Zen and the Art of Dodging Manure

The sky was heavy and gray when I rolled out of Severn, Maryland—one of those moody, overcast mornings hanging in the low 50s. Not quite cold, not quite warm. Weather that doesn’t beg for adventure but throws down a quiet challenge anyway. I zipped up my jacket, put on my over pants, strapped on the helmet, and let the road lead the way.

No destination was locked in, just a direction. Like a kōan with two wheels and no answer. I was headed toward Shepherdstown, West Virginia, looking to put a few miles behind me and maybe stop for something familiar along the way. MJ’s on German came to mind—home of the Grinder Sub that Uncle Beardly introduced me to on a ride we took some time back. If it lined up, I’d grab one for myself and one to bring back for him. Not the whole reason for the ride, but a damn good excuse to make it.

There’s something sacred about being on the road with just your thoughts and the hum of the engine. Every sound, smell, and shift in temperature hits differently when you’re on two wheels. A few quick, misty rain showers swept across my route—not enough to soak me, just enough to remind me I was alive and in motion. Like a monk’s bell in the fog, it grounded me in the moment.

The ride was smooth… until I got stuck behind a slow, hulking tractor hauling a mountain of manure just outside of Harpers Ferry. No exaggeration—giant, steaming chunks were flinging off the back and painting the road with a stench I could practically taste through my helmet. That was my breaking point. I banked off onto a side road, trading the stink for the unknown.

And that’s when the Zen kicked in. A detour. A choice made without overthinking. I found myself on a winding route of rural backroads that wrapped me in quiet farmland, old barns, and narrow, single-lane stretches that looked untouched by time. At times, even my GPS gave up. No signal. No guidance. Just the bike, the road, and me.

For a minute, my anxiety stirred like it always does in the unknown. But then, something shifted. The stillness. The calm. The rhythm of leaning into each bend. There’s a Zen saying: “When walking, walk. When riding, ride.” I remembered it. And I did.

Eventually, I stumbled upon the Harpers Ferry Visitor Center, which deserves a shoutout of its own. It’s manned (usually) by a guy named Patrick, who might be the unofficial wizard of local motorcycle wisdom. His knowledge of the backroads around Harpers Ferry is ridiculous. Also? Cleanest public bathrooms I’ve ever seen. They sell local jams, bottled water, and the kind of calm that only comes from a place that knows it’s just a stop—but wants to be a good one.

After stretching my legs there, I cruised down into the town of Harpers Ferry. That’s when I accidentally took a road marked for shuttle buses only. In my defense, it didn’t look that forbidden, and honestly, it was beautiful. Tree-lined, winding, and dead quiet—like a road designed specifically for motorcycle daydreams.

Then I saw the shuttle bus coming up the hill toward me. The driver gave me the universal “go back” motion, but... I was already committed. In for a penny, in for a pound, right? I gave a respectful nod and kept riding. Eventually, I reached a ranger booth. The ranger, polite but clearly not new to this game, asked if I had, by any chance, come up the shuttle-only road.

I played it cool. “Oh, that one? Wasn’t sure—looked open.”

He smiled and gave me the “don’t do it again” talk. Fair enough. I apologized, promised to behave, and we parted on good terms. No ticket, no drama—just another story tucked under the seat.

By then, I knew I’d missed MJ’s. No Grinder for me. No Grinder for Beardly. But the day wasn’t over yet. I pulled into Harpers Ferry Brewing Company, parked the bike, peeled off my gear, and ordered a beer.

The back patio opened up to an incredible overlook—the Potomac below, and a long, rugged bridge stretching across the water like a quiet connection between the past and the present.

As I sipped and soaked it all in, a German couple was sitting near this massive gas firepit. They also rode. They had a nice Honda Goldwing that looked well loved. They were friendly, chill, and full of stories—turns out they’d ridden all across Europe together and had just started a new journey along the East Coast of the U.S. We talked bikes, roads, places we’ve seen, places we still want to go. Total strangers, but for a moment, we were just three riders sharing a view and a beer at the edge of somewhere new.

That conversation, that detour, that quiet bridge—it all reminded me of something I keep having to relearn: the best parts of any ride rarely come from the route you plan. In Zen, they talk about no-mind—the state of flow where action happens without overthinking. That’s where I ended up. Not by force, but by letting go.

Anxiety always tells me to stick to what’s known. But today proved that some of life’s most beautiful moments are waiting on the backroads, in the people you don’t expect to meet, and the turns you never meant to take.

I left chasing a sandwich.I came back with a crooked route, a ranger warning, a scenic wrong turn, and the kind of peace that only finds you when you stop trying to control every mile.

The Grinder can wait. The ride was enough.

Brake, Bite, Breathe.

-Dom