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

In the Heat of Dixie

Day 15
States: 43
Miles 8633

Touring bikers watch the Weather Channel like Grandpas watch Fox News.  We demand it in our hotels.  If the hotel does not have the Weather Channel we don't stay there.  We are a demanding bunch.  As most bikers do, I flipped on TWC when I arose to see what lay before me for the day.  The talk was all about the heat wave gripping the nation.  Sweltering heat in Minnesota.  Triple digit temperatures in Rochester, New York.  Heat advisories had been issued for 23 states.  Oddly, there was one small patch among the glaring red covering the entire continental U. S. - my intended path for the day.  The predicted high in Pensacola was 91 degrees, a full ten degrees cooler than Rochester.  Who would have thought you'd have to leave Rochester and go to Pensacola to cool off?  I felt incredibly fortunate.  Then I stepped outside my room.  Oh my god!  The humidity was like a wall that I had to fight through.  I carried the tour pack and put it on the bike and my clothing was almost completely soaked.  I was going to ride through this?  I had no choice.  I put on five layers of sun block, finished packing up and departed.  Once I was moving, it wasn't bad.  It certainly wasn't comfortable, but it was bearable.  The fact that moss was growing under my armpits didn't bother me in the least.

I left Florida and set out for Alabama along the Gulf Coast.  I gassed up at a BP station, and it occurred to me this was the company that had nearly destroyed all means of commerce in this area of the country not so long ago.  People didn't seem to be holding it against them, as the station was crowded with patrons.  The reason soon became obvious to me - they had ice.  Lots of it.  I watched one man pick up four bags and put them in his truck.  Ice is big business in this area in the summer.  Signs on all of the drink machines warn that you must pay if you take only ice, some have signs indicating they're out of ice.  I wondered how anyone survived here before refrigeration was made possible.  Maybe they didn't have the Weather Channel to tell them how miserable they were going to be. 

My path took me along Interstate 10, but only for a short time.  I soon found myself on Highway 98, a four lane highway lined with churches, mobile home sales lots, and fireworks and bait shops.  These are evidently the three main industries in this part of Alabama (bait and fireworks shops count as one).  The churches are amazing - they're everywhere!  At one point I  saw three of them side by side.  How does one decide?  I even saw one mobile home that was a church that also sold fireworks and bait. 

After a short time, the border for MIssissippi appeared and Herm, Sigourney, Beatrice and I all crossed into another world.  It wasn't apparent at first.  Gone were the mobile home lots, churches and fireworks/bait shops, replaced with Dollar General stores and Waffle Houses.  They are distributed roughly three each per mile.  

Soon we came upon a Rite Aid.  I had been looking for an office supply store or a drug store to get some highlighters.  I had been awarded the honor of carrying the brand new official Roadglide.org flag on its first extended journey - another story that will be addressed separately, but I needed highlighters to indicate the path that the flag had taken while under my care.  I spent a bit more time in the store than planned, mostly because it had air conditioning.  When I went back out to climb back on Herm I suddenly realized that I had made a horrible mistake.  I had forgotten to cover the seat.  My custom made C & C seat contains gel, which is quite soothing to my considerable fanny, but there is one problem with gel.  Once it is heated it cools at approximately the same rate as spent nuclear fuel.  Having no alternatives I climbed on, hoping the punishment wouldn't be too bad.  It wasn't.  For the first 15 seconds, that is.  After that it felt like roman candles were going off in my back pockets.  I couldn't take it any more.  I decided that even though I wasn't hungry, lunch sounded like a grand idea.  I found a shady spot at a Pizza Hut, covered the seat anyway, and hoped that the Levi's curly-Q pattern hadn't seared into the cheeks of my posterior.  Fortunately it worked, and I think I minimized the damage.  To me, that is.  The gel I'm not so sure about.

With the normal butt temperature requirement restored I set out on Highway 49, running from Hattiesburg to Jackson.  What I discovered is possibly the most fascinating and bizarre section of highway in the nation.  I hadn't noticed this before stopping for lunch.  I had been listening to an audio book on my iPhone, Seal Team Six,  since I had left Pensacola rather than listening to music, as I usually do.  It's an autobiography by former Seal Team Six member, Howard Watson, and it is a fascinating book, and I highly recommend it.  The problem is it drew me in so much that I think I was oblivious to all of the wonder that lay along this road.  It's the kind of road that makes motorcyclists cringe.  The speed limit is 65, but it is anything but limited access.  Cross streets are abundant, oncoming left turns abound, and stop lights bring you from 65 mph (or more - much more) to zero without warning.  Despite the copious dangers, this stretch is a must for guys like me.  There is enough material along this route to provide a lifetime of blogging.  I know I merely caught the tip of the iceberg, but here's a sampling of what I was able to recall at a glance:

• A man dressed as Uncle Sam, walking in the median.  He waved at me.  I waved back.  Thank goodness he didn't point to me and tell me he wanted me. 
• A hand painted sign at a house indicating "Gators and Pit Bulls for sale."  Sure to be the warm cuddly type of neighbor.  I thought it would have been hilarious to put "Poodles" on the sign with an "X" through it, but sadly I failed to follow through on that.  I am such a wuss.
• A house with a yard sale sign.  The yard had only confederate flags available.
• A catfish restaurant constructed in the shape of a giant igloo.
• A lawn ornament shop proudly featuring the requisite pink flamingos.  And not as a joke.

