***ROAD STORIES***

Bar Harbor and Peggy's Cove

The village of Bar Harbor appeared to be a yuppie feeding frenzy. Maybe I was on the wrong roads, but I didn't see any convenience store or deli where I could get a cheap six pack of beer. Cold and soggy, we went back to the room and drank some whiskey. Hunger set in and we went next door to Jack Russell's for lobster stew, beer and wine.

Eastport is about as far east as you can get in the continental United States, and is just across a narrow channel from Canada, and our phones didn't know where we were;  GPS confusal. Mine made weird noises, then shut off. Rose's said she was being charged a $2.00 "global fee" for every text she made in Bar Harbor. Bought some cheap US gasoline before getting into the line of cars waiting to cross the border into Canada. The female Canadian border officer asked us questions like, "…where are you going?”(that was easy) "…how long are you going to be in Canada?", and "…what is your license plate?" Rose and I answered pretty much simultaneously, and gave somewhat different answers. But it was enough to arouse Canadian Border Officer suspicion, and the lady, who seemed so nice, then gave us a yellow slip of paper, and told us to pull to the side for an "immigration check." We waited in line while customs officers pulled bottles of liquor out of peoples cars, and made them pay a stiff tariff. When our turn came, some Canadian Officer dude began asking us more questions, while checking his computer. He took me aside, like it's some kind of big secret, and asks me about the time I got in trouble, almost 50 years ago. The incident in question shall be from here on, referred to as “THE HUBCAP CAPER.” Yeah, so what? I was a juvenile. But he wanted more, and kept pressing me for details. So he's searching more stuff on his computer, and then he says, "Come outside, we're going to have a look at your stuff." So I told him that everything is carefully packed in waterproof bags, and that this is a real pain in the ass. We've been here almost an hour already. So he says, "It won't take that long." So I open up the main compartment of our "T-Bag", and start pulling out black plastic garbage bags, and setting them on the outdoor table near the building. And I'm angry, and all the cars in the line are looking, and I reach into the dirty clothes bag, and pull out some underpants, and I hold them aloft and yell, "Hey, Rose…this is in the wrong bag." And I move the item to the correct garbage bag, and start digging around for more. Then I pull out a blue pair of skivvies, and hold them up and say, "this is in the wrong bag, too." And now, everything is on the table, and he's going through the saddlebags, and he finds Rose's big bag of pills. And he holds them up for a second, like he found something good, then puts them aside, and moves to the other saddlebag. And he digs down through my rain gear, and my extra shirts, and finds my 1955 Boy Scout First Aid Kit. And you could tell, he thought he found gold! He ripped off the rubber band that holds it together, and looked inside, and you could see the disappointment on his face when all he found was bandages, mercurochrome, and aspirin. They finally let us put our shit back together, and let us leave. By this time we didn't even want to go into Canada. But we did. We got on route 1, and headed east. This is a good smooth road, with a speed limit of 110km/hr. (66mph). So I just set the cruise control to 68mph. There was no traffic, and the miles just melted away to St. John. We got a cheap motel room in the city, and went to eat at the restaurant near the reversing falls. And the fog rolled in off the Bay of Fundy and obscured the view, so we went back to the Hillside Motel and drank some whiskey. Oh, and we lost an hour crossing from the Eastern time zone to the Atlantic, when we entered Canada. It seems like it’s always foggy in St. John, and it seems like I always drink too much when I’m there.

Fog rolled in off the Bay of Fundy; we got some Canadian money out of the ATM at the bank in Pugwash.  Cape Breton Island, and The Cabot Trail. We took 19 north and tried to get gas in Judique, but they only had "regular." To no avail, we searched for gas in some of the small towns along the way, and I thought I might run out, until we found the Irving station in Mabou. Bought some whiskey from the local distillery in Mabou, too, and met some bikers who spoke only French…”oui, oui”, said the woman with the tight leather pants… oui, oui. We rode north to Cheticamp and stopped for lunch: fried clams and lobster sandwich. Heading north on the western side of the island, ocean so blue, clear sky with white, puffy clouds, and bluffs, yes, bluffs, carved out of the mountainous terrain. And the road ahead was smooth, with easy curves for miles ahead. But after we reached the northern most part of the island, the road became more wooded, with "moose crossing" signs, instead of ocean views. And then there were sections that were bumpy from frost heaving, and I thought, again, that we might run out of gas, so I pulled up to the pumps at a gas station in Cape North, but it turned out to be abandoned. But we stopped anyway,  to take a picture. So, I’m posing with the nozzle, and a  new Toyota pulls in, and stops on the other side of the pump. It was an old couple, real old, old farts in a Toyota, and the man who was driving rolled down the window, and he thought I would pump him some gas. I told the dude that it was a joke: we were just taking pictures, but they didn't understand, and his wife got real serious. "We need gas," she exclaimed..  Very Serious. So I told them that there was supposed to be a gas station somewhere near North Cape, and they left, angry, ahead of us. A few hundred feet down the road, there was a fork in the road. The fork to the left looked good so we took it. We were right behind the angry old farts in the Toyota. And then there was construction, lane closure, single lane, and the old people were stopped there in front of us, and the old lady had the window down, and was asking the clueless flag girl something, probably about gas. When the flag girl turned the sign around to let us proceed, the old people went through the construction, but I refused to go until the flag girl used her radio to find out if there was gas that way. Traffic passed me as I sat on the side, and then, a minute later, she told us that, indeed, there was NO GAS, so we made a u-turn, and took the other fork, and found a small station a mile down the road, but they had no high test. The people there were nice and they told me that I could get high test in Igonish, and told me how far it was. I figured I could make it, and blasted off down the highway. I feel bad for those old people; buzzards probably got 'em. The bumpy roads from Dingwall, down through Igonish, and Wreck Cove, made riding a chore, but we got onto route 312 and rode out onto a spit of land to wait for the ferry. The ferry was small, and the water it crossed was only about 100 yards wide, but it saved us probably 40 or 50 miles, and only cost $5.50. We rode onto the boat, sat on the bike, and we rode off. Maybe a couple of minutes, and we were on a fast highway, route 105, going over Mt. Kelly, and rolling into Sydney, the capitol. We rode around downtown, and found a place that advertised "Best Rates In Town," got a room, and went down the street to The Governors Pub And Eatery, where we had scallops, mussels and salmon, beer, wine and rum cake. A group of bikers from Manitoba came in and were seated at the table next to us. We'd seen them at the ferry, and then again at one of the gas stations, so we struck up a conversation right away, and the other folks in the restaurant must have thought that we'd known each other for years. There was a "pub" upstairs at the restaurant, and musicians were pounding out some lively Celtic fiddle. Rose and I pounded a few pints of ale at the bar, before heading back to the hotel, which Rose said is haunted. There was a strange painting in the upstairs hallway, of a young girl in a dancing costume, with her hand on her hip. The man at the desk said not to drink the water, or use the ice cubes, as there was a city-wide "boil water advisory." Well, we still had some Jim Beam. We found out later that this place had a bed so saggy, that when you lay down, you roll into the crater in the middle.

Took route 4 out of Sydney, down along the Bras d' Or Lake, and left Cape Breton Island on the Canso Causeway. I like that…Bras d’ Or. As we were passing the lake, I tried to see the bra shape. We hit Halifax at about ten after four, just in time for rush hour, and we crossed the toll bridge, and headed downtown to the historic district. Narrow streets, bottlenecks, jammed up and no place to park, so I decided to get the fuck out of there. Just a little bit of "conservative lane splitting" did the trick, and I found myself out of the downtown, and headed north on route 102 to Bedford. We found a Howard Johnson’s, and wound up getting the last available room, and paid less than the advertised price on the marquee. After unpacking the bike, we went over to Oliver's, the hotel restaurant, where we ate some lobsters, and of course, beer.

The next morning, at Olivers, we ran into a biker couple from Montreal, that we'd seen in Cape Breton. They were telling us a story about their motorcycle trip to Newfoundland: 16 hours on the boat, sea sick, and someone comes back to the cabin with egg sandwiches. Everywhere you go in Newfoundland, they said, all they have to eat is turkey. Turkey sandwiches. We all had a good laugh, but they were heading towards Digby, and we were going to Peggy's Cove. I would have liked to ride with these folks. Go to Newfoundland. All you get is turkey. Funny mutherfucker.

We took some nice photos of the rocks and the ocean, and the "most photographed" lighthouse. When the tourists started to roll in, we rolled out. Got on route 102 north, through Truro, and onto 104. Stopped at the New Brunswick border, near Sackville, ate some lunch at a German schnitzel place, and went to the welcome center, where Emily helped us get a cool room in the city of Moncton, right near all the bars, with secure motorcycle parking, and at a very good rate. Thanks again, Emily! We stayed at The Delta, and Jaime, the valet, hooked me up with a great spot to park my motorcycle. Moncton is cool! Went down along the river and came up on Main Street, and walked around until we found some good live music at a beer joint, down an alley. We got a pitcher of beer for $11, and sat out in the warm evening listening to music. Drank some shots of Sambucca. Left that place, and found another, where the band was playing Jimi Hendrix songs. We had some more beer and some tiramisu, and actually danced our way out of that place, onto the sidewalk, and back to the Delta. Danced...

Sun shining, short sleeves, but as we neared St. John, the air got colder, and the fog rolled in. It's that damned Bay of Fundi, again. And we had to stop, twice, on the shoulder, to add layers for warmth. I don't know if this is the place to mention this, but it is my observation that women in Canada wear their shorts, shorter and tighter, than in the USA. A dirty old man's observation. When we got to St. Stephen, the line of cars to the border was, literally, a mile long. And it would move approximately one car length every 2 minutes. So I'd shut off the bike, so it wouldn't overheat...air cooled engine, you know...re-start, move 8 feet, and shut it off again. I probably took a year off the life of my starter, but we answered all the questions right, and breezed through the checkpoint. When the woman asked me if we brought anything back from Canada, I said, "only a hangover," and she waved us right through. “Go ahead,” she said. And we were back in the USA. We bought some cheap American gasoline. There, high test in Maine was about $4/gallon. Canadian high test, which was sold by the liter, wound up costing about $6/gallon. We rode south on US 1. It felt good to be helmetless again!  We stopped in Eastport again for lobster, then continued south to Machias, where we got a room at the Bluebird Motel, right next to the deli/package store, where a cold six pack of PBR cost $3.99. Saw some old friends who were camping near Jonesport, and just as a heavy shower came through, they showed up at our room. It was good to see them and we talked, in room 107, about lobster, and motorcycles.

Montana and Alberta

Rick Bass wrote about dogs, wolves, grizzlies, but most of all he wrote about Yaak, Montana. There's two bars in Yaak, the most famous being The Dirty Shame. 

