Epilogue

The trip concluded just short of one week ago.  It seems like it was months ago, yet I haven't even opened the bags to remove the goods that I carried with me.  I've had time to reflect on the trip and have answered countless questions from those who followed along on the blog.  Many have asked my opinion on the best part and the worst part.  These are very difficult questions.  How does one define best?  Most beautiful sights?  Best ride?  Most fun?  LIkewise, worst.  Most uncomfortable?  Most boring?  Picking such parameters is hard.  You see and experience things from the seat of a motorcycle that you don't when enclosed in a car.  To try to address the questions, though, I'd have to say that riding through New England, in particular, Vermont, New Hampshire, and eastern Connecticut, presented the best combination of riding, beauty and just pure enjoyment.  Worst part is pretty easy, come to think of it.  The hours spent traveling through western Oklahoma were without doubt the least enjoyable part.  The temperature was 108 degrees, the wind (hot) was relentless, and the scenery was about as unexciting as it gets.  Yet the experience was awesome. 

Herm, although having accumulated more dirt than TMZ, came through like a champ.  Not a single malfunction, less the necessary tire replacement.  I was never uncomfortable despite riding up to 17 hours and up to 800 miles in a day.  The Road Glide is a beautiful machine and it made the trip surprisingly easy.  The folks at Harley are to be congratulated for giving us such a well designed, reliable machine.  I doubt that I'll ever find a better bike.

In sum, it was an exhilarating, one-of-a-kind experience.  If someone else (or I) did the exact same route tomorrow the experience would be completely different.  I hope that I was able to impart some of my experience to those who followed along on this blog.  To those who offered encouragement and thanks and just plain fun comments, I thank you.  It meant a lot to me.  I hope that others might be encouraged to undertake such a challenge.  Thanks for being part of the experience!

The Numbers

• Miles traveled: 10,482
• Crashes seen: 5
• Fuel stops: 72
• Signs reading "Left Lane Closed 1/2 Mile Ahead": 87
• Bugs killed: 569,243 (I counted them all)
• Layers of skin peeled off of nose: 9
• Deer spotted: 27
• Live deer spotted: 3
• Rainbows seen: 4
• Great experiences: infinite

Grande Finale

Day 18
States: 48
Miles 10,482

I awoke with a mix of emotions in New Mexico.  This would be the last day of my adventure.  On the one hand I was looking forward to getting home, back to my own bed, out of the hotels, anxious to see my best pal, Charmin, the tortoise shell kitty cat that rules the home.  On the other hand, I was sorry to see the fun and the experiences and the goal of reaching yet another state come to an end - a goal I had not yet achieved, by the way.  I had made arrangements to meet Bud and Betsy later this day, new friends to me, but old friends to my parents.  They are avid motorcyclists who had been following the blog upon my Dad's recommendations and since I was passing close to their location in Arizona they wanted to meet me, and besides, it was a good excuse for a ride!  We had agreed on a 10:00 a.m. meeting along Interstate 40.  I was about 90 minutes away, and not wanting to be late I scurried around getting packed up, wolfed down some of the free breakfast at the Quality Inn (no women wolfing down stacks of waffles here), and took off, intent on not being late for a planned event (a goal not once achieved during this trip).  Beatrice had always been quite accurate at estimating arrival times, and as I left New Mexico, I glanced down to see what she was predicting for my arrival in Holbrook, AZ, our meeting place.  I was a bit surprised to see that I was actually about 40 minutes ahead of schedule.  I was even more surprised to see that 40 minutes suddenly change to an hour and 40 minutes!  Then it dawned on me.  Arizona was the problem. 

Arizona is a screwy place.  I can say that, because I lived there for six years.  Don't get me wrong, it's a great place - if you don't mind using oven mitts to hold the steering wheel when you drive around Phoenix.  But Arizona does not change their clocks for Daylight Savings Time.  For a portion of the year they are on Mountain Time, and for the remainder of the year they are effectively on Pacific Time.  This presents a host of problems, one of which requires viewers to adjust their television viewing schedules.  Network programming, shows on NBC, CBS, ABC, for example are adjusted so that they remain on a consistent schedule.  L.A. Law, or whatever people watch these days, comes on at 9:00 p.m., regardless of the season.  Cable and live shows, however, ESPN and Monday Night Football, for example, start at either 7:00 p.m. or 6:00 p.m., depending on when the rest of the country changes time.  Then there are the airlines who must adjust their timetables for all flights into and out of Arizona cities.  Those are slight inconveniences.  At this point I had what I considered a major inconvenience.  I was going to be an hour and 40 minutes early!  In a panic I pulled over and called Bud and Betsy and explained my miscalculation.  Graciously, Bud said that would be no problem and that since they were a good distance from our meeting point, they could leave in a few minutes and meet me without causing me significant delay. 