Sadly, I was unable to photograph any of these wonderful observations.  But things were coming at me so fast I had to pull over at, where else, a Waffle House, to write down all that I had seen.  I probably forgot a couple, but that just makes me want to come back and take my time going down this most amazing stretch of road.  Some day I'll be back.  Between Highway 50 in West Virginia and Highway 49 in Mississippi, I can't think of any more fascinating place in the world.  Why would people want to go to Machu Picchu when they could go to West Virginia and Mississippi?  Let's keep that between us, too, OK?

Soon HIghway 49 ended and it was back to the Interstate, I-20, where I had my most exciting moment (I hope) of the adventure.  I was cruising along, about half-way between Jackson and Shreveport, LA, happily listening to my favorite, "Muskrat Love," by the Captain and Tennille.   OK, maybe not.  Probably AC/DC.  I was relaxed and comfortable.  I came upon a "Wide Load" convoy consisting of a pair of trucks pulling two halves of a mobile home - probably a future church - flanked by pilot trucks in the front and the back.  They were not traveling very fast, and as I came up on them I pulled into the left lane to pass.  As I got along side the rear trailer I suddenly saw an entire tire fly off of the trailer.  And when I say fly, I mean fly!  It was literally launched straight up into the air, the whole tire, I estimate it rose about 40 feet.  I didn't have the time or interest to see if the wheel was still inside of the tire.  I watched in the mirror as the tire flew over the rear pilot truck and bounced in the middle of the right lane and then I lost sight of it.  Fortunately I didn't see any cars suddenly veer off of the road.  Immediately the entire convoy pulled to the side.  I was surprised at how quickly the alert was relayed between all four of the vehicles.  I was just thankful that I wasn't delayed by five or ten seconds or I might not be here to bring you this story.  I pulled off at the next exit to take a little break.  And to change my shorts. 

The rest of the trip was, thankfully, uneventful. We got to Shreveport, turned north and knocked out both Arkansas and (accidentally, while looking for a place to stay) Texas and decided to take a little break.  An air conditioner suddenly sounded very attractive. 

Unusual things seen on the road today:

• A man in a wheel chair on the side of the interstate - what do you do when your special transport van breaks down?
• Uncle Sam walking in the median
• Yard sign advertising gators and pit bulls
• Yard  sale featuring only "Stars and Bars"
• Giant igloo catfish restaurant

Six State Massacre

Day 14
States: 39
Miles 8090

I arose in Pikeville at what I thought was an early hour.  The Harley Dresser folks were already up, drinking coffee and cleaning their bikes, confirming my suspicions - old people.  Many of the bikes had been covered up when I arrived the previous evening, and the old people were removing the covers and wiping away moisture.  I felt like Quasimodo with what was now five layers of road grime covering Herm sitting amongst the other gleaming machines.  Sitting about 30 feet away were three Ultras that had just been washed with great care by their owners.  I had to take a picture.

 
Each of these bikes had more chrome the Elvis' bathroom.  I was mesmerized.  As I looked forlornly at my poor, dirty Road Glide an elderly couple approached me.  I tried to hide Herm behind me and said hi, asking them about the group that I had stumbled onto.  They explained that about 100 Harley Dressers were having their national rally at the hotel, and they filled me in a bit about the organization.  It was formed back in the 70's when there were no organized groups for the dressers.  You don't hear the term dresser among Harley folks these days.  Now it's Ultras, Road Kings, and best of all, Road Glides - models that Harley seems to want to distinguish from each other among the Touring model of bikes.  The couple told me that at one time the group had a membership consisting of up to 3000, but that had been whittled down to only around 400 or so, having been rendered almost obsolete upon the formation of HOG, the Harley Owners Group.  Well, that, and the natural order of things, i.e., many of them have passed onto that great highway in the sky.  I guess Herm wasn't so disgusting after all, for they gave me a card and invited me to check into membership in the organization.  Had I known of this group before I could have officially hit two Touring model rallies in one trip, the first where I was one of the oldest, the second where I would have been one of the youngest.  Opportunities lost.  I thanked them and set off on my Day 14 quest. 

It was relatively cool in Pikeville, meaning it was something less than the temperature on the surface of the sun.  I put on my Deadwood Harley hoodie and hit the road.  Beatrice guided us in the direction toward Tennessee and the Carolinas and soon we were back on the twisty, turny highway.  However, I was now rested and it was once again great fun to buzz throughout the curves.  The scene was very strange, though.  Wispy clouds hung among the mountains and in the valleys, creating an eerie, ghostly effect.  

I guessed that this is what the Smokey Mountains are like.  I think I was near the Smokies, even though I was not yet in Tennessee/Carolina.  I've heard the Smokies are great riding, and I've always wanted to check that out.  I decided that this was just like that, and therefore crossed that goal off my list.  Our little secret, OK? 