"The valley is known, in its small way, for a few things: the writings of Rick Bass, a former petroleum geologist who has long and ferociously defended it; the haven it has provided to some of the West’s darker elements — doomsday preppers, hermits and a few white supremacists — and the “World Famous Dirty Shame Saloon,” with its reputation for rowdy drunkenness."

“There is a certain undeniable raggedness of spirit — a newness, a roughness,” Bass writes of the valley. “It’s not a place filled with easy certainties.” 

"Wet T-shirt contests, hats screaming “Yaak Attack” and an on-again, off-again employee who accidentally shot out the fridge."

So I started planning the trip...

Newburgh, NY to Toledo, OH - 580 miles. Easy ride on interstates 84, 81, 80.

Toledo to Des Moines, IA - 584 miles. HOT. All day I-80. Gained an hour Central Time.

Des Moines to Pierre, SD - 566 miles. A little rain in Iowa. Clear in Nebraska. Battled wind in S. Dakota. Strong headwind dropped gas mileage from 45 mpg, to 36 mpg. Almost ran out of fuel; gas stations are few on prairie backroads. Key routes: 80, 75 (Nebraska), I-29, 34. (…as low as 30 mpg)

Pierre to Billings, MT - 505 miles. Route 14 from Pierre to Wall…then I-90, and route 34 to Belle Fourche…and 212 across Wyoming, into Montana…and back on I-90, and into Billings. Antelope in the morning…antelope in the afternoon.

Billings to Bozeman, MT - 272 miles. Hooked up with some nice folks from Minnesota on a purple motorcycle. We met them when we stopped to eat ice cream. Rode down 212, through Red Lodge, and over the Beartooth Pass. Lots of snow at the top. A French Girl, in a short dress, posed with roadkill, so I could take a photo. Absolutely stunning. Oui-oui, mademoiselle. Went through Yellowstone:  elk, bison, antelope. Tourists in cars stop in the middle of the road to gawk at animals, causing backroad traffic snarls. Get the fuck out of the way. 89 and 90 to Bozeman.

Bozeman to Spokane, WA - 418 miles. Wore two long sleeved shirts in the morning (50 degrees), and a leather jacket. Route 90 to Anaconda, then route 1. Local guy talked us out of taking the Skalkaho Pass. “30 miles of dirt switchbacks,” he said. Back on 90 through the Idaho panhandle; nice high speed curves. Gained another hour: Pacific Time. Coeur d’ Alene and Spokane at rush hour. (53 mpg!)

Spokane to Libby, MT. - 175 miles. Route 2 out of Spokane and into Libby. Stopped at Panhead Hill Cycle Supply, on Panhead Hill Road, in Newport Washington. Nice folks, nice old school motorcycle shop, and stopped at a wonderful little tavern, on the Idaho Montana border, called Stateline House. Idaho panhandle is nice; I love route 2. And we’re back in Mountain Time.

Libby to Yaak to Kalispell, MT - 172 miles. Took Pipe Creek Road (route 567) up to Yaak, mile after mile of narrow wilderness road, almost to the Canadian border. A huge, I say HUGE black bear, FLAT-OUT, as fast as I’ve ever seen a black bear run, ran right across the wilderness road, right in front of the bike. There’s not much in Yaak; Wikipedia lists the population as 248, but given the distance from “civilization,” and the harshness of the winters, and the difficulty of winter travel, less than a hundred folks actually winter there. Much less, from what I hear. But there are 2 bars, and a gas station. So we gassed up, and hung around in that bar…and then…and then…we went to the most famous bar in Yaak, Montana: The Dirty Shame. There’s a bed, right inside the front door, just in case you need to spend the night, and there’s a dog that sits on the pool table. 

Left Yaak the back way, out on 508 to 37 (Eureka!), and 93 to Kalispell. My back tire is bald, so I go to the Harley Dealer in Kalispell. It’s like three o’clock in the afternoon, and I ask them to hook me up with a new back tire. Dude clears his throat, and says, “…well, we might be able to have it for you sometime tomorrow.” OK, so they were busy; I still don’t know if I want to waste a half of a day, maybe a whole day. And while I’m thinking this over, some Canadian dudes, who’ve heard the conversation, tell me to go up to the Harley dealer in Lethbridge, Alberta. “They will put it right on for you…guaranteed,” he said.

Kalispell to Medicine Hat, Alberta, Canada - 281 miles. Rode into Glacier National Park ($24)! GOING TO THE SUN ROAD, over Logan Pass. Snow, mountain goats…an eagle  So we were off to Alberta, Canada. I spend a lot of time watching the weatherman, (and weatherwoman) and they always be talkin’ about how there’s this big Alberta Clipper, coming down, bringing the cold air…and I never actually seen an actual Alberta Clipper…so here we go. 89 north to customs, and WELCOME TO ALBERTA. Routes 2, then 5 to Lethbridge. Stopped along the way to take mandatory photo of Alberta Clipper…well, actually, it was a hair cutting place…clipper, none the less. Got a new tire and an oil change at the dealer in Lethbridge. Very pricey, but quick, and friendly, even drove us to a restaurant/bar, and picked us up a little later. And washed the heavy coating of bugs off the windshield. “How could you even see out of that windshield?” they said. Route 3 to Medicine Hat. Full Moon.

Medicine Hat to Wolf Point, MT - 347 miles. Trans Canada Highway (1), to 42 south. Most Desolate Highway - no habitation for 134 km., except for prairie dogs, antelope, and a lone coyote. Crossed into USA at Wild Horse, MT. Took route 2 east from Havre, good road, route 2. Local guy told us that the Sherman Inn is the best hotel in Wolf Point. We checked in for $53. Wolf Point is on the Fort Peck Indian Reservation. Yeah. So we found a divey looking bar downtown; dirty dogs scrounged in the alley out back, and we went in. A few surly looking cowboys sat at the bar, along the wall, a couple of tables pushed together, sat a group, probably Native, who looked like they’d been drinking for quite a while. The biggest and loudest dude of the group immediately expressed his love for my Cowskull Harley Davidson shirt, that I’d bought in Alberta. He offered to “trade” shirts…he wanted to give me his sweaty, beer stained polo shirt…no thanks, dude. Then he put his arm around the girl sitting next to him, cute, but equally drunk, and offered to trade my shirt for his “sister.” Me and Rose, on this Reservation, were probably outnumbered eight to one with the Indians, and four to one with the cowboys. No thanks, dude. His sister, protested his offering, and his attention was diverted, at least momentarily, away from my shirt. Rose and I took a seat at the bar and ordered a drink, at just about the same time that a tough looking Native woman entered by the back door, and walked through the bar, making eye contact with everyone, and giving everyone the finger, before walking out the front door.

Wolf Point to Grand Forks, ND - 437 miles. Route 2 east into North Dakota. Central Time Zone, lost an hour. Plains and more plains, all route 2. 

Grand Forks to Ironwood, MI - 388 miles. Put the helmets back on. All route 2.

Ironwood to Sault Saint Marie, MI - 317 miles. Got on route 28 east out of Ironwood. Time zone…lost an hour: Eastern Time. Cold wind blowing off Lake Superior.

Sault Saint Marie to Owen Sound, Ontario, Canada - 304 miles. 17, Trans Canada Highway, to route 6 south. I thought I could make the ferry. The speed limit was 80 kph (roughly 50 mph). I was doing 90 mph. I had to go fast to make the damned ferry. I saw three cops, but managed to slow. Damned construction delays. Faster…faster. Missed the Baymouth Ferry by one minute, and had to wait 4 hours for the next one, eating cheese sandwiches on white bread, and drinking beer.  

Owen Sound to Oswego, NY - 350 miles. Route 6 south to 403 to QEW. Back in the USA, at Lewiston, NY. Moses Parkway north to 18 east, to 104. Heavy rain into Oswego. 

Oswego to Newburgh, NY - 252 miles. 

Trip Length - 16 days

Total Mileage - 5948 miles

Laconia

Somewheres around six AM, I had to split lanes twice on Interstate 84:  traffic between Waterbury and Hartford…then…clear sailing to the Mass. Pike…moving good, like 75-80 mph left lane. 495 north good, too. Route 3 and Interstate 93, in New Hampshire were good, but lots of cops. And finally exit 20 into Laconia, THE BIG EVENT, A CLUSTERFUCK, composed of the three T’s:  TOURISTS, TEE SHIRTS, AND TRAFFIC. Spent close to A HALF HOUR OF STOP AND GO, between Weirs Beach, and Meredith. Can’t split lanes, cause there’s cops everywhere. Get me the fuck out of here! Went north on I 93 to Lincoln; made eye contact with a black bear that was running on the side of the highway, at 70 mph (me, not the bear) and I found my way to Mount Washington, where I paid my $15 admission for a rare opportunity: THE MOUNTAIN WAS MOTORCYCLES ONLY. NO CARS, NO TRUCKS…MOTORCYCLES ONLY. This is a spectacular and dangerous mountain road, and the weather was beautiful and clear. The road is narrow and partially dirt above the tree line. There were steep drop offs, narrow, tight curves, and no guard rail. It was first and second gear all the way up. So I took a few pictures at the top…on a clear day, if you look really, really hard, you can see the north pole. You have to look really, really hard. So I rode back down, testing my bike on the sharp curves, testing the brakes, whipping her a little hard, downshifting, until I got behind some dude on an older bike with mechanical brakes, and I was kind of on his ass, until he gave me some room to get by, and I rolled on down the mountain, adrenalin energized, where I stopped in Gorham, to cool my brakes. They had those big 16 oz. PBR’s at Mr. Pizza, and whole fried clams, and french fries. And I had a salad, and more PBR’s, and rode back to the hotel in Lincoln with a six pack. Altogether, I did just under 500 miles. Hah...north pole, my ass...

The French Girl

43 degrees in Lincoln,  checking out of the hotel,  I saw the Canadian dude from the next room, having trouble with his bike. He had an ’08 Roadglide, pretty much the same as mine, and his key was stuck in the ignition switch, and the switch was stuck in “LOCK.” He tried getting at the “pin” underneath, with almost every tool on my Leatherman, to no avail. His pretty French wife was noticeably worried, and there was talk about calling a tow truck. “Don’t,” I said. Her sweet French accent could probably melt Quebec snow. I showed the dude the pliers on the Leatherman, and said, “grip it down low.” He was afraid of breaking off the key, but tried it anyway. AND, VOILA! THE KEY WAS FREE! And I got a nice big French hug, from an overjoyed French wife. Ooo-la-la.

