We did a show at the Ravinia Festival, in Highland Park, Illinois, a couple weeks back. It’s in Chicago but not quite; to get there you nibble at the north edge of the city but don’t plunge in. We’ve been into the heart of the metropolis quite a few times, and of course most truck drivers’ philosophy in regards to large cities is "Less is More." So I was happy way up there on the north side. Slept in the truck during the loadout and was able to boogie straight home to Minnesota in six hours afterwards. Only two toll booths. The folks who actually do the shows find little difference from one trip to the next; for them it’s always the ride to the airport, take the plane ride, the van ride to the hotel, the van ride to the gig, do the gig, van ride back to the hotel, van ride back to the airport, take another ride on a plane and ride home.

To the truck it was drive to the gig and drive home. And it’s always different. Every labyrinth has its own cipher, some straightforward and some complex. This one was about as direct as it could get, and except for the lush neighborhood it was hiding in, it was a sweet deal. The one catch was an acute left turn through the gate, avoidable if you came at it from the right street but a challenge from any other direction. It was one of those turns where you have to back up cranked hard right and nearly touch the trailer to turn square enough left, and even then you almost scrape the sign. Later, people ask about how the show went and the musicians, of course, flash on the catering. I flashed on that corner, which nobody else even noticed.

I had Sunday at home, just enough time to pack for our annual motorcycle trek through the Dakotas and into the vast beauty of Montana and Wyoming. We took old Highway 12 and found a first-rate primo-A-number-one shuffleboard in the Drink Factory in Aberdeen (I was in a rare shuffleboard zone and won). We stayed that night in Mobridge, crossed the Missouri in the morning on a steel bridge so elegant they named the town after it, and were immediately up on the Great Plains. Heading for the Montana Bar in Miles City, a living museum where you can buy a shot and look at yourself in the big mirror in the beautiful carved and curved dark hardwood back bar. On the high wall behind you are mounted the heads of Longhorn steers that led the great trail drives between there and Texas; racks so wide a grown man cannot reach tip to tip. They make the buffalo head on the end wall look underpowered. Beneath you is a brass rail and below that an intricate floor design of small hexagonal Italian tiles, all hand laid and containing some errors, which the new visitor is encouraged to find.

Our crowd had grown to thirteen this year and, but for cancellations, almost reached seventeen; enough to start a cult. There were four bikes and three rental cars, with folks flying in from Florida, New York and Minnesota. We met up with some at the Billings airport and others in the Rock Creek saloon in Red Lodge. We all escorted the rookies on their mandatory initiation over Bear Tooth Pass, through Cook City and the northern line through Yellowstone and up through the aptly named Paradise Valley into Livingston from the south. At a gas stop along the way I saw a teenager in a t-shirt that read: “I’ve gone off in search of myself. If you find me before I get back, please don’t let me go.” And somewhere in a small restaurant: “If you want breakfast in bed, sleep in the kitchen.”

We’ve been doing variations of this drive now for fifteen years, cruising the mountain highways and ending up in the Murray Hotel in Livingston. The Rockies hold an endless fascination to flatlanders like myself. I can’t lie still on a warm beach for fifteen minutes but I can ride the mountains for weeks.

The biggest news of the summer reading season, in spite of what you may have heard or not heard, is that your humble truck driver has a book out. It’s called Semi True and is published by Globe Pequot, and it’s generally hidden off in the Travel section of your local bookstore. I went looking for it myself in the Great Literature department and then into Recent Notables; looked in Semi-fiction, and Humor, and then in Future Classics; but it’s in Travel. It may never make it out of Travel. It’s at Barnes & Noble, Borders, Amazon, and a lot of independents, like our Valley Bookseller right here in Stillwater.

It began as a simple collection of website pieces and, through creative editing and stern discipline, ended up with almost nothing from the web. A part of a chapter. I encourage you all, however many you are, to buy it and write a flowery online review somewhere. You might say, for instance: “The book is only five and seven-eighths inches wide and just eight and three-eighths tall, so that’s pretty good, for a hardcover book. It’s not too heavy either, and it fits on the shortest shelf in my book case. How wonderful.” Something like that.

I need to get a buzz going about it so I can buy a heavier motorcycle. The one I have is fast but I find myself more interested in comfort these days, and I’m thinking I need a Road King. With a windshield, even; something I’ve avoided all these years. It’s true what they say about getting older, whatever that is. I can’t remember it exactly, but I’m pretty sure it’s true.

I’m also encouraging folks to write to me directly. I’m taking the brave step of giving out the email address, trusting that readers who are able to find this column aren’t the kind of people who will load my mailbox up with spam. Or with talent recommendations for the show, either, because I’m not of much use in that department. And I’ve been warned against this, that there are all sorts of wackos out there. So I’m also asking that if you’re a wacko please don’t bother to write. Just don’t bother your pretty little head. I mean, it’s not that I need the mail. I’m okay with it when the mailbox is empty.

But if you should be moved to comment directly to the author please keep it frank and to the point. Examples:

“The book sucks, dude. Get a day job.”

“Who’s that dumb-looking doofus on the cover? Is that you? Sheez.”

“I never got to page three. Dropped it like a hot tomato. A hot enchilada. Whatever.”

“I couldn’t put it down because I didn’t pick it up. How’s that for a putdown?”

“You should stay in the truck and shut the hell up.”

Brief impressions like that. You get the drift. Not everyone does, but I’m pretty sure you do. And the doofus on the cover isn’t me. I have no idea who that guy is. I’m not sure the art department of Globe Pequot even knows. The doofus on the inside back flap of the jacket is me.

Anyway, here we go. The address is: R.Ringsak@visi.com. Be honest, now.