Herm, Sigourney, Beatrice and I cruised down Country Music Highway, named so, I decided, in honor of all of the people along the highway who so closely resembled Conway Twitty.  Present day Conway, that is.  As did the women.  It seemed inappropriate as my speakers blared out AC/DC.  So I cranked it up even more.  In no time we crossed into Tennessee.  And in no time after that, North Carolina.  And right after that, South Carolina.  States were falling like Rupert Murdoch newspapers.  Into Georgia we cruised, where Beatrice took me right through the heart of Atlanta.  Past the campus of Georgia Tech University, the Olympic Flame, and the Coca-Cola headquarters, providers of my pending comfortable retirement.  Traffic was reasonable, the weather was great, and the roads were superb.  Until we got south of Atlanta, that is.  That's when things got a little busy as I spent more than a little time dodging shredded tire shrapnel.  Apparently the road surface in this area is a little rougher than other areas we had covered previously.  Large and small chunks of rubber were everywhere.  It looked like Richard Childress had invaded Kyle Bush's garage area (note: if you are not a NASCAR fan don't try to understand that last part, but trust me, it's really funny). 

As we crossed the border into Alabama, we were welcomed with a sign proclaiming the state as "Alabama the Beautiful."  And I had to agree.  There's something about Alabama that's just really pretty.  The roads are pretty, the signs are pretty, even the factories are pretty.  And, oh, the license plates.  The states of South Carolina and Alabama without doubt lead the nation in special interest license plates, but Alabama has to take the cake.  They're like snow flakes, no two are alike.  There are Wild Turkey Foundation plates.  There are "Save the Saturn V" plates, and there are "Sons of Confederate Veterans" plates.  If there's a special interest, Alabama has a plate for it.  I think I even saw a "Polka Dot Unicorn" special interest plate.  Police don't need a license number, all they need is the special interest.  I've never seen anything like it.

It was getting late, and I tried to see if I could make it into Florida.  That would give me six states in one day, a record performance.  To my great surprise and good fortune I passed into the Central Time Zone.  Hey, another hour!  I decided I could make Florida - Pensacola.  The Redneck Riviera.  Before I knew it, Florida, and hundreds more shredded tires passed under Herm's wheels.  I rolled into Pensacola, and promptly got lost.  Beatrice guided me to a hotel in the downtown area.  I rolled up to see if a room was available.  I was lucky, there were several available.  The clerk gave me directions to the room, and I got back on the bike, heading for the room.  And once again got lost.  I rolled right past the entire hotel complex.  I was prevented from taking the next turn toward the hotel, because it was a one-way road.  So I went to the next road, which was a one-way in the desire direction.  My first attempt to turn back toward the hotel was thwarted by another wrong-direction one-way.  The next intersection turned me in the direction away from the hotel.  Lost again.  If I had only dropped bread crumbs.  I summoned Beatrice again, and she cooly guided me through the maze of one-way streets and in a few hours I was back at the hotel.  I decided to just park Herm at the office and walk to the room. 


Unusual things seen on the road today:

• A Trans-Am, Smokey and the Bandit vintage, with "Antique Car" license plates.  That was my first new car - am I that old?
• A two-horse team pulling a man on a buggy - in the median of a four-lane highway
• A hearse speeding by me at an estimated 80 mph - who knew they went that fast?

Unusual city names seen on the road today:

• Big Otter
• Bat Cave
• Fair Play

Take Me Home, Country Road

Day 13
States: 33
Miles 7372

What do you think of when someone mentions West Virginia to you?  Grimy coal miners getting extricated from mine disasters?  Hillbillies bootlegging home made moonshine?  West Virginia often gets a bum rap, viewed by many as a backwards population.  Thanks to my day spent traveling through it, when someone mentions West Virginia to me, I will think of beautiful wooded mountain scenery, warm, friendly people, and some of the best motorcycling roads in the nation.  I was not planning on spending a great deal of time in West Virginia when it came time to resume the 48 state chase.  As I prepared to depart Gettysburg, regretful that Shark Week had come to an end, I looked at my maps that had me zipping into Maryland, blasting through West Virginia, and into Kentucky all via interstate highways.  Once again, a friend rescued me from the languor of the interstate.  One of the other Shark Week attendees, WV-Glider, was heading in the same general direction as I.  As a resident of West Virginia, he had an intimate knowledge of where not to go; I-81.  He suggested HIghway 50, an alternative that takes a little longer, but winds through the Appalachian Mountains, offering a much more pleasing riding experience.  I thought for, oh, about a half a second and said I'd love to join him.

Ron and his wife, Marilyn, and friend Grant, presently on a Road King, but sure to be a Road Glide owner in the near future, led me back up Route 30 via the route that we had taken from Pittsburgh as part of Hutmo's Lincoln Highway Tour.  A billboard along the way caught my attention.  I didn't have time to take a picture of it, but as I spotted it in the distance I could see that it said, "Time To Say Goodbye," then noted that it was an add for a Hospice Facility.  "Wow," I thought, "they don't mince words here in Pennsylvania at all!"  I was wondering if caskets doubled as beds and if they served formaldehyde for dessert with that kind of attitude.  It was then that I noticed small letters in parentheses just before those large words stating "We had."  Oh.  Not a whole lot better, really, but the add must have worked - it got my attention.  I wonder how many conversations go something like, "Hey, Grandma.  It's time to say goodbye!"

We soon found ourselves on Route 50, a terrific curvy, twisty, expanse of highway that spreads across the state through mountainous terrain.  It was a beautiful day, and traffic was relatively light, allowing us to cruise through the curves at will. It was the best riding I'd had since New England.  I was beginning to fall in love with West Virginia.  Soon it was time for a little break.  We pulled into a roadside station with a suitable convenience store and the necessary facilities.  It was then that I spotted this:

Future Banjo Player?