We had arranged to meet at a McDonald's along I-40.  I arrived first and parked.  In a few minutes Bud and Betsy rode up on the biggest, most luxurious motorcycle I've ever seen, a beautiful BMW K1200 LT that looked like it could seat 30.  I think I could have averaged 1500 miles a day had I been on this machine. 

We swapped motorcycling stories for a while, I found out that they used to ride a Harley Ultra Classic for a while, and then it was soon time to move on.  We decided to cruise along together for a while and then they would have to exit to get ready for some friends coming over.  Bud pulled out and handled the big BMW as if it were a Ninja, and I scurried to catch up.  Soon they had to exit I-40, and we waved goodbye.  I had made yet more friends. 

The next stop was to be Flagstaff where my Dad and kinda-sorta step Mom were parked in the motor home for the summer, and escape from the heat of Phoenix.  We were going to have lunch before I made the final dash for Southern California.  Along the way I spotted another Harley stopped on the side of the interstate.  Again adhering to the biker code, I stopped to see if I could help.  The rider was the victim of a flat rear tire.  He had already been able to contact AAA and they were on the way to take him to the Flagstaff Harley dealer.  I happened to look back at my trusty Herm and noticed that my own back tire seemed to have a problem.  I had been keeping an eye on both tires throughout the trip, checking pressures, noting treadwear and such.  With 12,000 miles under foot, I was wary.  And my wariness proved to be warranted when to my horror I saw cords.  This was a surprise, because the tires had been holding up rather well, but it seems that three consecutive days of triple digit temperatures had taken their toll.  I gave some brief consideration to simply staying there with my new victim/friend, but then it dawned on my that he had already been in touch with the dealer, and I would be in line behind him.  I was still intent on getting home this day, so I kept my secret to myself, told him that I'd make sure they were ready for him at the dealer, and told him I'd see him there, neatly slipping into line ahead of him.  He thanked me and I took off.  Slowly.  I held my breath and prayed that the tire would hold up.  With 46 miles to go, I wasn't real optimistic.  It was the slowest and longest 46 miles of my life, but finally I reached Flagstaff - only to find that the dealer was yet another 15 miles beyond Flagstaff.  Oh, no.  Unfortunately there was no alternative but to continue on the interstate.  The speed limit on this section of road is 75, but with everyone really doing 80, and me doing about 60 I felt like a snail among a heard of cheetahs.  Finally, somehow, I got to Bellmonte, Arizona, where one of the many Grand Canyon Harley dealers was located.  The service manager took one look at my tire and said, "first, I don't know how you made it in here, and second, that's the worst one I've seen this season."  I was honored.  But my problems weren't over.  My tire, being a 200, vs. Harley's standard 140, was not exactly an off-the-shelf item.  Turns out they found one and lined me up for a tire change. 

The Bellmonte dealership is a popular spot, it turns out.  On the grounds of the dealership is the Route 66 Roadhouse Bar and Grill, a destination stop for area bikers and non-bikers alike.  The concept is a little different than most bars and grills, though.  The menu is varied, burgers, ribs, chicken, etc. and they have sandwiches too.  What's unique, though, is the fact that whatever you order comes raw.  Yes, raw.  You yourself are responsible for cooking your meal.  No complaints to the chef in this place.  I called my Dad and we decided that it would be most convenient for him and Jane to drive on over and we could have lunch while my tire was being replaced.  In short order they arrived and we went to work preparing our own meals, which I have to say was one of the best prepared meals I've ever had, and I complemented the chef appropriately.  Before we were finished eating the service manager came over to inform me that my bike was ready.  I have to put in a good word for the folks at this dealership.  I'd heard good things about them, and everything in my experience was first class.  I felt compelled to buy a shirt.  I'd have probably bought one anyway, because it had a really cool back, featuring an elk piloting a Harley.  This will go well with my shirts featuring donkies riding Harleys.  Most people currently favor the calendar girl motif on their shirts - I favor livestock.

We finished our meal, took a few pictures and then it was time for me to head home.  As I stopped by the desk to pay I noted that my broken down friend from earlier in the day had arrived and was getting ready to get his tire replaced, too.  He told me that it had taken 2 1/2 hours for AAA to get to him.  I asked how many others had stopped, and he said that 6 or 7 others did, one giving him a bottle of water.  It's reassuring that the Biker Code still lives to some extent.  It also confirmed that my decision to leave him and move on was a sound one, for another flat rear tire had been towed in and I was told another was on the way.  Tough day for rear tires on I-40 in Arizona.  I kept my suspicions that someone was out there shooting out the rear tires on Harleys to myself and departed. 