Route 10, meandering south, along the Connecticut River, freezing my ass, in the river fog. And, you know, well…I had to take a leak, and there’s this sign that says COVERED BRIDGE, so I make a U-Turn, and shoot down the side road, towards the Connecticut River. The road was narrow near the one lane bridge, and when I set the kickstand, she was standing straight. Too straight…’cause as soon as I stepped away, she fell down, against the guard rail, and the windshield broke off. So I took a leak, and then I tried to get her back up. But the way the bike fell, it was half UNDER THE GUARDRAIL, AND THE WHEELS WERE HIGHER THAN THE HANDLEBARS. FUCK…. I tried, pushing pulling. That bike is one heavy muther fucker, and the guard rail was right there. I couldn’t get it up. Boy…that sure sounds funny. COULDN’T GET IT UP. But it wasn’t funny then. A big farmer came by in an old farm truck, and helped me right the bike. When he left, I surveyed the damage: only one of the fasteners seemed broken, the other four seemed OK. So I wrestled the scratched and scuffed windshield back into place, USING A LITTLE SPIT TO SLIDE IT IN, AND SOME BLACK TAPE, FOR SECURITY. I stayed on route 10 for a while, then made my way over the river, into Vermont, and BLASTED SOUTH ON INTERSTATE 91. I was a little worried that my jury-rigged windshield would vibrate off at 75 mph, fly back, into my teeth. I tried to take mostly back roads home from Brattleboro, through North Adams, Mass., and into New York, and down the Taconic…yes, “…over the river and through the woods,” and back into Newburgh. And the windshield is still good. She’s got some “battle scars,” but she’s still good. 

Steamboat To Wellsville

East on 40 out of Steamboat, over Rabbit Ears Pass, and route 14, an hour to Walden, CO, remote.  Went over Cameron Pass (10,276'), and down along the river: Cache La Poudre, and the Fort Collins area; route 14 stretched out over the plains for a hundred miles to the next real town.  We watched a threatening dark to the east, dead ahead, loom, darken, and splatter us with big drops, just as we pulled into Sterling.  Refuge in a gas station, then a nearby Wal-Mart.  When we got a motel room, there were warning signs at the desk about high nitrates in the water.  Warning signs at the hotel desk. The girl there said it was from fertilizer seeping into the ground water.  Another girl warned us about the uranium from the mines.  They all had a nice glow.  Chernobyl Glow.  We watched the weather channel and it didn't look good:  half-dollar sized hail was falling nearby.  So we drank beer.

Interstate 76 in Colorado runs smack into Interstate 80.  80 on 80, through Nebraska, running from the rain we lost an hour: Central Time.  Crossed into Iowa for some hot, stop and go rush hour traffic in Omaha.  We wanted to spend the night in Des Moines, but we got the word that the state fair was there, and rooms would be rare and expensive.  So we opted to get away from the Interstate, and go to the Super 8 in Atlantic, Iowa, right next to a steakhouse.  Iowa beef is the best!  After dinner, we wandered across the highway to Wal-Mart, yes Wal-Mart. Two days in a row!  We bought a bottle of cheap Wal-Mart gin, and headed back to the room.

We were outrunning the rain, when somewhere in Iowa, Rose's spare eyeglasses, flew out of the bag.  We saw the open zipper in the gas station.  Ah-ha! So that was why those truckers were honking!  We crossed the Mississippi River into Illinois, and later, left-laned it through the south end of Chicago, from Joliet to Gary.  Lost an hour in Indiana, and got off the turnpike at exit 13 in Ohio: Montpelier.  Exit Thirteen. There was a NASCAR party going on at the Ramada.  For each drink you bought, you got a door  prize ticket.  We had a lot of tickets, and won most of the prizes.  We wound up giving them all away to our new friends.

The Ohio Turnpike:  Sunday drivers take over the road with van loads of nose pickers heading for Sandusky, and truckers try to pass each other going 1 mph faster.  And when the two lanes close down to one, the truckers form a rolling blockade in western Pennsylvania, at two mph, creating a stop and go backup, and forcing me, with my air-cooled engine, to split lanes, and they try to squeeze me, and fuck you, I go between them. It was a little tight, and kind of scary. So when I blasted between the semis, I jammed, I put the hammer down 90 mph, and then some, open road, wide fucken open…So I was real glad to get off I 80. Them truckers must have got on the radio, because when I was in the gas station, filling my tank, a state trooper pulled in, got out of his car, looked me over, shook his head, and got back in and drove away. He shook his head. I was filling my tank, chatting to some girl, giving out stickers. Pennsylvania route 66, and heading north through the Allegheny National Forest,  we picked up route 6, east, in Kane.  It being Sunday, we stopped for a burger and some brews, at a place with a parking lot full of bikes, all with traveling bags strapped on.  Lots of folks there traveling on the road from NJ, WV, OH, PA, and more.  Good burgers, good folks, good prices.  The name of the place was Lantz Corners Getaway, and they even have rooms if you want to spend the night.  But it was still early, so we rode east on 6, another two hours, and got a room in Wellsboro, where we found another biker bar, cheap beer, and a pool table.

Sierra Blanca Checkpoint

East of El Paso on Interstate 10, the daytime legal speed limit is 80 mph.  There's not a whole lot of traffic, it's flat, desert, but I didn't really see anyone going over 85 mph. I watch what other drivers are doing; I try not to stand out. So I went with traffic, kept my sped down to around 83, and cruised past few sneaky patrol cars, speed traps, just waiting to accelerate out onto the super-slab, and nab some law breaking speeder. Forty miles west of Van Horn, all traffic was funneled into a Border Patrol checkpoint.  The officers looked very serious, and had serious looking military style equipment. There was one man in the booth, one man standing near the side of the lane with a short barreled assault rifle, and one man holding a vicious looking dog on a short lead, all at the ready, and very serious. No smiles, here. The dude in the booth, he asked me a question, but my hearing was all shot to hell from all the wind noise of high speed riding, and the roar of the engine. On a good day, my ears still ring from Vietnam. But I could see his lips moving, but I just couldn't hear a fucken thing he was saying. His lips moved again. "WHAT", I yelled.  Rose leaned forward, cupped her hand, and yelled in my ear, "... they want to know if we are citizens." They were all waiting for my answer. Very serious. Yeah…I nodded affirmatively. The lips moved, and I accelerated hard, brought that bike fast up to 90, made some thunder blasting back out onto the highway, then dropped her back down to 83 mph, and cruised. Willie Nelson got busted there, when they found something illegal in his tour bus. So did Snoop Dogg. A few more miles down the road we would turn the clocks ahead…Central Time.

Waltz Across Texas

In the morning, I was riding with one hand shading my eyes from the rising sun.  EAST OF THE PECOS. Off of route 290, we found Luckenbach, Texas: the little post office, general store, bar, whatever, and the owner of the place had his black Harley parked outside, and we were the only ones there talking, enjoying the day, until the tourist bus pulled in and unloaded.  One minute, we were the only ones there, the next, there were more than 50 tourists forming lines at the port-o-sans, and posing for pictures next to my motorcycle. Yep, time to go!  We rode into Austin in hot traffic, idling at traffic lights behind buses, eating exhaust fumes, and getting lost because of one way streets. Too freakin' hot to be riding around city traffic, So I pulled under the  shady canopy of this big downtown hotel, The Omni, and the doorman, in starched uniform, came out to the bike, two sweating dirty bikers, and said, "Welcome, Sir."  I parked right by the door, went inside, found the nightly rate to be reasonable, and we got a room on the eleventh floor.  The security girl, in the parking garage, allowed me to park the bike in a roped off area in view of the office, and allowed me to drive around the gates, and go in for free. Sweet. It's usually twenty-five bucks a night to park!  The hotel bar was a little pricy, so after one drink, we went two blocks over to 6th Street, where the beers were cheap, and we found a Vietnamese restaurant.  The hotel had a pool on the roof,  I just wanted to see it.  Naked girls with cowboy hats, drinking Lone Star Beer, hah…Nothing like that.  Unfortunately, nothing like that anywhere. In the evening, we walked around the city, and wound up back on 6th, shooting pool and drinking beer.  6th Street is bar, after bar, after bar, with loud music pouring from open doors, and no cover charges.  We saw several bands and drank a whole lot of beer.  Beers and well drinks varied in price from two to three dollars.  The Karl Morgan Band played Texas blues in the style of Stevie Ray Vaughn.  We stumbled back to The Omni around midnight.  Buffalo Billiards:  $2.50 pints.  Friends:  $3.00 bottles.  Jack lope (dive!):  $2.00 pints, wheat beer.  Thirsty Nickel:  all drinks $2.00.  And more dancing. Dancing up a storm in Texas!

The wide interstate highway in Houston, I 10. was moving, like four or five lanes wide, at eighty miles an hour, there was close spaced high speed traffic on both sides, and front and back, when I saw a 12" length of two by four, bouncing, end over end, in the next lane, about five feet away. There was no way to react, just hope it don't bounce my way. It was 101 degrees when we stopped to put on our helmets before crossing into Louisiana.  We stopped for the night at the Howard Johnson's in Lafayette, in the heart of Cajun Country, and right next to a Harley dealer, a steakhouse, and a beer store.  It was catfish and boudin balls for supper; oysters were unavailable because of the oil spill in the gulf. 

Entering Nevada From Salt Lake

100 miles of salt desert, and we gassed in Wendover.  The folks from Bonneville Speedway were gearing up for the next weeks races; I talked for a while with one of the judges.  He and his wife were riding an original 1950 BMW, 500 cc, twin cam.  Rose and I put on our helmets and headed into Nevada and Pacific Time Zone.  There's about 400 miles of desert between Wendover and Reno, and as the day heated up, we took lots of breaks to drink water and gas up. We were traveling across flat terrain, hot clear desert air, mountains shimmering in the distant afternoon. Off to our left, an area of darkness formed, a single hovering cloud, dark diagonal streaks from sky to ground, that raced across  the plain, coming closer, on a collision course actually, with the highway and the motorcycle, we were on. And we ran right the fuck into it, a mini-micro storm, that sand-blasted us, and pelted us with splashing gobules of rain, at the same time. There was nothing to do except ride right through it, and within minutes, it passed off to our right, continuing along the plain.

I'd just filled the gas tank, and was drinking bottled water with Rose at an outdoor table overlooking the campers and cars clogging the passage around the pumps. Young miss big swinging hips sways on past, and puts something in her old car, then sits down at our table with a bottle of iced tea. Nice cleavage.  Rose gets up and walks away.  "Is it gonna rain?" I ask.  There were clouds, there were. And she proceeds to tell me how she hopes not, because she's moving to Carson City, and she's lived all her life in Winnemucca.  And she's not gonna drive in Carson City, (she'll make her boyfriend do it), because of the traffic.  The Boyfriend has family there, but "we're not gonna live together," oh no.  And her daddy has a lot of junk cars on the property, and that embarrasses her, and she's gonna get a new job but probably still in Nevada.  And she's never been to the ocean, but last week her and her boyfriend went to Lake Tahoe, the first time she's ever been to the beach, but she didn't have a bathing suit, and didn't go in the water. And a lot of the local folks think she has a Tennessee accent (she didn't), and on her class trip, she went to Washington, D.C., and the tour guide mispronounced the name of her town.  And it makes her proud that Johnny Cash mentions Winnemucca in a song. And she's getting her GED and is going to be a nurse.  And the swells of her cleavage heaved moist in the desert heat.