OK, I thought.  That was just an isolated event.  West Virginia doesn't really have people like that.  That could have been anywhere.  Like Arkansas.  Back we went onto Highway 50.  More incredible scenery.  We passed through lush, green forests, saw expansive views of the mountains, leaned the bikes into turns seemingly every five seconds.  It was an amazing road.  Soon it was time to stop again, this time to get some gas.  And I saw this:

Who puts them in pellet form?

How can you not trust a place with a cow on the roof?

Hmmm.  OK, maybe I was giving the people of West Virginia a little too much credit.  Every stereotype ever laid on West Virginia and its people is apparently firmly cemented in fact.  I apologize for trying to change your mind.  Doesn't matter.  The road was worth every goofy character present, and I highly suggest that if you are in the area, bypass the interstate and take Highway 50.  You will not be bored!

After HIghway 50, we had no choice but to get back on the interstate.  In this case, though, the interstate was anything but boring and flat.  I-79, running from Clarksburg to Charleston, is the national highway system's 70 mph version of the Tail of the Dragon.  Turn after turn after turn, up and down mountain terrain, it is without doubt one of the most fun interstates in the nation.  Our day was all twisties, all the time! 

Soon it came time for Ron, Marilyn, and Grant to exit the interstate and I continued on my way toward Charleston.  I had been in contact with old friend Terry, who was on his way from Ohio to Kentucky.  He and I had gone to high school together, and we ended up going to the same college, and we even roomed across from and next to each other in successive years.  We hadn't seen each other on many years, but we were both in the same area at the same time and we were trying to arrange a meeting spot somewhere along our concurrent paths.  We had settled on Morehead, Kentucky, but due to my screwing around, I was much too late to enable a compatible meeting.  Our rendezvous preempted, it occurred to me that it might not be necessary, now, to travel all the way to Morehead.  A more direct route through the eastern part of Kentucky towards Tennessee and the Carolinas might enable me to shave some time and distance off of my route.  Out came the Harley Touring Handbook and Beatrice, the moody and misleading GPS.  I spotted Pikeville, Kentucky, in the Handbook map.  It presented a much more direct route and seemed large enough to feature a variety of hotels.  It was getting late and the distance looked like a good one for stopping.  I punched up Pikeville on the GPS.  Hey, only 84 miles away!  I told Beatrice that this was where we were heading.  She thought and calculated and said, "OK, let's go this way!"  But one glance at the distance caught my attention.  Instead of 84 miles, it was now 118 miles.  Hmm, how did 84 miles suddenly become 118?  Then it dawned on me, that the first distance is crow-flying, while the driving distance is the second.  And a difference of 34 miles could only mean one thing - twisties!  Ordinarily I would have been thrilled.  At this point I was getting a title tired. 

I turned toward Pikeville and sure enough, more of the same terrain.  Lean it hard left, hard right, on the throttle to get up the hill, downshift going down the hill and don't overspeed the corner. Fun, but work.  I began to pray for a straight stretch of highway, but went unrewarded.  It was becoming clear to me that there are virtually no such sections of road in Kentucky or West Virginia.  My bike had spent a total of 90 seconds in the upright position for the day - and 60 seconds of that were spent starting up and backing up.  My wrists ached, my thumbs were sore, and my sense of balance was shot.  I had only done 483 miles for the day, but I was exhausted.  Twelve hours of twisties had sucked the life out of me.  Finally, I arrived in Pikeville.  Beatrice told me there was a hotel right around the corner, and when I turned, what did I see?  About 100 Harley's in the parking lot.  Bikers!  Figuring I was among my people I decided to see if I could get a room.  All that was available was smoking, but I didn't care.  As long as I didn't have to lean left and lean right to get into the room, I was happy.  It turns out that the crowd is part of a Harley Dressers organization.  Biker types were sitting everywhere around the hotel, having discussions and drinking beer.  I didn't bother trying mingle with them.  I never did trust those biker types.

Unusual things seen on the road today:

• Aggressive hospice billboard
• Little girl with Billy Bob pacifier
• Pickup truck towing a golf cart.

Shark Week

Days 10, 11, 12
States: 31
Miles: 6889

Days 10 through 12 were spent at Shark Week in Gettysburg, PA.  It was an amazing time with many of the roadglide.org folks coming together for the first national rally.  Updates on that will come later, as I have so much to report on and so many photos.  For now the adventure will pick up with the resumption of the quest for 48 states, which came back to life on Day 13, July 17. 

Phase 1 Completed

Day 9
States: 28
Miles: 6227

After a wonderful night at a real home, it was time to pack up and move on.  I thanked my hosts for their hospitality, said goodbye to Stanley and readied Herm for the next leg of the adventure.  Rick had wanted to show me some of the terrific roads around New Hampshire, but because I was behind schedule I had to get going and he instead decided to accompany me for a while as I knocked off more New England area states as I continued my adventure.  I showed him my intended route, which he roundly rejected based on my silly inclusion of way too many interstates.  "I'll show you how to get there," he said as he mapped out two lane roads that I never would have known about.  I was hoping to get to Pittsburgh to join Hutmo's tour of Pittsburgh and subsequent tour of the Lincoln Highway, route 30, the nations first true highway.  Taking two-lanes was going to put me behind schedule.  I didn't care.  Taking in the beauty of the area and enjoying the experience were more important to me.  We set out for Maine, and he asked if I wanted to stop by the office that he worked in to say hi to some of my former work mates.  Of course I did.  I had worked with some of these guys for well over 20 years, but had never been to the office.  I'd seen them in other cities when we worked together, and on occasion they had visited California.  But never had I been given the opportunity to get to their small town office.  I was able to catch Jim again, and I was also able to catch old friend Paul, who had been waiting for me the previous night.  My exploits in trying to find and get through Vermont caused me to miss him, though, so it was good to be able to see him and visit for a bit.  We bid them farewell after a while, as they were working and I was trying to separate myself from the working world as much as possible. 

