The Road to the Meteor
By: Marty Karpa, SS Meteor Tour Guide & Volunteer
This Spring of 2026 begins my 12th season making the 160-mile round trip from my home 10 miles east of Spooner to perform the now-accustomed schtick as a tour guide for the museums in Superior, primarily at the SS Meteor whaleback ship. These trips over the years have run the gamut with respect to the weather from late April until mid-November, and 99% of them have been on the back of a Harley. Each of the road trips back and forth begin essentially the same, typically waking between 3:00 and 3:30 AM, firing up the coffee machine, turning on the TV to catch overnight breaking news, laying out clothing for the trip and the day...
The familiar stretch of U.S. Hwy. 53 starts at exit 165 when I leave State Hwy. 70W and turn onto the northbound freeway, usually at about 6:15-6:30 AM. Early April/mid-November...28 degrees, bundled up against the oncoming 70 mph wind and chill. Settling in and becoming in tune to the machine under me, the mind settles in as well. It settles into the iconic Harley sound which becomes the heartbeat of every trip, and I snuggle down as best one can against the wind, turning the collar to the cold and damp, tucking the fleece-lined hoodie around the neck and making sure the zipper of the leather jacket is up as far as it will go.
The weather has, for the past 50+ years of biking, always been the major unpredictable determining factor in how to go about any trip, and it will remain so, but the rivers I cross during every trip from my home to Superior are the unchanging constant, and each one has become a milestone along the way.
Very shortly after entering the freeway is the Yellow River crossing - unremarkable except that it is the first of six more to go - then on to the Namekagon at Trego. This is the last fuel stop until Minong, and even though I normally fill the tank up here on the way home the previous day, I always double check the mileage on the bike's trip meter against the highway sign that states "Superior 63 miles", do the math in my head, and reassure that it will read 93 miles when reaching the first Kwik Trip on Superior's East End.
The third river in line is the Totagatic. I'm not even sure how to correctly pronounce that, and sometimes it will be spelled Totogatic, so I don't even try and blow on past it to the next, which is the St. Croix at Gordon...always the coldest river basin along the way. This river crossing is the most notable because it is the half-way point of no return - 40 miles from home and 38 miles from the familiarity of the Superior Historic Properties, all of which offer the comfort of wonderful co-workers and the prospects/challenges of meeting and interacting with (generally) equally as pleasant guests to the museums. No matter the weather, be it 36 degrees and rain, occasionally snow flurries, 28 degrees with frost on the ditch grasses, there is absolutely no sense in turning around at this point and canceling the trip. The sensible option is to keep going further north towards the Middle River, a highlight (pun intended) because just a scant 1/4 mile past this river one crests a hill at Rockmont Road and the great lake comes into view for the first time...ever impressive and beautiful and always dependably there. From here I know there are only 14.3 miles to go - 12 miles to Kwik Trip where I stop most every morning for fuel (we humans are creatures of habit), and more often than not, before fueling I make a beeline to the restroom because there is an electric hand dryer where I can thaw out my fingers, and then 2.3 more miles to the Meteor after crossing the Amnicon and finally, bringing a sense of "I'm home", the Nemadji.
The stretches of highway can sometimes seem long between all these rivers, but the mind is a wonderful thing. It can take one anywhere at any time and one can become anything and do anything, all in the mind's eye. One is limited only by imagination. It is simply mind over matter; no mind it doesn't matter. I find myself between stretches sometimes travelling backwards in time through childhood memories of all my relatives who have gone before me. Other times I invent a time machine and travel back to favorite eras in history, or I may utilize the time with the day at hand in mind and rehearse the tour guide script, or I may use it to write an article such as this for no other purpose than to bore people like you. Above all is the fact that remaining focused on the task of travelling on a motorcycle at 70 mph is the priority. One has to be ready for anything. There was once a turkey that came out of the grassy median strip unexpectedly at a dead run (again, ((ugh)) pun intended) and decided to take flight at the dotted line, so I schmucked it with the headlamp and windshield at 70 mph. It was akin to someone dropping a 25 lb. ham off a bridge directly in front of the bike. The last I saw of that turkey was in the rear-view mirror on its way to becoming a greasy spot on the highway. Take that, you rat.
Another expensive adventure along the way happened just before reaching Minong. Consider first that there are literally billions of square inches of asphalt that comprise the surface of Highway 53. Now consider the rotten luck that on one particular early morning I had to run across the lone square inch that had a nail laying on it. The rear tire did not blow out, but it did deflate rapidly and the rear of the bike started immediately to sashay and wobble. The first reaction is to slow down, of course, but on a motorcycle the slower it goes the more violently it wobbles. So, I sped up, which allows centrifugal force to take over and keep the tire somewhat round until reaching the gas station. $600+ dollars and half a day later.............
There have been other exciting times as well - swerving around the hind end of a deer that was hell-bent on crossing the highway exactly at the same time and place as I arrived; there was once a wrong-way driver coming head on in my lane at 5:30 in the morning and we both swerved to our respective right at the last possible split second. Any crash at a combined speed of 120 mph would have thoroughly chapped my butt because it would most assuredly have destroyed a perfectly good Harley.
In conclusion, I'll ask the reader to bear in mind that this is written shortly after 6 straight days of making the trip to Superior to work with the crew on the SS Meteor during the Volunteer Work Week during the last week of April, hence the numerous top-of-mind references to cold, frosty, early morning rides. Owning a Harley is often depicted glamorously in calendar photos, showing the bike near a campfire on a sunset beach somewhere. Over the decades that scene has never ever materialized for me. Thunderstorms and sub-freezing temps are more the norm.