We rolled into Reno at about 5 PM, and checked into the 13 storied Ramada for $34.95 (with coupon).  Played the nickel slots: casino, restaurant, everything in one place. Oh, and free beer! There were hookers outside smoking.

California

California is the only state that has border checkpoints. Sign says "all vehicles must stop." You come to the booth that looks like a toll booth, stop for the sign, the woman looks at you, waves you through. I felt like I was going into another country.  I think they were looking for fruits and vegetables. Fruits and nuts. The Land Of Fruits And Nuts. We rode up to Susanville, where we would have picked up route 44, only to learn that the road was closed due to forest fires,  so we took route 36.  When we got to Red Bluff, a sign said:  SHARP CURVES NEXT 140 MILES.  And what a ride it was!  Right off the bat, my cruise control stopped working (motorcycle in protest).  There were long construction delays, and 140 miles of very sharp, unmarked narrow curves, mostly with gravel in the lane, halfway through.  Throw in some pelting rain and hail storms, and temps no higher than the mid-sixties, climbs to 6000 feet with steep descents, that only climbed again.  There was a section with no guard rail, very narrow, where the road was covered alternately, with mud, hail, and little loose stones, and you could look right down into the foggy valley. This road made The Dragons Tail look like a powder puff derby.  We stopped for a break in Platina, an isolated little mountain town, at the Platina Store, and drank hot tea outside. A group of women came in from the "ranch down the road". Ranch women, friendly, rough, probably don't shave, come down off the mountain, pick up supplies…We followed 36 down to the ocean, down through Mad River, and we picked up Highway 101, through Fortuna, and into Eureka. Tired and muddy, we needed a room.

The first hotel we went to was either a half-way house or a crack den. I pulled my shiny new bike up to the office, while "street people" came out, gathering on a balcony, some sat on the curb. Rose, I could tell, had some trepidation. The "street people" stood around, eyeing my muddy, new motorcycle, and immediately asked for cigarettes and change, as we walked to the room. We went into the room, and could tell, right away, that someone was already an occupant. A styrofoam cup with an unknown liquid, sat on the night table; the bed appeared "slept in." So I marched back through the street people, to the office, and demanded a refund. The clerk was astounded, and had to see for himself, so we walked back down to the room, while more street people gathered on the balcony. When I showed him the condition of the room, he shook his head, and we walked back to the office, and he refunded my money. So we rode down highway 101, and found another place, still a rough looking neighborhood, and we got a room, and I chained my bike, locked it to the metal stair railing, in a well lighted spot, and I got up all night long to look out the window, and see if it's still there.

Had time to kill because I needed an oil change, and the Redwood Harley Davidson don't open until 9 AM.  Walking across the street, from the motel to McDonalds, some dude approached and said "Hey, Bro, can I get two bucks?"  I ain't yer bro!  There was a bus stop out in front of McDonalds, and the street people would dig through the trash can, find themselves a new looking McDonalds styrofoam coffee cup, then go into the restaurant and ask for a refill. H-D of Eureka got me right in, even with a guy out sick, and we were back on the road around 10 AM.  Checked out some cool ocean beaches (Trinidad is probably the best) and we plunked our feet in the Pacific.  Further up Hwy. 101, we rode among the redwoods, dirt roads, crushed volcanic stone,  narrow dead ends, magnificent trees with holes in them, and we went inside them, then stood outside and listened to them hum.  Redwoods have a hum. Who would have known? We continued up the coast and checked into a motel right on the beach in Crescent City, California, where we drank whiskey and watched the sun drop into the sea.

Morning came, and we left Crescent City in cold ocean fog, and rode up 199 through the redwoods, to Grants Pass, Oregon, where we got on I 5 heading south.  And we made some miles, put the hammer down.  We stopped in Weed, California because there was a billboard that said, "Weed is Good." There was not much else. Tourists, lots of tourists.  There was also a sign that said, "Weed - Next 3 Exits."  Mount Shasta's snow capped summit rose up in the desert heat, ghostly, well above the lone white cloud.  We stopped in Williams, CA, and got a room at Motel 6, right across from the grain silos. In the morning, we headed east through Yuba City, jumped onto I 80 over Donner Pass, and blew through Reno in the left lane.

Woodchuck Ravioli: Punxsutawney

Lunch in Punxsutawney, a souvenir coffee cup, and we were heading out of town. Route 6 took us to Coudersport, another bar, and a hotel. A gas station on route 6 has a rubber hose out by the pumps, and when your tires go over it, a bell rings inside the station, and the attendant comes out to pump your gas and clean your windshield. Just like on Happy Days. I slept next to an open window, a small patch of lawn, and the Allegheny River; awoke in the night to see a thin sliver of moon through the boughs of a tall pine. 

Route 6, early Sunday morning, no traffic, but had to use one hand to shield my eyes from rising sun glare. Eastbound, time of day, when  the deer jump out from nowhere. Donuts and coffee in Troy, PA, then loped on into Tunkhannock, and 92 north, under the route 11 viaduct. Took 374 (the old Newburgh Turnpike) to 371, and crossed the Delaware into New York, headed home, and shut her down. The cruise control had quit in West Virginia, and it was only now that I realized that both my brake light, and taillight were inoperative. She was a little low on oil; I added 8 ounces. Not bad after 3200 hot miles.  High mileage 96 incher gets the job done. 

Blue Ridge Parkway

"How 'bout we just ride the Blue Ridge Parkway, until we don't feel like riding no more…"

"That's stupid…" she said.

So we got on the Skyline Drive at Front Royal early, and rode the Blue Ridge to Roanoke. Cool and swervy in the mountains. Ninety six degrees at rush hour in Roanoke. Getting off the road, and into a cheesy air conditioned Days Inn. And in the evening, we parked the road glide in the trendy heart of downtown Roanoke. Music everywhere and shiny vehicles on a slow cruise, and lots of young pretty people out walking in the city heat of the evening. We ate (and drank) at The Cornerstone. The town was hot and jumping on a Thursday night, and there was a full moon. Perfect for ice cream at the corner cafe. We rode back to the room and grabbed some beers from SHEETZ.  

Interstate 81near Wytheville, where we got into a pack of school busses. A pack…brand shiny new school busses, probably driven for delivery. They rocketed onto the highway, jockeying for position, fighting their way into the left lane, swerving, speeding, young dudes, probably racing each other. They were having fun. I hate school busses, and in was in they're midst, trying to take the lead. Well, it was like a big yellow herd of buffalo, and they all got off together on I 77, and "normal" traffic resumed. The Lee Highway, then 91 south to Mountain City, Tennessee, then route 421 was a surprise - THE SNAKE: switchbacks and corkscrew turns better than "The Dragon." Outside of Johnson City, on 91, made a u-turn and filled up with 100% gasoline (no ethanol). In the evening, down Roan Street, to Main Street, stopped to wait for a slow moving freight train passing through the downtown, while a full moon, a "blue moon," rose in the sky. The Willow Tree Cafe is a cool venue with a good vibe, and I got to see my son there. DANGERMUFFIN, my son's band, did themselves proud.

The Blues Highway

Route 278 across Mississippi, heading for the Delta. We crossed an old iron truss bridge over the Tallahatchie River. Billy Joe McAllister was there, once, throwing something off, into the water. Someone said he was throwing a Harley engine, from one of Elvis Presley's motorcycles. Billy Joe never had a lick of sense...pass the biscuits, please. The original Tallahatchie Bridge is long gone, but I think it was an iron truss, similar to the one on 278. Got a few miles off the highway to look for gas, and was given a stern warning, in the little store. "…Them Blacks in Clarksdale, ain't like the Blacks up north. Be careful." And this dude was angry, telling us how he chased some dude out of the store with his pistol…"all they do is sit around and drink 40's"…he was angry. I paid for my gas and got the fuck out. We were passing through Clarksdale because it was the home of the blues. Men idling on the street, drinking 40's, windows covered with plywood, peeling paint. Desperation. The Blues. Clarksdale, run down, decrepit: HOME OF THE BLUES. Maybe dangerous. Took 322 to 1 north and rolled for miles through cotton fields. No breeze. You could see the levee, feel the midday heat, quiet, just  the hum of the tires and the purr of the exhaust. The hum and the purr... like something waiting to happen. Crossed the mighty Mississippi, into Helena, Arkansas, and explored some back roads, found some small towns and rolled down to The River. The Mud. Mississippi Mud. Out on the pier. In the steamy Arkansas heat. The hum. Then back across the river and north on highway 61, the blues highway, where we rode through the famous "CROSSROADS" where, legend has it, a famous bluesman signed a pact with the devil. A hot, sweaty ride into Memphis; time to get off the road and cool off. Got a room two blocks off Beale Street. And the sun went down on Memphis, and some fine musicians rocked the bars and honky tonks. One place even had a connecting door, to the joint next door, so that when the band took a break, you walk through the door, and there's a whole new place, a whole new crowd, and a different, rocking, honky tonk band. And the beer was flowing. I was especially moved by a band called MISSISSIPPI BIGFOOT. Check 'em out.

Elvis' Junk And General Tao's Possum

As I write this, my boots are stuffed with newspapers, hopefully, they will dry. I was going to visit Graceland until I saw the forecast. I'd rather get some miles, than look at Elvis' junk. Leaving Memphis this morning, I said "Rose…that's route 64, right outside our hotel." So we followed 64 through the city. A bad lane change in commuter traffic, quickly funneled us onto a bridge over the Mississippi River, and into Arkansas. So we came back over the river, and promptly got lost in Memphis. Yeah, they got some rough neighborhoods. But we found I 40, and blasted through all the construction zones, and out of the city. We found the confusing route 64, and then 100, in Whiteville. Eastbound. Somewhere out near Perryville, near the intersection of 412, we stopped at a little store with a gas pump. This was old style, nothing digital. The pump had the numbers that roll up when you lift the handle, and turn the crank. No credit card…pump and pay inside. The folks in there didn't like us. The woman, who I paid for the gas wouldn't speak to me, and didn't make eye contact when she gave me my change. After I used the bathroom, in the back of the store, an old man blocked the aisle, so I could't get through. I said "excuse me," and he totally ignored me. So I said it again, really loud, inches from his head, and still no response. So I tapped him on the shoulder. He jumped aside to face me. He said, "Are you OK?" And I brushed past him. "I'm good," I said. We were south of Nashville, and headed for Murfreesboro, when the lightening started. Long, multiple bolts, that cracked loud across the darkened sky. And then came the rain, not too bad at first, but then torrential downpour. I couldn't see shit. I put the flashers on, and tried to stay on the highway…cars were pulling off…I got off…trying to find shelter, a gas station, anything. A lightening bolt cracked really close, and Rose screamed. Then I saw a parking lot, and a building with a porch, and I turned toward it…almost went in the ditch, corrected, found the driveway, parked the bike, and stood on the porch of a Baptist Church, watching the rain dancing in the parking lot, forming little rivers around the Roadglide. When the rain slowed, we made a run for Murfreesboro. And sitting there in the Motel 6, trying to dry my boots. Shit, might as well do some laundry. 