We turned towards the state of Maine, which was a mere 20 minutes away, motoring across the Piscataqua River over the Memorial Bridge and into Kittery, Maine.  This was an exciting crossing, as exciting as a bridge can be, as one never knows when this particular bridge might be closed due to safety concerns.  This has happened a couple of times recently, and now they are trying to upgrade it.  However, with the economy, the funding to do so is limited, so bridge crossers do so at their own peril presently.  It managed to stay up for both of our crossings and we set off to conquer our next state, Massachusetts.  This took another 20 minutes or so.  I had hit three states within the span of 20 minutes.  At the beginning of my trip, it took me two full days to reach three states.  The contrast did not escape my attention.  Venturing through Massachusetts we soon found ourselves crossing the border into Woonsocket, Rhode Island, a classic, well-preserved New England town.  Things don't appear to have changed much at all in the last 200 years - in a good way.  With the exception of donut shops, that is.  New Englanders appear to really love their donuts.  If it's not Dunkin Donuts it's Honey Dew Donuts and if it's not Honey Dew it's Mimi's home made donuts.  They're on every corner and in between corners.  I wonder if the girl eating the waffles knows about this place.

The next state line to conquer was Connecticut.  The road we traveled offered scenic views with trees that hung over the road, forming a canopy in places, making the road a shear joy to navigate.

I don't know who was having more fun, me or Rick, but the experience and being able to share it together was worth everything.  In no time, it seemed, we came to the point where the road meets I-84, where Rick planned to cut out and turn back toward his home, while I would continue on my way to Pittsburgh.  We took some pictures and said our goodbyes.  I felt some sadness when we parted.  

Rick is a great friend and a great guy, and those qualities are often hard to find.  We share a lot of common interests and we were both loving the experience.  Plus I would be riding alone again.  I know he was feeling the same.  But I was reassured with the knowledge that I would return to the area in due time. 

Once on I-84 I was immersed into an entirely different world.  The trip along this section was the very antithesis of what motorcycling should be.  Instead of lazily cruising through tree-lined curves and scenic country homes I found myself immersed in a fight for survival.  I-84 features more trucks traveling at higher speeds than I've ever experienced anywhere.  It was one of the more nerve wracking rides I've ever had on a a motorcycle.  But I fought through it, for I still had to get to PIttsburgh and I was several hundred miles away.  Plus I had to knock off one more state, New Jersey.  Trucks flew by on my left and my right, switching lanes without warning, most of them seeming to be attempting to break the sound barrier.  Cars darted in and out, seemingly frustrated by the 18 wheelers that were unable to maintain the 90 mph pace.  And it suddenly occurred to me - all of this, just to get to New Jersey?? There was no alternative, though, so on I went.  Through Waterbury, Southbury, Middlebury and Danbury.  If it was a bury I was passing through it.  I guessed that the state's nickname is "The Bury State."  I"m told that it's The Constitution State.  I don't believe it. 

From The Bury State it was back into the state of New York, passing close to the home of Orange County choppers.  I hear they have some bargains now, but I resisted the temptation and moved on to Port Jervis, where I exited the interstate and dipped my toe into New Jersey.  Actually, I dipped a gas pump into Herm, because I was low on fuel - and gas was a full 70 cents cheaper per gallon compared to Connecticut.  A young man approached me and asked if he could help.  I was momentarily confused until I recalled that New Jersey, like Oregon, does not allow individuals to pump gas.  Evidently, extensive training is required.  I said to him, "Oh, I forgot, I can't pump gas here."  But he told me it would be OK for me to do so.  I soon came to learn that even though it's not quite legal, most stations in both states allow motorcyclists to pump their own gas.  That extensive training doesn't seem to include the part about avoiding spilling gasoline onto the fuel tank when disengaging.  We motorcyclists are quite adept at doing that ourselves. 

Having completed my required feet-down act, I left New Jersey and crossed into Pennsylvania.  it was getting late and I was still quite a distance from Pittsburgh.  I was resigned to spending a good deal of time in the dark.  Beatrice routed me through Scranton, Wilkes-Barre, place of my birth and on through State College, home of Penn State and the Nittany Lions.  If you've ever wondered what a Nittany Lion is (I know I was confused by this), it turns out that the school lacked a mascot some time ago and someone suggested the local mountain lions that were seen on nearby Mt. Nittany.  There's your history lesson for the day.  I myself was hoping that the Nittany Lions had eaten all of the Nittany Deer, because by this time it was that dusky time of day that Nittany Deer are known to favor.  Luckily I didn't see any, and eventually I found my way to Pittsburgh and after a very long day of riding I found the area where about 20 other Road Glide pilots had gathered in preparation for Hutmo's Lincoln Highway Tour.  I was ready for bed and excited about the upcoming Shark Week festivities.  I will be highlighting that tour and Shark Week collectively later.  In the meantime, it's time for a little break in blogging and riding.  But stay tuned in, for come Sunday, the 17th, Herm, Sigourney, Beatrice and I all hit the road again as the 48 state adventure continues!

