John Flores

I dream of New England. In my mind’s eye, I see picturesque little towns, fall foliage, wooded hills, and mile after mile of quiet country roads. But there are layers to New England. There are stories beyond the stereotypes, characters beyond the clichés. This is a story about those layers, about the people who crossed oceans and continents searching for new lives in the New World. I can see the clouds from my hotel window in Nashua, NH. This is my home base for a week in late September.

When I started riding in the ‘90s, I quickly learned about the top motorcycle gear brands. For textiles, it’s Aerostich. For leathers, you go for Vanson. Both are vaunted American brands that I was proud to wear. Two Vanson jackets still sit in my closet, one purchased during a factory store open house way back then. When Florian asked if I’d ride up to Fall River, MA, to visit Vanson, I leapt at the opportunity to visit the factory again.

September, 2005. I remember Christa’s email like it was yesterday: “We would like to use your submission ‘Las Vegas’ in one of our next issues.” I read it once, twice, a million times and I still couldn’t believe it. I wasn’t born a writer. I never did well in English class. I was a suit in an advertising agency. Over the years, however, I worked autodidactically (here’s my $5 word for this story) on both my writing and photography. I read and studied Ted Simon’s Jupiter’s Travels, Robert E.