EXFOLIATING:  Removing dead skin cells. 150 miles on the American Interstate Highway System in driving rain is good for exfoliating. So we took the interstate today, because it's easier in the rain, less chance of getting lost, missing critical road signs, less chance of assholes pulling out of driveways, on slippery surfaces. Stopped at a rest area, somewhere in eastern Tennessee, where tourists watched agape, as I sat on a public bench, and wrung out my socks. Rain tapered off around Knoxville, and we did a high speed, left-lane blast through city limits. Took a break at Waffle House, then rode to Bristol, and got a good room, at a decent price, using my veterans discount. 

Big puddle next to the bike this morning, a small pond, wasn't there yesterday. Took route 19 from Abington over Clinch Mountain, and picked up ALT 58 to Norton. At the top of the grades, it seemed like dense, fine soaking rain, but I think we were riding in clouds. We took 23 north, and hit the Kentucky line at the top of a mountain, and there, for sure, it was rain. Eight percent downhill grade and curvy all the way, and rain slick, most of the way to Pikeville. We rode into town, and we rode down a narrow alley, then got back on the highway:  119 North. Ate some burgers at the Dairy Queen, near the Virginia line, then made a curvy, high speed run into Charleston, West Virginia. Once before, we'd stayed in Charleston, and we liked the hotel, and the river, and the brewery, and the music venues. Unfortunately, all we could find, was the river. Everything else looked different. So we got on I 79 north, and blasted up to Weston, West Virginia, where we got a room, a six pack and a bottle of wine, and WEST VIRGINIA CHINA BUFFET. Think about it - General Tao's Possum.  

Wyatt and Billy rode to New Orleans in search of spiritual truth, Me and Rose did, too. They  spent a night in “the calaboose,” for walking their bikes at the end of a small town parade. Me and Rose did not spend no night in the calaboose, but we saw stuff on the road, equivelent stuff, that might raise a few eyebrows in the twenty first century. Jimi Hendrix’ sang IF 6 WAS 9: “…I’m the one thats got to die, when its time for me to die. So let me live my life the way I want to.” And we rode to The Big Easy. And if the sun refused to shine…I don’t mind. We rode from New York, down through West Virginia, down through Tennessee. Hillbilly Grill in West Virginia; strange parade-like ritual in Tennessee. But no calaboose. And don't forget The Venusians...they are living and working among us.  

 Mike Bruno's Northshore Harley Davidson: Alicea, has deep wide cleavage. But I hardly noticed that. We were hoping to find secure parking in New Orleans; I didn't want to leave my motorcycle out on the street, overnight, in the French Quarter, and she actually took the time to call The Le Richelieu, find out about parking, and find out that they had a very reasonable rate for a Friday night, smack in the French Quarter. She handed me her phone, and I booked a great room for $119 plus $20 for parking. Bought a couple of t-shirts, got back on the bike, crossed Lake Pontchartrain, and rode into The Big Easy. Hotel parking in the French Quarter is usually $20-30 per night, but the folks at the Le Richelieu, let us park against the wall in the secure area, for free. The room wasn't ready yet, so we walked over to Decatur Street, for some cocktails and seafood gumbo, at Coops.

Later, we imbibed. That's the theme: imbibe.  Bourbon with my beer on Bourbon Street; not quite dark yet, there were drunk people sitting down in the middle of the street. Walked to the Absinthe House, where we had some absinthe, of course: flamed, over sugar cube, 106 proof. Then back out onto Bourbon Street, walkin' and drinkin',  in the noise, and the tourists and the hustlers. Music poured out of open doorways, and we often stopped to listen, and imbibe in the road. We made it down to Frenchmen Street. We'd been advised and warned: there's good music on Frenchman Street, better, actually, than Bourbon Street, but don't go too far down the block, 'cause you'll  be getting into a rough neighborhood. Found a club, not too far down the block, with some hot blues/jazz/funk. Imbibed more and ate some big shrimp, and wandered back to the hotel around midnight.

Rainy morning. Rolled out of New Orleans in rain.  Crack-head woman got fifty cents, asking for change at the gas pumps. She warned us about the neighborhood, asked where we were coming from, where we were going, and motioned to her "buddies" sitting on the curb in the rain. Stayed on I 10 eastbound. Saw a couple of road killed armadillos passing through Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama, but I decided not to stop and photograph them, because at 70 mph, by the time you get pulled over on the shoulder, you're already half a mile past them. Half an hour out of Tallahassee, the tractor trailer right in front of us, exploded a back tire. I had just moved to the left lane to pass that truck, when the tire blew, and the big chunk of tread flew back in the exact spot I would have been riding. We ducked smaller chunks that flew over our head, and swerved around ones that skittered on the road. Sounded like a shotgun blast. Checked into some cheap, rundown Super 8 in Tallahassee, and drove down the road to Barnacle Billís, where we ate 3 dozen oysters, 6 shrimp tacos, and drank a bucket of beer. Across from the Super 8, I found some 24 oz. PBR's at the gas station, and brought them back to the room. Changing the clocks because we're back on Eastern Time. There were a lot of young, noisy drunk people in that hotel. And all night long, there were sirens, and fist fights. 

College Aged Women And Ancient Burial Mounds  

                                                         

After Jim Beam distillery, we stopped at Ruthies Lincoln Freeze, somewhere near Hodgenville, Kentucky, so named because it is near Lincoln's birthplace. And because they sell ice cream. We took route 31E all the way down to Scottsville, where we picked up route 100 west, and got back to the interstate highway. We eased on down I 65 into Nashville, where we encountered afternoon heat baked traffic, stopped traffic, a truck gauntlet, and damn near a hundred degrees. So I began lane-splitting, and assholes began honking their horns, honking from the inside of their air-conditioned Lexus' and Camrys. Fuck them and their buttery leather seats. Thick with exhaust fumes, sweat running down my back: split left, split right, and maneuvered out of the jam. Got off at exit 65, in Franklin, Tennessee, and got a room at the Seen Better Days Motel (with coupon.) Took a well needed shower, drank some cheap vodka and tequila, and went downtown to Franklin. Hundreds of college age women were involved in a form of initiation ceremony, that involved wearing bizarre makeup, and holding hands between their legs, while running down the sidewalk. I am so glad I got to see this. 

I woke up in a cheap motel in Franklin, had a hearty, free breakfast, grabbed a coffee, and went out to look over the Road Glide. A woman came out of her room, right next to my motorcycle, to smoke, as I squatted down to check the oil. She was thin, deeply wrinkled, kind of hard bitten, and wore a neon colored t-shirt. When she spoke, it was with a deep, rich Tennessee drawl. "My son ís a retard, and he likes your bike," she said. Her son, she explained, had seen me in the breakfast room, off the lobby. "I saw you last night walking your little dog," I said. And she told me that the dog was 14 years old, blind, and in poor health, and that she'd inherited it when her parents died. She also told me that she would have to put him to sleep soon. And that she's been coming to this same hotel for 15 years, and seen changes in hotel management. Changes from semi-opulence, to seedy. She runs a little store, in a little town, just outside of Tupelo, and every year, they take one week of vacation, and go to The Grand Ole Oprey. She smoked her cigarette, I finished checking the bike, and we said good bye.

 

I met Isaac from Austin. He was doing some long distance touring on his Suzuki. We were both headed south, so we decided to ride together, and took 96 to the Natchez-Trace Parkway. It's a good road: no trucks, no traffic, no gas, just turkeys and burial mounds - boring. But we rode for almost 200 miles, and got off in Tupelo. During lunch Isaac told us that he works for a major university,  writing papers about variations of the ice caps on Mars. He even had high resolution photos of the ice caps on his phone. He went back to the Trace and rode south, while Rose and I went south on 45. Route 45 is a good road, a few towns, and 70 mph in between, and light traffic. The road was wet with big puddles and we followed the storm all the way into Meridian, MS, where we got a room. Odometer reading 73352. We did 357 miles today. And right next door to the hotel is Wild Buffalo Wings Grill. Cheap Beer! And Thai Curry Wings, my new favorite. Yes…Isaac was the man with the high resolution photos of martian ice caps.

Florida

Some big 'ol bird pooped on my windshield overnight, big, like a small dog turd. I guess that'll teach me for parking under a tree. Rode north on 17, out of Florida and into Georgia. Found a squished armadillo in the middle of the road near Midway, GA. There was a small group of houses and a lineman working nearby, but the area was deathly quiet until I down shifted, made a u-turn, and went back to photograph the unlucky armadillo. A large dog in a yard, ran up to a nearby fence, and barked at us, until our presence was well established. "Rose, get off the bike," I said. And I trotted to the dead beast on the centerline, and fired off a few frames. We jumped back on the bike, as curious people came outdoors,  trying to see what was going on in their quiet neighborhood. And we took off, made our getaway. I accelerated hard through the gears, really gave her the gas, made some noise, if you will, and stopped down the road at Captain Joe's for grilled butterfly shrimp. 

Dismal Swamp

We almost ran out of gas in The Dismal Swamp, and the little voice seemed to go away. We cruised into Fayetteville, hot, tired and hungry and stopped for the night to get a cheap room and some food. I was hungry enough to eat a road killed possum, and I was hastily unpacking the bike and thinking about that first frosty mug. The top black bag slipped off the big black bag and fell to the hot asphalt with a sickly muffled crunch. I snatched up the bag, opened the zipper and immediately smelled whiskey fumes. The paper sack was soaked and dripping and filled with broken glass. My wife’s shoes floated in amber liquid. A whole liter of Jack was destroyed: this was Alcohol Abuse, pure and simple. I gingerly carried the soggy glass filled sack across the parking lot to the trash can by the lobby, leaving an unmistakable whiskey trail that led directly to my bike. 

Lucky for us, there was an ABC store right across the street from the motel. ABC, for all you folks that live in states that have package stores or liquor stores, stands for Alcoholic Beverage Commission, and yes, they sell booze. While I was looking at the bourbon section, I just happened to notice some plastic bottles of George Dickel, just the thing, I thought for a clumsy fool like me. I was sold. There would be no more alcohol abuse in my future.