Unusual things seen on the road today:

• A one-legged truck driver

The Shortest/Longest Day

Day 8
States: 23
Miles: 5507

My hotel in Erie offered a reasonably good breakfast.  I decided to take advantage of it, and was immediately sorry that I did.  Among the offerings of cereal and muffins were those cook-them-yourself waffles.  At the table next to me was a young woman who obviously likes these waffles very much, for she had two of them, one stacked atop another.  I can hardly eat one half of one of these, and she was chowing down on two?  The stack was so high it looked like she was pouring syrup on a Saturn V booster rocket.  Oddly, her young husband/boyfriend was rather slight in size, while she was fairly hefty.  I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and concluded that she was pregnant.  With quintuplets.  I decided I didn't need much breakfast after all and got out of there. 

As I started from Erie, I was unsure of where I was going, really.  My goal was to get to New Hampshire where friend and fellow Harley enthusiast Rick had graciously invited me to stay.  This would be my shortest leg of the trip - or so I thought.  I decided to leave it to Beatrice to choose the best route to Rick's home.  She decided that it would be best to go through Buffalo, then cut over to Albany.  So that's the direction in which I headed -  up the New York Thruway.  My first stop came at one of several service plazas that are set up to service the bathroom, food, and fuel needs of travelers on the Thruway, all bargain priced, of course.  After satisfying each of those needs, I returned to find Herm surrounded by other motorcycles and several fellow riders who suffer from hemorrhoidal issues.  

I know this because of the presence of big fluffy pillows placed strategically on the bike seats.  This didn't seem to be stopping them from having a good time, though.  These guys were a riot, and they were heading up to Maine for a book signing by Sebastian Junger, the author of The Perfect Storm, the story of the loss of the Andrea Gail. 

Now this was what a bike trip should be.  I wished them good luck and bid them farewell.  I admired their fortitude in overcoming the physical challenge in pursuit of an adventure. 

The Thruway was much more beautiful than I had expected.  It is lined with trees and lacks the garish billboards and other such advertising that have been present on so much of the ride.  The exception is the signs warning of the presence of deer.  My hemmorhoidal friends and Rick had warned me of deer along this corridor.  I was being extra vigilant in trying to keep a look-out for anything that looked like it might dart into my path.  What struck me as odd, though, was the limitations in which deer seemed to be present.  Signs warned of deer over the next 5 miles, next 7 miles - these made sense.  Signs indicating deer present for the next 1 1/2 mile, even one stating that deer might be around throughout the next 3/4 mile struck me as odd.  There didn't seem to be any physical separation that would limit a deer from wandering beyond the 3/4 mile limit.  I found myself wondering how the deer knew what their limits were.  Is there some agreement between the deer and the operators of the Thruway?  What happens if a deer is spotted beyond the 3/4 mile point?  Do they have to then replace the sign with one advising that deer might be present over the next 7/8 mile?  You have a lot of time to ponder such things when you are alone on a long trip like this. 

Eventually I got to Albany (without coming across a single deer) and I called Rick to advise when I would be rolling in, for he and his wife were planning to welcome me with a delicious meal featuring Maine lobster.  I had originally planned to access Manchester in New Hampshire, which would take me through Vermont along the way.  Maybe it was the excitement of the lobster or a night without requiring a hotel, but I replotted my trip somewhat because Rick and Cathy live In Kingston, a bit south of Manchester.  After discussing with Rick various options and what we expected meeting times might be, I set off for my newly plotted destination.  About 15 minutes down the road, apparently both Rick and I came to the same realization: "What about Vermont?!?!"  As his text flashed up on the iPhone in front of me, I made a quick exit off of the Thruway and headed in the direction that I thought might be that of Vermont.  It turns out I have no idea where Vermont really is. And neither, apparently does Beatrice.  After traveling back and forth on virtually every one of Albany's freeways I pulled off on an exit, got out the old trusty travel atlas and pinpointed Bennington, Vermont.  I took command of Beatrice and told her that's where we were going.  She grudgingly agreed and we were rewarded with not only a terrific ride, but in the opposite lane was a procession stretching for what I guessed was four to five miles of classic cars.  Model A's, Model T's, Studebakers, you name it, if it was more than 50 years old it was probably in this procession.  I tried to take some pictures from the moving bike, but ended up succeeding in mostly getting shots of my fuel tank and the sky.  One, though came through.  

I'm going to have to work on this technique.  Once in Bennington, I was transported back in time - to about 200 years ago.  American flags hung from virtually every available mounting point - street lights, store fronts, garbage cans - everything sports Old Glory.  It is an amazingly beautiful town that has gone to great lengths to preserve the colonial look.  I wanted to stop and spend some time, but I was already late for my lobster dinner.  I asked Beatrice how to get to Rick and Kathy's home and she responded by taking me eastward out of Bennington via highway 9.  I don't care If you are a motorcycle rider, a car driver, or a mule rider, this road is a must-see.  Winding through the Green Mountain National Forest, the scenery and the terrain are spectacular.  I made a note to return to this place some day.