I had asked Beatrice how long it was to my home and she had told me a mere 351 miles. This wasn't unreasonable and I would still be home at a reasonable hour, 8:30 or so.  As it turns out, Beatrice had one more cruel trick to play on me.  I don't know why, I thought we had made up and let bygones be bygones.  We had been getting along quite well and I thought the relationship was back to near perfect.  But apparently there was something that she had stored away, because the next time I looked at the remaining miles, she had surreptitiously added an additional 115 miles!  You've got to be kidding me, I thought.  This was an additional two hours, and darkness was closing in quickly.  I weighed my options.  Kingman, AZ was close, Bullhead City or even Laughlin, Nevada were just a short distance farther.  After brief consideration, I decided to push on toward home.  It would mean crossing the California desert in darkness and dealing with LA area traffic when I was tired, but my own bed was just too enticing.  I pushed on. 

One of the least desirable parts of any trip involving going to and from Southern California is the return via Interstate 15, in particular the descent from the Cajon Pass.  The Cajon Pass, loosely translated is "God does not want you to be in this area," I believe.  It was created by the San Andreas fault, separating the San Gabriel Mountains from the San Bernardino Mountains.  It features wind gusts up to 80 miles per hour, trains regularly crash attempting to navigate the steep grade, fog often envelopes the road, and wildfires have raged there recently.  All of these are secondary, though, to the dangers presented by the wannabe race car drivers who seem to view descending the pass as an Indy 500 qualifying run.  On a motorcycle, it is terrifying as cars that normally can't top 60 mph, suddenly find the means to crank it up to 90 on the steep, downhill, curving grade, racing around you to your left and to your right, dodging in and out, then without warning, cutting you off.  And I was hitting this location in the dark after having set out about 15 hours earlier.  To add to all of this, the temperature had dropped to the coldest I had experienced along the entire journey.  How ironic is that?  Southern California, one of the most perfect climates in the entire world, and for the first time I was freezing my fanny off.  I gritted my chattering teeth, tried to ignore the Mario Andretti wannabes, and made my was down the pass.  I survived.

It was only another hour to the house.  Thankfully that passed without incident and shortly after midnight I pulled into my driveway.  Awaiting me was a "Welcome Home" banner stretched across my garage along with a banner of checkered flags that my neighbors had put up.  

Many of them had been following along on the blog.  I grinned happily, opened the door, pulled in and shut Herm's motor off for the final time of the adventure.  I had made it.  10482 miles, every state in the Continental United States accessed, countless friends and countless memories made.  It was an amazing and fulfilling trip.  For some reason Ernie Banks came to mind, and to paraphrase, "Let's do one more!" was considered…and dismissed. 

Nearing the End

Day 17
States: 47
Miles 9792

Waking to the smell of bacon is something that I hadn't experienced in, oh, about 39 years, the last time probably being my freshman year in college when my dorm room faced the kitchen.  And the garbage cans.  I had slept a little longer than planned, and my hosts were already up preparing breakfast.  Turns out Chainsaw is even more of a bacon lover than I am, and he was hard at work making sure our arteries had a challenge on their hands.  He and Heather cooked up eggs and something I had not had before, monkey bread.  It was delicious and I highly recommend that if you can find monkey bread, get some.  Sounds weird - tastes great.

Three states remained untouched at this point, and my next goal was Colorado.  The roads that lead from Kansas to Colorado and on to New Mexico are slightly less numerous than days without wind there.  In my trip planning I had  been forced to choose a path that took me through some rather unscenic and boring parts of Colorado - Baja Oklahoma, if you will.  Not all of Colorado is Rocky Mountain majesty.  Chainsaw took one look at my route and vetoed it.  As others had before on this trip, he said, "I'll get you to Colorado, and save you about 5 hours."  I was all for that, so off we went, past the fields and silos. 

Within 40 minutes or so, after several turns, the paved road came to an end.  We had arrived in Colorado.  Apparently Kansas deemed this road to be more important than Colorado did, for it became a gravel road just a few feet over the border.  

