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.