Now it was time to find New Hampshire.  That wasn't so much of a challenge, but finding Kingston was.  I called Rick again, because I was falling hopelessly behind schedule.  And I was still far from Kingston.  As I spewed out the intended route, Rick sounded confused - especially when I passed along the information that advised I was still 200 miles away.  That's when I realized that Beatrice was not taking me to Kingston NH, but instead Kingston, Massachusetts.  Terrific.  It turns out Beatrice had no idea where Kingston, NH was.  She could find a two-bit abandoned postage stamp of a town in Missouri, but couldn't get me to a reasonably sized town in New Hampshire.  We finally settled on Manchester, where I would have to go old school - directions spewed out from Rick, me trying to write them down on a scrap of paper.  The lobster was getting cold.  Finally I made my way somewhere close to Kingston, but Rick and Kathy's home is better hidden than the Unabomber's cabin, so Rick advised that I meet him at a convenience store.  He said he would ride up and meet me.  I arrived at the meeting spot first and shut down, awaiting his arrival.  Soon thereafter, two of the coolest occurrences of the trip took place.  Up rode Rick in his sidecar Ural, with what I was led to believe was his wife on the back.  To my great surprise and delight, climbing off of the back of the Ural was not Kathy, but instead old work mate and more importantly, old friend Jim, whom I hadn't seen in probably seven or eight years.  Rick had been trying to get him on the bike for years, but it took this to convince him.  It was a tremendously pleasant surprise.  The second cool thing was the greeting I got from the coolest biker dog in the world, Sidecar Stanley, Rick and Kathy's awesome dog.  

Stanley is a beautiful Golden Retriever who loves nothing more than sitting in the sidecar of the Ural while exploring the wonderful roads of New Hampshire.  He wears biker goggles and when it's chilly out he even dons a biker hat and loves to have his picture taken.  Plus he's got the official approval of the area Hells Angels chapter.  It doesn't get much better than that. 

It was well over four hours behind the intended dinner hour, but we finally sat down to enjoy the lobster that had been prepared in my honor, and it was terrific to have a home-cooked meal and a home to stay in after so many days of hotels and restaurants.  We talked for hours about the trip and riding and just catching up on things in general.  Rick had been trying to get me to the area for many years and had finally succeeded, and I was glad to have finally arrived. It was my shortest day in terms of miles.  Somehow it had turned into one of my longest days in terms of time.  But I wouldn't have changed a thing. 

Unusual things seen on the road today:

• A girl eating way too many waffles
• A tow truck - towing a tow truck.   

A Little Break in Postings

My schedule is a bit compressed at the moment.  Notes for days 8 and 9 will be updated in a day or so.  I made it to and through New England, and I'm to be in Pittsburgh by Wednesday evening.  More adventures and reports coming!

Trip Takes a Toll - Several of Them

Day 7
States: 20
Miles: 4979

The best day yet as far as states accessed.  Five states, all abutting the shores of Great Lakes.  Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, Ohio, and Pennsylvania.  Three yards and a cloud of dust territory.  Although in terms of states it was the most productive, it was the greatest challenge in terms of level of tolerance.  More about that later.

The day started with dire indications.  A storm had moved into the area, and the talk on all of the local TV channels and the Weather Channel was the severe thunderstorms moving through Wisconsin.  70 mile per hour winds, trucks overturned, 3/4 inch hail.  Friend Dan in Chicago, with whom I had hoped to share some delicious Chicago style pizza, texted me telling me that his new flag pole had been reconfigured to a pole with a 90 degree bend in it thanks to the storm.  Cool.  The local reports showed all of the counties affected by the severe thunderstorm warning as small highlighted boxes within the state.  The pattern was a perfect replication of my route out of Wisconsin.  I couldn't wait to get started. 

The rain was coming down as I packed up, so I went full rain suit.  Despite this it continued to rain as I departed.  Bolts of lightning striking the ground flashed to my right and to my left.  Bolts jumping from cloud to cloud above, propagating into dozens of cracks, flashed ahead of me.  At times the whole sky just flashed like a fluorescent light starting up.  But oddly, there was no thunder and no wind.  I forged on.  I was making pretty good time despite the rain.  The speed limit was 65 mph and I was able to maintain that despite the foul conditions.  I soon came to realize that I presented a hazard to the other drivers.  And not because I was screaming down the road like a crazy man.  No instead, I was the grandma who can't see over the steering wheel, holding up entire processions of cars wishing to get around and fly down the road.  It became apparent to me that Wisconsin drivers regard the 65 mph speed limit as a mere suggestion.  And a ludicrous one at that which is summarily dismissed.  Rain?  Who cares?  Cars blasted around my left and my right at speeds easily exceeding 80.  I was stunned.  In California, TV stations would be interrupting regular programming to go to their reporters dispatched to the puddles to report on end-of-the-world scenarios while drivers would be crashing into each other like bumper cars at the Beijing Six Flags.  But Wisconsin drivers are a different breed.  I don't think some of them even realized it was raining.  I sped up.  And prayed. 