I had used the term "dipping a toe into the state" previously in cases where I simply went across the border, then turned around, taking credit for having set my feet down in the state.  I had done this in Michigan, Maine, and New Jersey, but this was the first time that I had stopped literally just a few feet over the border.  This was also the dividing line between the Central Time Zone and the Mountain Time Zone.  I thought later that I should have bounded back and forth across the invisible state line to see if my phone would change back and forth by an hour.  Another opportunity lost.  We took a few pictures, then climbed back into Central Time and headed down toward Oklahoma.  I had no idea that the borders for five states were within just a few miles of each other in this part of the country.  Soon Chainsaw and I parted ways, he heading back to his home, me on my way to New Mexico.

New Mexico is known as the Land of Enchantment.  To me that's a euphemism similar to those that real estate agents use like "charming" for "really small house."  Land of Enchantment translates to "we really don't have a whole lot to offer."  One of the Shark Week attendees told me he refers to it as the Land of Entrapment.  I'm inclined to agree.  While most western states set their highway speed limits at 70 or 75 mph, New Mexico's speed limits (away from their few interstates) is 60.  Are kidding me?  60?  This seemed totally inappropriate as I watched an evil thunderstorm come into view.  As bolts of lightning shot from clouds to ground and curtains of cold,dark rain appeared directly in my path, my priorities shifted from avoiding tickets to avoiding becoming the next of nature's statistics.  Soon another storm cell came into view, then another, and finally I was surrounded.  I gave up, donned the rainsuit, and promptly got dumped on.  I got as far as Gallup, where I finally gave in and stopped for the night.  Of course, it immediately began to clear up.  There was a silver lining, or rather an orange tinted, multi-colored lining, though, and I was able to get this shot of a tired and dirty Herm. 

It is worth noting that the backdrop for this inspiring photo is a Wal-Mart, stealthily hidden - my version of being a Playboy Playmate photographer, hiding the flaws, accenting the beauty.  My artistic venture complete I decided that I was also tired and dirty and retired for the night, on what I hoped would be the eve of the final stretch for home.

Unusual things seen on the road today:

• A five truck crash.  Five 18-wheelers.  Not the crash itself, but the after effects.  How do five large trucks crash into each other?

Hot Time in the Plains

Day 16
States: 45
Miles 9226

This was easily my toughest day of the adventure.  Triple digit temperatures, horrible roads, and the least scenic segment yet.  But, oh, it was not boring in the least.  Let me share more of my wacky experiences with you.

The early part of Day 16 took me through the northeastern section of Texas, a place that was sort of an accidental access point.  I ended up with 50 or 60 miles worth of the Lone Star State to run through on my way to Oklahoma.  Texas and Texans have always fascinated me - I don't know why.  Maybe it's their rugged independence or their fierce state pride.  They are a hearty bunch, that's for sure.  But for all of their qualities, they are not terribly original with their city names.  Today, for instance, I rode through, in succession, Detroit, Reno, and Paris.  Each was distinctly unlike the Detroit, Reno, and Paris that you and I are probably more familiar with.  Then I wondered if they even knew about those other cities.  Heck, maybe they thought those names weren't even taken when they tagged these towns. 

Getting through Texas was relatively uneventful, certainly compared to Day 15.  It was hot out, but when moving, it actually felt pretty comfortable.  For a while.  My goal was to get through Oklahoma and Kansas, then turn into Colorado.  This would leave me with only two states to conquer, New Mexico and Arizona.  I was planning to turn the Roadglide.org flag over to one of the biggest contributors to the success of the forum, Chainsaw.  He was the one who had championed the idea of having a national Road Glide rally.  Unfortunately he had been unable to attend.  He was also instrumental in raising funding for the creation of the flag.  I felt it was only appropriate that he get the flag next.  And his location, Southwestern Kansas, was right on my intended course.  I had contacted him a couple of nights before to arrange the flag handover, so he was expecting me in the afternoon or evening. 

Traveling through Oklahoma, the highway was decidedly less densely packed than most other roads that I and my entourage had traveled.  Happily cruising along, humming Muskrat Love to myself, I came upon a sight that I couldn't believe.  Let me preface and explain to those who don't ride what frightens motorcyclists the most.  Ladders that have fallen in the roadway are a big concern.  You don't often go around a ladder and you definitely don't ride over a ladder.  Mattresses are also a concern.  You don't often have the luxury of riding around one, and riding over a mattress is like taking the runaway truck ramp, but without the consolation of being off the highway.  And both mattresses and ladders tend to be the objects that car and truck owners seem least likely to tie down successfully.  The object of my concern was an unbelievable confluence of these two hazards - a minivan carry a mattress, on top of which was a ladder.  Of course both were threatening to break free at any moment.  