How Much Higher Can You Get? Pikes Peak

Colorado Springs, a city of 800,000, where we promptly got lost in the layout of roads and traffic. I adjusted my clutch in a parking lot, and after several passes, finally found the Harley dealer. I wanted to get a new front tire, but they didn't have the Michelin that I wanted. My Dunlop still had a some miles left on it, so we found to a room in the city, drove in circles,  then finally got a place off Exit 146, Garden of the Gods Road. Using hotel wi-fi with my Samsung tablet, I found a marijuana store. We rode there, pressed the door button, and they "buzzed us in." The place smelled good: herby. The two women working there told us that we can't buy "recreational" marijuana in Colorado Springs. Politicians shot it down. We would have to go to Denver or Pueblo. But the women were nice, very informative, telling us which "edibles" might be suitable. They showed us candies, beverages; I was hoping for a free sample, but no such luck. Back at the hotel, I started looking up places in Pueblo. It was getting to be rush hour traffic in the city, so we walked over to Applebee's, and got some real good burgers and alcoholic beverages, then stopped at the Circle K, where I bought the biggest can of PBR I could find. I must have dozed off at around 9:40 PM, and it was probably around 9:50 when some asshole pulled the fire alarm, causing evacuation of all four floors of the Quality Inn. So there's a crowd of people standing around in the parking lot, some in pajamas. Me, I'm half drunk and barefoot, pissed off, waiting while the firemen check the building, and finally give the OK to return. I walked down the block and got another beer.

We headed for Pikes Peak. There was a short line before we paid the toll of twenty four dollars, then we began our assent. Somewhere around mile 14, we passed above the tree line at 11,000 feet; some of the switchbacks were tighter than I've ever seen. We reached the top and it was 38 degrees at 14,110 feet: in the clouds, literally. The air at that altitude induced lightheadedness. We were standing by the bike, in the red dirt parking lot, a good distance from the gift store and the monument. All the visitors seemed to want a photo at the elevation monument. In the dense clouds, a vocal sextet erupted singing through the fog, in tight professional harmony:  AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL; they unfurled a large American flag. Tourists stopped to listen, as they sang about purple mountains majesty, as they sang about America, sang with all their heart. I'd be lying if I said it didn't bring a tear to the eye. And there was copious muffled applause, through the fog, at the finale. "...and crown thy good with brotherhood, from sea to shining sea." The fuel injected twin cam ran perfect in the altitude: all the way up, and all the way down. Never missed a beat. We rode south on I-25 to Pueblo, where we stopped at the Harley dealer and LOOKED at overpriced t-shirts. I mentioned to a person on the sales floor, that I was looking for Maggie's Farm, and he knew just what I was talking about. "Straight out on 50, to Pueblo West," he said, "right behind Wal-Mart." So we found Wal-Mart, and we found Maggie's Farm. We had to show I.D. to the armed guard, and then to the salesman, before they let us into the "room." There were glass display cases with different kinds of "weed," and posters of sale items on the wall. I explained that were looking for something "edible," and something of low strength. He recommended some loose granola at 10 mg, and a Nutty Bar, both of which could be divided up into smaller portions. We went around the corner and had sushi for lunch; then we went to Wal-Mart. We headed west on 50. You could see the dark clouds off to the southwest, and it looked like they were dropping some rain. We stopped in Canon City, and watched more dark clouds coming in from the west. It was 12 more miles to the gorge; we decided to get a room in town. The hotel with the happy hour, yeah, the hotel near the liquor store and the pot store. So we got a room. They have two dollar PBR's at the bar…and happy hour…and then we did a load of wash…dirty clothes…and went back to the bar. Then sometime later, we walked to the Shell station, and ate ice cream on the bench, outside, in the rain. And we finished those ice creams, and got more. And we went back to the hotel, and, huh, the lights went out…then back to the bar.

Marijuana Granola In Canon City

Granola in the sheets. Granola from the pot store, in Canon City. Royal Gorge Bridge is closed; wildfires, last year, incinerated 40 buildings. So we picked up route 67 through Florence, and out past the federal supermax penitentiary. Gotti lived there. So did Noriega. We pulled into a muddy turnout and put on rain gear. And it rained. And it poured. And we climbed over a mountain pass after Wetmore (hah, Wetmore!), then 96, then 165 south, another mountain pass, raining so freakin' hard through 20 mph switchbacks, falling rock zones, with rocks in the road. And we stopped in a torrential downpour at Bishop Castle, as rain and red mud ran down off the mountain. We parked off the highway, and took shelter under the first of the hand built stone arches. There was a building, separate from the castle, that said "Open," but it was closed. I left Rose, and went to explore the castle, rough wood, stone and steel, a truly impressive monument. I climbed an iron staircase, found a narrow stone walkway, then a tunnel, and a spiral staircase, and I entered a room of sculptured stone arches, and stained glass. Another spiral stair brought me up, up, to a big open glass ceilinged room, a cathedral, really, then back up the spiral staircase, and around in the turret, the turret with no roof, in the rain, to a lofty perch. The wet iron stair seemed solid, but with the height and the rain, a little unnerving. We left Bishop Castle, soaked, for San Isabel, where we warmed up with food and coffee. Lots of hot coffee. As we drove down off the mountain, the ran seemed to diminish. Temps near San Isabel were around 47 degrees and we gassed up in Colorado City, and went south on I-25, through Walsensberg and Trinidad, and over Raton Pass. Coming down off the pass, we saw blue skies, and we stopped in Raton, New Mexico. Time to dry out. Time to get those wet socks off. Time to drink some Jack Daniels.  

Kansas To Pennsylvania

We rode 18 east, almost all the way to Manhattan, KS. In the gas station, 2 girls looked like they had a rough night, maybe slept in their car: I gave them FUCK IF I KNOW stickers and got on I-70. Dark anvil clouds loomed ominously to the south, and the highway was wet, and just when we got to Kansas City, we ran into the light rain, and heavy road spray off the trucks. We blasted through the city, through the spray, across the Missouri River, and into Missouri, where we picked up I-35 north, and rode to Cameron, and got on route 36, heading east. Got off the road in Chillicothe, MO.

Missouri Dreams

4 AM sound of thunder. Lightening flashed through the spaces in the thick motel drapes. There was the hissing of a hard rain. I fell back asleep and dreamed: three girls from my high school, wearing tight capri pants, so tight, I was singing, and I had my old motorcycle, the leaky Triumph. Those pants! When I woke I put on the weather channel. It was a deluge, flashes of lightening, rumbling thunder claps. We sat there, drank coffee, and watched the radar, looking for a break in the storm. We saw a break and made a run for it. Rode through the last remnants of the storm on route 36. Raining hard, I couldn't see shit, just put the flashers on and hoped for the best. Trucks. Lotta trucks. Came up out of the storm, and rode 36 into Hannibal, and crossed the Mississippi River. Stayed on 36 in Illinois, and poured on the coal, 70-80 mph, right into Springfield, where we picked up I-55 north. We got onto route 24 in Chenoa, and continued east at an easy 60 mph. Smooth, except for the occasional adrenalin rush, passing farm vehicles, or slow moving trucks in the face of oncoming traffic, and pulling back in at 80. We were looking for a place to stay, but route 24 seemed to have either bars and liquor stores, with no hotels, or hotels with no bars, no liquor stores. Lost an hour when we crossed into Indiana. Finally found a room in Logansport, with a bar and a restaurant on site, and a liquor store next door. This might have been the place where Rose got the bug bites.

 Akron again: the clusterfuck of big trucks in the middle lane, Lexus in the right lane moving to the left lane, and some fancy SUV in the left lane trying to get over to the right. White knuckle for sure, but we blasted out of the city, left lane, passing everything at 80 mph. A waker-upper. Youngstown another rush. All those big trucks lined up, one on top of the other, with the occasional left lane blocker. It was…find your spot, pass in the empty right lane, and blast back in at 80. Made it through the long sweeping left curve, with the big sign that says, "I-80 East New York City." Assholes were hitting their brakes in the left lane at 75 mph. Blasted right, blasted left, out-accelerated all those motherfuckers. Ahead of them all, I smoothed out, dropped into the right lane and set the cruise. Stayed ahead of the stupid drivers, and got off at route 8.  Gas station in Franklin, and asked a couple where could to find a hotel and a bar. The More than eager to help, they directed us a mile down the road. And that is where we went, to the bar. We came out of the bar, it was raining. Our timing was perfect. We rode about 400 miles today, and we hit another bar across the street, and the bar in the hotel. Iron City beer, tiramisu, and Irish coffee made with healthy shots of Jack Daniels. Rose said I drove like Mario Andretti. 

666

Route 666. Sure, it's famous, the number of "the beast," so famous, in fact, that New Mexico, Utah and Colorado changed the road's designation to an unoffensive, politically correct 491. People used to steal the signs…there were accidents. Some folks saw apparitions, packs of wild dogs, and flaming trucks doing 130 MPH, down the center line. States can do as they please. Florida might have one, Texas and Ohio might also, and I just recently saw a sign for "666 Hogback Road," in Virginia, off Interstate 81. But  Pennsylvania has a beautiful stretch of road, designated ROUTE 666. It's rural and runs through the Allegheny Forest, in the western section of the state. Some of the signs, I noticed, were mounted pretty high on the pole, maybe to deter thievery, maybe for visibility, but it's a nice road, and I didn't see any flaming trucks or roving packs of dogs. Maybe next time. Get there before they steal the signs. 

Kansas To New Mexico

In Wichita, it was 96 degrees  and we stopped at a place that had sticky tables, and a smell like mustard. Kansas heat; no shade.  We bought gas at the Sinclair station in Pratt, and a lady inside tried to sell us "gizzards," and just before Dodge City, lightening flashes precluded a quick and refreshing downpour.  Our room in Dodge was near the stockyards, you could smell thousands of head of cattle. There were flies. A few beers, we got on highway 50, and we met some dude on a Harley at a traffic light, and we rode out to the casino, and parked right in front of the door, on the bricks. "We do this all the time," the dude said. I quickly lost $20 at the roulette wheel. It was just me and the croupier, a seductive mature woman, in a starched white blouse. I knew she felt sorry for me, as I made my stupid little five dollar bets. But Rose won $50 on the penny slots.  I sucked down a few bottles of Bud, while Rose played her machine.  She was so happy when she hit the jackpot, and of course, I just had to snap a picture. I was immediately surrounded by a knot of Security People, who explained, how I'd violated the rules against photography in their establishment. They wanted to see my pictures, wanted me to erase them; I explained that the flash didn't go off, so there was no picture. No Picture, No Flash! And I seemed to convince them or they just gave up, but Blue Bike Mike was not gonna erase those photos. And we rode back to the hotel in 102 degree heat, partially drunk, out past the stink of the stockyards and freight trains, jamming to some Allman Bros. I sat by the pool of our $35 a night hotel with a couple of cold ones, while the sun went down, watching a bunch of Mexican kids splashing, and trying to swim, then got hungry around 10 PM and rode down the highway to a Mexican joint, where I bought pork tacos. Best damn tacos I ever had. 