The rain eased as I made my way into Illinois, the Land of Lincoln.  And bad roads.  Road work was present everywhere.  No workers, of course, but plenty of work.  Evidently the work consists of mixing concrete and throwing it on the road in an attempt to replicate the lunar surface.  I felt like I was competing in the Baja 500 and I bounced up and down fighting to stay upright on the roads surrounding Chicago.  I'm sure that my Loctite was tested and a few have very likely failed as well.  I made a mental note to check the tightness of every one of Herm's bolts. 

Apparently Lincoln was a big fan of toll roads, because they are everywhere.  Get on a freeway, pay a toll.  Get off the freeway, pay a toll.  Pull into your driveway, pay a toll.  

If you have any number of automated electronic passes, I-Zoom, EZ Pass, Gate Crash (I made that last one up - but I'm claiming copyright), this isn't a big deal.  Pull into the proper lane, slow down to 70 or so, fly through the booth and your payment is taken care of electronically.  When you're from California and on a motorcycle it's a little bigger deal.  Slow down, trying not to let your feet slip on the wet, oily pavement, find neutral, sidestand down, gloves off, fish for coins or dollars…..you get the picture.  If this were occasional it might be tolerable.  Problem is, such toll plazas are present, oh, about every half mile.  I decided that I better stuff some dollars in my jacket pocket to minimize the time spent fooling around at toll plazas.  This would have been a good idea had I remembered to zip up the pocket.  At the next toll plaza, I reached  in, realized that the pocket was unzipped, and of course, it was empty except for the coins.  Out came another 20. This time I remembered to zip up.  Until the next time to pay.  With all of the things to consider, once again I forgot to zip and and at the next toll plaza I had again been relieved of my paper currency.  Tolls are bad enough.  A 1000% tax in the form of flying money is not OK.  I rethought my plan, and just decided that I'd have to pull out the wallet each time.  Finally I had this toll thing figured out.  Until I got into Indiana, that is.  The Chicago area maintains real life toll collectors for those who must pay cash. But Indiana lacks the union clout that Chicago maintains, and thus instead of humans, they offer the Gate Crash Pass method or a vending machine type of payment method, which conveniently takes credit cards in addition to cash.  I watched the gentleman in front of me as he struggled with pushing buttons, inserting cards, removing receipts, etc.  When it was my turn, I opted for the cash method, since I still had a few bills (but not many) left.  The machine informed me that i owed $1.80.  I had two dollar bills, one of which was accepted by the machine.  However, my second bill was rejected.  I tried again.  Rejected again.  I would have rejected it, too, as it felt roughly like a used Kleenex.  Back to the wallet, where the smallest bill I had was a five dollar bill.  I inserted that, it was accepted.  I hit the button and took my receipt, and waited for my change.  And waited.  And waited.  I hit buttons, I banged on the machine, I cried out.  But no change was forthcoming.  Well, I had already donated a pair of twenties, what's another six?  My rationalizing confirmed, I took off and vowed that I would find an EZ Pass if I ever do something like this again. 

Soon I came to South Bend.  This is a terrible place in my mind, for it is the home of Notre Dame University.  I hate Notre Dame with a passion that is unmatched. No time to get into that here, but I needed to set foot in Michigan, and the border between Indiana and Michigan was the closest at the South Bend exit.  I exited, managed to pay the correct toll for once, and proceeded in the direction away from the despised Golden Dome.  Michigan was only a couple of miles up the road.  I stopped, took a picture, and got back on my way back to the Indiana tollway.  On the way south, I came across a Harley brother who was pulled over to the side of the road.  I obeyed the biker code that says you pull over to see if your brother is OK or if you can help.  It turns out he was just making a headscarf adjustment and waved me on.  I imagine he was a bit surprised to see that the filthy bike pulling over to help him was sporting California plates.  He pulled back onto the road and fell into line behind me.  As I exited to get back on the tollway he waved a thanks.  Hopefully he'll return the favor and honor the biker code himself in the future. 

The rest of the trip through Indiana and Ohio was uneventful for the most part.  The weather had warmed and the traffic had thickened.  The shear quantity of  trucks along the Ohio turnpike was remarkable.  I think there were more trucks on that road that there were bugs on my headlights.  But they behaved themselves for the most part and my hat managed to stay on my head despite the omnipresent big rig generated buffeting.  I was feeling pretty good, but soon that feeling stopped.  I was approaching Cleveland.  Cleveland is another terrible place for me personally.  There is nothing good to say about Cleveland.  I say this because I come from PIttsburgh.  I may have moved to California 32 years ago, but my growing years were spent in the Steel City, and I consider myself to be a Pittsburgher.  Pittsburghers hate Clevelanders and Clevelanders hate Pittsburghers.  In truth, the cities and the people are very much alike, but we've got the Steelers and they've got the Browns.  End of story. I tried to close my eyes as I passed the downtown area, but rethought the wisdom of that and peeked occasionally.  I passed the Browns stadium with some stupid corporate name - I think it was Massengill, I'm not sure.  I held my breath.  It was a horrible experience.  But I made it.  

Soon I was into my fifth state of the day, Pennsylvania.  It was getting dark, and if Beatrice was telling the truth (she is on a short leash, but didn't screw up once today), tomorrow's trip to New Hampshire is only about eight hours of travel so I decided that Erie would be tonight's stopping point.  Good timing.  I would have hated to have had to stop in Cleveland.  

Unusual things seen on the road today:

• Young couple changing their baby's diaper at a rest stop - in the pet walk area.