This article is part of the series Postcards to Dad, a five-week motorcycle journey from Savannah to Maine highlighting the Appalachian Trail, with postcards home to Dad from each state on the trail.

In all the years I’ve come back to Atlanta, I’d never stayed in a hotel there on a personal trip. Usually I’m way out in the suburbs, taking the train in. This time a college friend recommended a hotel within walking distance of campus, and it seemed easy enough. It felt awkward at first, a guest in the city I grew up in. Then it felt pretty nice. Close to campus, on-site parking: the things we look for as we get older. Three days in, Atlanta had been good to me.

Now, it was time to land the plane. I was the captain of my own aircraft. This is the smile that begins “Flight attendants, please prepare the motorcycle for arrival.” It’s time to conclude the adventure.

I went back and forth on how to get to Savannah: I-75 to I-16 the whole way, or I-20 and some backcountry roads. Against my better judgment, I took the freeway and saved the time for the Kickstart Vintage Motorcycle Club meetup at the Foxy Loxy, which started at two o’clock. I’ve really come to enjoy this crowd, and I only have three more of these before I head back to San Francisco. Worth the push and worth the grind.

Getting through Atlanta was relatively easy. A touch of traffic on the Connector opened up after I-20, then it was smooth sailing through South Atlanta, aside from a Mercedes with a breast cancer awareness plate that tried to tailgate me off the road.

Then I hit a small bump, and my Peak Design case decided to separate from the motorcycle, again.

I was in the left lane of I-75, at breakneck Atlanta pace. Concrete barrier on my left, four lanes of traffic on my right. There was nowhere to stop and nowhere to pull over. I saw the phone leave the mount and bounce twice, and then a litany of cars rolled over the spot where it landed. That phone was never coming back.

Gone.

Then CarPlay went out and my screen went dim. Then I heard the Bluetooth power down as the automated Australian voice, noted “Power Off” as the phone fell out of range. Connected motorcycle travel in 2026, with turn-by-turn directions and automated insulin management, disappeared all at once. It was 2002 again, with a whole lot of quiet.

Everything suddenly got harder. How was I going to find the Foxy Loxy? How was I going to manage my glucose overnight?

That second question was the big one. The iPhone manages my glucose when I’m not looking, and that’s a really big deal, especially at night. When I’m dropping, it automatically slows my insulin delivery. When I’m rising, it speeds it up. It’s why I don’t have to wake up in the middle of the night to test and make sure I’m okay. My phone literally keeps me safe.

Without the closed loop, I was back to doing it the old way: stopping every 45 minutes to use a lancet, bleed into a meter, and make dosing adjustments by hand.

I knew how to get to Savannah: ride to the end of I-16 and you run into it. I could amble my way back to my sister’s. The Foxy Loxy was the problem. I figured I’d ride until I hit Bull Street and look for it there. I didn’t have anything better. The truck stop where I pulled in didn’t have Wi-Fi.

The weather on I-16 matched the ride into Atlanta: clear, high 60s to start and mid-70s by the finish, and most importantly, dry. The crosswind was stronger out on Georgia’s coastal plain than it had been in the Piedmont around Atlanta.

Fortunately, 37th Street runs perpendicular to Bull, so I got lucky there. I turned right and rode about fifteen blocks with increasing doubt in my mind. Then I stopped a woman walking her dog. I think I caught her a little off guard. She smiled, laughed, and said, “You’re going the wrong direction.”

So I turned around and rode twenty blocks back. I recognized the railroad crossing, and then there was the Foxy Loxy, on the left.

It was good to see my crew. A bunch of them laughed when I pulled in. “How was the adventure?”

“Well, I’m still on it,” I said. “I haven’t been home yet. I wanted to make sure I made it here before I got home.”

4,711.1 miles in five weeks went faster than I thought. At the start it seemed like I had plenty of time, with only 2,000 miles to ride, maybe 2,500. That last week reminded me how quickly the time and the distance actually go. It’s been an adventure for sure, probably as complex and challenging as the cross-country trip. It’s been two decades since I’ve done a trip this long.

Two Harleys caught my eye. One was Trevor’s, a 2002 Sportster I’d seen on my way out of Savannah back in September. It needed more love than he’d bargained for. Sounds like the GS. But he’s poured his own sweat into reworking the fuel and electrical systems to make the bike truly his, and you can see the pride on his face when he talks about it. I swiped credit cards to solve my problems far away from home. Next, Gage rolled up on a Harley modified to look like a dirt bike. Definitely neat.

Around them, Triumphs of varying years, a sport bike or two, and my GS, the adventure bike, checking in.

It’s good seeing all the different kinds of bikes, hearing about everybody’s adventures, and sharing bits of mine.

I found Mark, who organizes Kickstart. “I’ve done groups like this out west,” I said, “and I just want to say thank you for being consistent, for organizing and showing up each and every week.”

Mark deflected, as good people do. “No worries. I enjoy doing it.”

“I know,” I said. “But I want you to know I realize it’s a commitment. And commitments are work, even when they’re fun. So, thank you.”

He smiled. “Thank you for noticing.”

Kickstart is one of the things I really do enjoy here in Savannah. I’m glad these guys are here, and I’m looking forward to actually riding with them now that I’m here for a couple of weeks with no travel plans.

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Thank you for coming along, Dad.

I’ve been thinking about the two of us over the years, and what I’ve come to value most is the independent spirit between us. You’ve always been clear about when a decision was mine to make, and you gave me the room to make it — college, where to move, how to invest. You saw whose call it was, and you respected that.

Two things have stayed with me, though. Make the best decision you can with the data you have. And life happens while you’re making plans.

This has been a weird year. I’ve been doing a lot of both. It’s been good, time honored advice.

Love you, Dad. Happy birthday.