The motorcycle gods seemed to be conspiring against me.  It was if a black cat had crossed my path while I broke a mirror under a ladder………on Friday the 13th.  I had to take a picture, but he was traveling at a much slower rate than I, so I pulled over to the shoulder, readied the camera and let him pass.  Jumping back onto the highway I approached from the left lane and took a few shots.  I succeeded in getting only one of him, but several quality shots of my thigh.  However, that one was good enough.

I must have spooked him, because just as I completed my photo assignment, he abruptly slowed and pulled to the side.  He was no doubt unhappy that I was still upright on my motorcycle.  With that episode complete I went back to Muskrat Love in search of my next sighting. 

I decided to stop just outside of Oklahoma City to have lunch.  Awaiting me was a text message from Chainsaw in which he invited me not only to come to the house for a steak dinner cooked on the grill, but also for overnight accommodations.  How could I say no to that?  After lunch, I set off for Chainsaw's location.  The temperature had risen somewhat.  Actually, quite a bit.  I had remembered to cover the seat to avoid getting the old red ass again, but somehow things seemed hotter.  That's because things were hotter - much hotter.  The wind came up, and it just made things worse, because it was a hot wind.  I forged on.  I finally found a gas station where I could get a drink, but not before passing through the "center" of town.  These towns are pretty small, and you're lucky to see any commerce at all.  But in this particular town was a bank that had one of those displays that shows the time and temperature.  I tried not to look. I knew it was hot, but I didn't really want to know how hot.  That would only make it feel hotter.  But like the highway accident that you can't turn away from, I found myself zeroed in on the display.  Too late - I couldn't look away, and I caught it.  108 degrees.  Really?  It couldn't possibly be that hot.  I made sure to get enough hydration, because I knew the next opportunity would be far down the road. 

Rolling through Western Oklahoma was for all intents and purposes unbearable.  The terrain was as boring as C-SPAN and the roads were rough and broken.  There wasn't a cloud in the sky and the sun shone in my eyes like a high intensity interrogation light.  

I kept thinking that an old monocled German man in a trench coat was ready to stick a cigarette in my eye if I didn't confess.  Mirages appeared on the horizon.  My water supply was gone, and I was in search of a source of cold liquid.  Signs that appeared to be gas station logos from a distance turned out to be water towers.  Worst of all was following endless convoys of cattle trucks, loaded of course with cattle.  Not only did it smell like I was following a 80 mph moving barn, but the buffeting wind coming off of the trailers, especially those with cabs that had the wind spoilers, sent the bike into wobbles and shimmies that threatened all control of Herm.  And let's not even get into the possibility of what comes out of cows and where it goes.  To those who don't ride, to get a sensation of what it's like following one of these trucks, imagine hanging onto a rope that's tied to the tail of an F-18 - in flight.  There ya go.  It seemed endless.  For the first time on the trip I couldn't wait for the ride to be over.  The countdown from 80 mile to 70 miles to 60 miles seemed to take forever.  Finally I came upon an oasis, a gas station that offered the most refreshing, cold, delicious drink I had ever had.  It tasted like cattle truck.  I didn't care.  I was refreshed. 

I set off for the north, and before I could get one more refrain of Muskrat Love out, I came upon Liberal, Kansas.  That was where I was to meet Chainsaw.  I cruised down Pancake Avenue (really, that's its name), pulled into a station, drank another half gallon of liquid and called Chainsaw.  He knew where I was and in no time came roaring up on the Dragon Slayer, his totally awesome blacked out Road Glide that I had only seen photos of previously.  It was beautiful.  As I looked at the Dragon Slayer sitting next to my grimy, road-worn Herm I was humbled.  We shook hands and set off for his place - another 30 minutes away.  We arrived at his house, and I was blessedly able to pull Herm into his garage.  I was introduced to Chainsaw's wife and their very cool kitty-cat, Lily, and I was summarily presented with a delicious steak dinner.  We passed the night away trading travel stories, and we had a semi-official handover of the flag. 

It had been a great honor to carry the flag and I was happy that I was able to turn it over to one of the more deserving recipients.  The graciousness of Chainsaw and his wife to take in a total stranger, feed and house him, just goes to show that Harley folks, and especially Road Glide riders are simply the coolest people on earth. 

Unusual things seen on the road today:

• A female corrections officer purchasing a six-pack of beer
• An army surplus store featuring a jet fighter
• Air Force One

Unusual city names seen on signs today:

• Gay Bluff
• Antlers
• Beaver
• Hooker

*It is believed that the last two are sister cities