Liberal, Kansas is home of Dorothy, Toto, and the Wizard of Oz.  Down through the Oklahoma panhandle, and long, long stretches of nothing.  We crossed into New Mexico, gained an hour (Mountain Time), and after Clayton, another long stretch - 80 miles of nothing, to Springer, New Mexico, elevation: over 5000 feet above sea level.  Route 58 took us into Cimarron (over 6000 feet, now), where we had lunch at the bar of the St. James Hotel, circa. 1872.  Twenty six people have been shot and killed in gunfights in the bar of the St. James, and there are still several bullet holes in the old tin ceiling over the bar.  Got a room at the Cimarron Inn.  The people who run the place had a pack of fierce looking hounds that they used for hunting mountain lions. Got to walk around a little bit, stretch the legs, and you know, and check out the town. There's Old Cimarron and New Cimarron.  Almost everything was closed.  After Dodge, this town sure is quiet.  No wonder all them old cowboys got shot.  There was nothing else to do, 'cept go down to the St. James, and shoot somebody. So we went to the gas station and bought a bottle of tequila and a pistol. Just kidding. 

Chorizo and eggs and out of Cimarron on 64, saw a bunch of buzzards on a decayed elk carcass,  and quick turned around to take some photos.  That was one ripe carcass, and the head was gone. It must have been there for a long time, because it was streaked with buzzard shit. As I moved in for a close up, I almost lost my chorizo.   Rode up to Trinidad, Colorado, and picked up route 12, up and over Cuchara Pass, 9941 feet.  Stopped in the little town of Cuchara (Spanish word for spoon), and drank a few beers at The Dog Bar and Grill. We picked up route 160 out of La Veta, and headed west towards Pagosa.  Dark clouds rolled in, spitting rain, and a sideways wind that kept blowing me across the road.  Tumbleweeds blew across the highway.  Crossed the Continental Divide on Wolf Creek Pass, elevation 10,850.  Got a room at the San Juan Hotel, right on the San Juan River, and across the street from a liquor store that sells Pabst Blue Ribbon.  And we had cell service!  Haven't had cell service since Wichita.  Haven't seen PBR since Ohio! Ate some Oriental kim-che dish for supper, then took some drinks and sat on a rock in the San Juan River, while the sun went down.

It was the night of 1000 farts, Kim-che farts. Out of Pagosa on 84, but only after Rose put her sore knee in the healing waters.  Rode south into New Mexico and ate huevos rancheros in Chama.  We stopped at the local blacksmith shop, and I was almost tempted to buy one of the hand forged knives, very beautiful hand crafted, but very pricey.  Stopped at a motorcycle shop called Torc Choppers, and talked for a while with Slag, the owner.  Nice little shop in the middle of nowhere.  Took 64 down through Tierra Amarilla, Tres Piedras, and on to Taos. A large, angry black bull, appeared just around a sharp curve.  I was going slow, it was a mountain road, and he looked threatening. I thought he might charge; we made eye contact; he let me pass.  He owned the road. Out on the mesa above Taos, was a group of earth friendly houses made of scrap:  glass bottles and tires. Some were partly under ground.  Strange, like houses on the moon. We got a nice room in town, and walked down the street to the Laundromat. We bought more tequila.  In the evening, we walked downtown again, to a brew pub, where we had some steaks and beer.  We walked back up the hill and drank more tequila.

Roswell, New Mexico:  alien museums and stores selling plastic flying saucers.  And tourists. Heading west, further into New Mexico, we hit rain in the mountains just west of Hondo.  Rain turned into high winds and cold, sideways, blowing rain.  Blinded by the storm, and buffeted across the lane, I slowed to 35 mph, and put on my flashers.  I had to remove my goggles and squint between my fingers to see.  We rode through the squall but ran into another, a few miles later.  There were four squalls in all, and cold rain got down the neck of our rain suits.  Rose said, "I wanna go home."  But we took our speed descent out of the mountains, and the temperature rapidly climbed to about ninety.  Got a room in Socorro: 8 half-quart cans of PBR, and a pint of cheap vodka.  And we did a load of wash.

  Took route 60 west to Magdalena.  Route 12 brought us from Datil to Reserve, and I was surprised to find that the Road Glide got 58 mpg.  I checked my math…how can that be? From Reserve, we took route 180 into Alpine, Arizona, with sweet, cool, mountain air, fragrant of pine.  Up in those mountains, at the Arizona-New Mexico border, is where the time changes from Mountain Time to Arizona Time, (Arizona does not observe Daylight Saving Time), and we were amazed that our cell phones would change the time, when we walked a few steps over the border. We did this several times. Fucken Amazing. We rode back down 180 to Alma, New Mexico, where I refilled the gas tank, and checked the gas mileage again, this time getting almost 60 mpg!  Must be the altitude. Crossed the Continental Divide twice today, and reached an altitude close to 10,000 feet above sea level, near Alpine.  Rode route 180 down to Silver City, New Mexico, home of Billy The Kid.

We took the room at The Drifter because they advertised a bar, pool table, and pool.  After we checked in, we found out the bar was closed on Mondays, and the pool was closed, too.  The place was run down, pretty much deserted, except for us.  But there was a restaurant/bar across the street, so it would do.  We'd reached the furthest point of our ride, and would be heading mostly east from now on.

We drank a few left over beers in the room, with ice, because they were hot from being in the saddlebags, and went across the street to the bar and made friends.  There was a tiny woman there, named, appropriately, Tiny, who told us DO NOT GO TO THE BUFFALO BAR. It was crowded, she said, and there were too many fights.  Some big dude across the bar chimed in, saying, "Don't go to The Buffalo!"  "That's just what I'm looking for!" I said. I asked for directions, and we rode over to The Buffalo.  Great place!  Fifty cent pool table, bikers, crazy people, and a cool bartender named Wendy.  Got a good buzz there, made friends, took pictures, and went back to the shithole hotel, a piece of history.  It looked like Billy The Kid pissed on the rug.  A shithole named The Drifter.  

We took 180 south and east to The City Of Rocks, an impressive arrangement of boulders, launched and deposited by some ancient volcano.  Interstate 10 took us into Las Cruces, where we stopped at Barnett's Harley Davidson for an oil change.  They took the bike right in and we walked down the street for some lunch.  With fresh 20/50 flowing through the engine, we rolled down I 10 in the heat, near 100 degrees, into El Paso, with heavy truck traffic, and an accident blocking the right lanes.  Checked into the Quality Inn (with coupon), right around beer-thirty.  After washing some of the dust from out throats, we took a ride on 375, along the international border fence, and found a motorcycle shop called Biker's Custom, on Alameda.  We hung out for a while with Jimbo, the owner of forty years, and Pete.  They made us feel right at home in the well stocked, old school shop.  They told us stories about the old days:  impromptu biker keg parties on the border berme, and a story about gun runners who would run into the United States, smash someones front window, grab an arm load of rifles, and run back to Mexico. Outside the store, we could hear occasional bursts of gunfire on the other side of the fence, in Juarez. Back along the border fence, we stopped at the Brotherhood MC Shop.  Danny, the owner, showed us around, offered us a beverage, and was very hospitable.  This was another great old school motorcycle shop.  Danny was proud of his newest project:  a 1949 Pan that he picked up south of the border.  The biker spirit lives in El Paso!  The Mexican food that we had for dinner made my face sweat, and we drank big margaritas, shots of tequila, and, of course, beer.

Dennis Hopper's Grave

 It was a Thursday morning, and traffic in Taos sucked. Clueless People, assholes. But I remembered to make a left on 518, and another on Espinoza, and we found it, we found Dennis Hopper's grave. Narrow dirt lanes led to a small rough hewn, dry dirt cemetery, and nestled in among some newer graves, a simple wooden cross, in Jesus Nazarino Cemetery, Rancho de Taos. We paid respect under a blue New Mexico sky. People had left trinkets and a blue beer bottle, on the dry rocky mound. A blue sash, around the neck of the cross.

We picked up 522 through Questa, and into Colorado. And we got on 160 west, and headed toward Great Sand Dunes National Park. Under darkening skies, we found the turnoff. The sign said the dunes were 16 miles down the road, and we rode the 16 cold windy miles, while ominous white fog rolled off the mountains to our right. Then we came to a sign that said, "Visitor Center 4 Miles." And the rain clouds closed in and the wind increased, and the temperature dropped sharply, maybe 10 or 15 degrees. And we got to the visitor center, and it was so cold and windy, it was like another planet. Constant gusty winds, no sun, cold temps, and cold white fog, rolling down off the mountains, with rain looming in the distance, across the plain. We took a few pictures of the dunes and got the fuck out of there. It was a 24 mile ride back to Fort Garland, and cloud to ground lightening struck several times off to the west, but we didn't get wet. We got a room, in town, next to the liquor store.

  51 degrees when we rode out of Fort Garland, and temps in the 40's going over La Vita Pass.  I-25 north and back to Pueblo West, and Maggie's Farm, the pot store. The waiting room, like in a doctor's office, was crowded, and I had to take a number. I was number 12. During the half hour wait, I made friends with a dude from northern New Jersey, and a sexy woman from Dallas, TX, with a sparkly Harley t-shirt. Sparkly. Nice crowd in the pot store. And it smells so good there. Back on I-25, we rode to Garden of The Gods, in Colorado Springs. It was Friday afternoon, and lots of tourists there and lots of noisy kids, climbing over the rocks, cars blocking in the road, stopping for nothing. Inching forward, inching…and the bike was getting hot. That was enough of that. Got the fuck out of there, and headed up onto the plains, east of the city, and out to 94, and up Dragonman's driveway. Mel was there, and he showed us his motorcycle machine shop and machine guns and we talked, briefly, about the old days, riding motorcycles on Long Island in the 60's and 70's. Mel's done well for himself, he's got machine guns and motorcycles. Rose and I rode back toward "the Springs," and got a room near a shopping plaza called Space Village. And, lo and behold, Space Village has a pot store, and next door is the Carey Saloon,,,and they have PBR…and mystery shots, for a buck. Mostly women…nice crowd. Space Village, indeed.

Heading east. Rolled out of the Cimarron Hills, eastbound on 94. I'd filled up with gas, and about 15 miles out of town, passed a sign saying, "No Motorist Services Next 95 Miles." So we rode east through Punkin Center and Wild Horse. We picked up US 40, and stopped for breakfast in Kit Carson. There was a one pump, credit card only gas station, and we filled the tank with 91 octane. East again through Cheyenne Wells and Arapahoe, and into Kansas, and soon, we were in Central Time. I got on I-70 in Oakley, set the cruise control for 75, and stopped in Hays, Kansas.

