sister says. "She felt free. And I had a couple of those moments and I got to experience it but not enough, because then there was the other side of it. And like I would have those moments and then I would click out of it. And I was always just constantly scanning and so conscientious of my surroundings that I couldn't go back."

My sister gradually let her motorcycle license expire, and my dad, who's ridden every season for at least 50 years, has hung up his helmet as well. He'll be 70 next year, and he's recently expressed his concern over me riding, now that I have two daughters.

"The roads are more dangerous than they were," he says, which is true, but I'm not going to lie, it was weird for me to hear that coming from the guy who put us on the back of his bike as soon as we were old enough to hang on. 

And while I haven't ridden a single day since my daughters were born, when I turned 38 this year, the same age my mom was on her last ride, it weighed heavily on me. I knew I had to do something I'd been thinking about ever since I was a teenager.

That's why I'm on a bike now, headed to the place where my mom was born, and where our lives changed forever.

I have a homemade memorial in my saddlebag, a small wreath with white daisies attached and a wooden plaque that says her name, Marcia Kinos.

I'm going to affix it to the rock face that lines the stretch of highway, a place I haven't been since the day I found out the news 25 years ago.

While it feels incredible to be on a bike again, that initial sense of freedom turns to fear as soon as I get to the accident site and pull over on to the soft shoulder that is just wide enough for a bike.

I thought I was going to be ready for this. In my head, I told myself that it would be just a regular stretch of highway, but it's worse than I ever could have imagined. It's a steep hill with a bend in it, surrounded by rock on both sides. There is a deer carcass right where I need to be. This used to be just two lanes, but even now that it's widened to four, with transport trucks constantly screaming by, it's a terrifying stretch of road.

I have this simple task, which is to attach this memorial to the rock face using some caulking. But it becomes overwhelming, and I struggle as I attempt to get it done as fast as I can. I remember coming to this spot when I was a kid, and how my dad rushed us out of here. I remember fighting him because I wanted to stay, but now I know why. I wouldn't pull over here in a car. I wouldn't pull over here with my family. In fact, I already know that I never want to come back here again.

The story I was always told was that my mom was also born in the same spot. Her parents lived less than ten minutes away, and on the day she was born, they were headed to the hospital, but this is as far as they got. The side of the highway, the very same hill. On my mom's last ride, 38 years later, she spent the night at her own mom's place, said her goodbyes and left on her Harley. Her ride ended right here.

Standing on the side of the highway, I feel like my mom's rushing me out of here. In my head, she's telling me, 'Don't stay here too long. Do what you came to do, then go.'

I attach the wreath, and as I speed off, my hands are still shaking, but I also feel an enormous sense of relief. I've done what I've come to do. I could technically turn around and go home, but it doesn't feel right to end in this spot. Like all the inukshuks and memorials you see on the side of the road headed here, it's a place you pass, where you take your eyes off the road for one second, just long enough to realize that something horrible happened there. This isn't supposed to be the final destination. 

I may never see it again, but knowing I put a memorial down is enough. I need to just keep going, to get on the bike and ride, to feel that sense of freedom again, but even more so, connection.

As I ride down the road, following the turns, I pass through the small town of Espanola, where my mom went to high school, and on to Manitoulin Island. I feel the warm wind on my face, and the coolness of the still frozen lakes hits my legs as I ride past them. But most of all, I feel my mom.

Listen to Jesse's documentary, "My mom's last ride," by clicking the Listen link at the top of this page. Or download and subscribe to our podcast so you never miss a show.

About the Producer

Jesse Kinos-Goodin has been an arts journalist for a decade, joining CBC Music in 2012. He's currently a digital producer on q, where he writes mainly about music, movies and popular culture. The only job he's held longer than journalism is working in a Harley-Davidson dealership, both in Peterborough, where he was born, and in Toronto, where he lives now. This is his first radio documentary. You can follow him on Twitter @JesseKG

This documentary was co-produced and co-edited by The Doc Project's Alison Cook and was made through the Doc Project Mentorship Program.