Coonhound Cemetery

 Route 72 West took us right across the top of Alabama, including a 75 mph left lane blast through Huntsville. In MUSCLE SHOALS, we rode around looking for the famous recording studios. We got stuck at this l-o-n-g traffic light on Avalon. Way too much time at that light, going north, going south. Found out later at the Harley dealer, that the studio was right behind the Walgreens, at that same light, that same intersection. Nope, I ain't going back. The manager at the dealership asked what I was riding, and I told her 07 road glide with over a hundred thousand miles. "You must take good care of it," she said. What does that mean? You're supposed to take care of it, right? Continued on 72 and saw a sign for COONHOUND CEMETERY.  Whoa, gotta check that out. Made a u-turn, and off we went, down some winding, narrow road, past Buzzard Creek, for miles and miles. I had no idea where I was, just looking for a dog cemetary. But we stayed on that road - past the shooting range - nothing else for miles, and then, there it was, the only one in the world: Coonhound Cemetery, started in 1937. Read some tombstones and signed the register, and made a big loop back to 72. Got on the Natchez Trace Parkway. It was hot. We stopped in downtown Tishomingo: one gas station, one ice cream parlor, that's all we needed. Rode into Tupelo, but the heat was draining. Got a room at Holiday Inn Express. And get this, this hotel had FREE BEER AND POPCORN from 4pm-7pm, AND FREE PANCAKES from 8pm til midnight. Wow, that's a new one. As you might imagine, we took advantage of that, right down the hall.

West Virginia Bluegrass

It was a little "barn" on the side of the West Virginia back road; a bluegrass concert. Route 20 switched back and forth over one hell of a mountain. Steve took the lead, whipping through the curves, and avoiding patches of gravel that added a definite "pucker factor." The crowd at the concert was "kind of old....", there was no beer (except the ones we'd secreted in the saddlebags). The concession sold bottled water, popcorn and Geritol. And we made a decision to get out of there before the last song, so we wouldn't get "held up" going over the mountain behind one of the slower drivers heading home over the mountain, in some ancient 4 cylinder Subaru.

We blasted out of there, Steve in front, running through the dark, like he was competing in the Baja race. I couldn't really see where I was going; I was just following his taillight, there was some kind of large dead animal on the double yellow, and debris, some kind of wood, maybe a chunk of 2 x 4. I'm guessing maybe 55 mph or 60, and slowing for the posted curves, lots of curves, and just when you think the last one was sharp, the next one was even sharper. Lean hard left, lean hard right, a little pucker here, a little pucker there. And then Steve, wobbled, hit gravel, and went down hard. His bike was on it's side, red taillight shining in a cloud of dust. He said he was OK. Banged up, bruised and bloody, but OK. And the bike though dinged and scratched, was rideable. We were in a bad spot, there were trees, a telephone pole, no guard rail. There was a drop off, oh maybe a hundred feet or so, and there seemed to be a house down near the bottom. If we use our imagination, it's easy to think that we could have been Steve sliding a few more feet, and over the edge, maybe down onto the house, taillight flipping end over end through the West Virginia dark. But that didn't happen. Steve dusted off, and as were dragging the bike out of the woods, an old 4 cylinder Subaru came around the curve and caught us in the headlights. The woman inside said to the man, who was driving, "Ain't that those biker boys from the concert?"  

Sturgis

 

We rode two 600 mile days, on the way to Sturgis. We stopped for a friday night in Des Moines at the Bavarian Inn, and we partied, let it all hang out, on the patio with the girls from the soccer team, and Scott, and Shawn, and Fred, who we met at the bar. This was a loud hotel, you could smell intoxicating herb smoke, in different rooms, up and down the halls. Rose and Luanne retired, or tried to, while me and Mike stayed up late into the night, drinking, and making new friends. The next day we rode into Mitchell, South Dakota, where we lucked out and got one of the last available rooms in town.  After a beer fueled supper, we drank more beer in the motorcycle filled parking lot.  A few hundred miles from Sturgis and you could feel the excitement.  Steve from Alpena, who was drinking nearby, came over and volunteered that the reason he put a "bike cover" over his bike, was because he had a lot of camping gear that he didn't want to unpack.  By covering the bike, he explained, no one would steal anything.  He was very self-conscious about being the only bike out of hundreds in the motel parking lot, with a cover.  So of course, we spent the rest of the night busting his balls.

We got into the long procession of bikes and trailers going west on I 90 into Sturgis.  At one gas stop, we met a group riding old bikes from Minneapolis.  There was a 47 Harley, a 46 Indian, a 50 BSA, a two wheel drive Ural, and some nice old BMW's. In Wall, SD, I talked to a guy with a 07 Road Glide, with 69,000 miles on the odometer. At the time, I thought that was a lot. As we neared Rapid City, we stopped again for gas (Mike was getting bad gas mileage).  We drank some beers next to the pumps at The Worlds Smallest Biker Bar.  I think it was in New Underwood, SD.  While we were on our third beer, a group of bikes pulled in with New York plates.  Turns out, they rode from Poughkeepsie: small world, and left at about the same time we did.  After a few wrong turns, we found the Super 8 in Rapid City where Mike and LuAnn had a reservation.  Rose and I were hoping to crash on cots in Mike and LuAnn's room, but the nice folks at the desk said they were out of cots, and we could either sleep on the floor, or pay them one hundred and fifty American dollars for a little room, with a little bed.  The floor did not appeal, so we reluctantly coughed up the cash.  After playing phone tag all day, Trigger finally found us, and we went out in the parking lot to indulge, then went downtown to Rapid City for food and drinks, lots of drinks.  And we shot a few games of eight ball. This was also the day that we finished off the bottle of tequila that I had stashed.

 I'm glad the tequila is gone.  Said goodbye to Mike and LuAnn and headed south into the Black Hills:  Custer State Park.  Rode the "Wildlife Loop" and saw a couple of antelope and buffalo.  Rode through the town of Custer:  a clusterfuck of tourists, traffic, bikers, and folks dressed up as pioneers. Hah…folks dressed up as bikers. I waited for the same traffic light four times!  Glad to get out of there.  Gassed up in Newcastle, Wyoming, and took route 450 to Wright, desolate, nothing but antelope for 70 miles, and hot ninety five degrees.  Made it to Casper just before the rain.

  Had a dream my tooth fell out.  Woke up and it was still there.  Route 220 out of Casper, lots of antelope, and 287 to Rawlins, where we found I 80 west.  Crossed the Continental Divide three times:  once on 220, once on 287, and once on I 80.  Temps. on the high prairie ranged in the high 80's, but once we descended into Salt Lake City, it felt like a blast furnace in the mid to upper nineties.  We got a room on the west side of the city in Tooele, so we can cross the salt desert early, before the heat.

Downsville

We Rode out of Balls Eddy and crossed into New York. On route 30, we found ourselves in need of beer, and stopped in Downsville. Around back of the bar was a red pickup with a pair of blue panties on the antenna. When we walked in, I was surprised to see eight women dancing to loud hip hop music. Before we would leave, my friends would also be out there dancing. After my first PBR, I asked the bartender about the mysterious underwear, on the pickup out back. "Well," he said, "my friend went out back to take a shit the other night, in the parking lot, because the place was very crowded, and he fell into the shit, and threw them into the back of my truck." "I think we are talking about different underwear,"  I said. But half way through my second PBR, I was told that indeed, one of the dancing girls was, in fact, the owner of the blue panties. I confronted her, and she proudly said, "Yes. They are mine. We'd been swimming in the creek," she said, and I high-fived her as our small group of riders danced out the door, and back through the dirt parking lot to the motorcycles. Danced right the fuck out of there.

Walt's Speedometer

It was late afternoon in Albany, NY. I was riding the four speed Evo, Levi had his Sporty; both Mike and Walt were riding clean Shovels. The plan was this: we were gonna run south down route 32, make a few miles, then maybe stop at some juke joint or tavern, but closer to home. Once we got out of the city, the road opened up, and the throttle hands got looser. We were doing maybe 60 mph, in a tight pack of four, and we'd roll up behind some sedan doing 55, and most times, with plenty of room to pass, we'd give 'em a little gas, and just blast right on by. But each time we did that, we'd gain a little speed, and pretty soon we were kind of hammering down the highway, maybe 70 or 75. And I could see in my mirror, Walt was dropping back. He'll catch up, I'm thinkin', he's probably just not used to that kind of riding. So anyway, I'm watching Walt in the mirror, and he's back there maybe 50 yards…then I look again, he's still with us, but maybe back 100 yards…then maybe 150. But I could still see him. And we run up behind a truck…no passing zone, and we lose our momentum. And here comes Walt. And after that we kind of got into a more "normal" riding pattern, and still heading south, we stopped for a cold one.

So I asked Walt, "…how come you dropped back?" 

"You guys were doing a hundred miles an hour," he said. He exclaimed it. 

"Whoa, Walt," I said. "We were only doing maybe seventy…seventy-five…"

"My speedometer was reading one hundred miles an hour," he said.

"No Way."

Turns out later, we come to find out that Walt had bought a new speedometer drive unit, but not from Harley. He bought one from an aftermarket, better known as Taiwan Ted, and after much introspective conversation, Walt came to think that maybe he got the one with the wrong ratio. 100...not that day.  

Poags Hole...hmmm

Michigan

Dyna. A motorcycle so reliable that I barely carry any tools at all. I've been running her all over the States and, unlike my old chopped up Panheads, I haven't been leaving a trail of nuts and bolts and a wake of smoldering wires.  But just about when I was starting to feel like there was absolutely nothing that could wither my Twin Cam Superglide, I managed to take a turn on the Kryptonite Highway. 

I was on a local poker run, down shifted for a turn, and noticed that my shift lever seemed to acquire more "travel." And when I up shifted, I actually had to move my foot well off the peg to complete the shift. At the first bar stop I checked the bolt holding the lever on the shift shaft coming out of the primary case and it was tight. The linkage also seemed tight but there was "play" behind the inner primary cover; the weld on the shifter shaft had broken. It held enough for me to complete the run and make it to my garage, but the next day found me tearing off the inner and outer primaries, compensator, clutch and other heavily oil soaked components. 

I went to my local Harley dealer only to be told that the part (#) was backordered, and that the closest dealer who had one was about four hours away. Shit! Rose and I had made plans to vacation at the beaches of upper Michigan and the start of the proposed road trip was only a few days away. So rather than opt for a new part, one of the guys in the back volunteered to weld my old one. I threw a quick coat of paint over the weld so it wouldn't rust, put all those oily parts back in the primary, and slapped her shut. I was good to go. And the beaches of Lake Michigan and Lake Superior far surpassed anything I could have imagined, with massive white sand dunes, and tropical blue water.  

                                     

...but where's the beer?

OK...every bike has one chink in the armor, and now mine was Superman again. Nope...not quite. The next week, we were off to the races. We shuffled off to Buffalo. Well not quite Buffalo, but near there: Olean, NY, for the Rally In The Valley, and then to Dansville for the Poags Hole Hill climbs. It was Saturday afternoon; the Rally was winding down. My three friends and I fired up and nodded to each other that we were ready to pull away from the curb. I pulled in the clutch, dropped it into first, and lurched awkwardly, narrowly missing a small group of pedestrians, before I stalled her out, and rolled sheepishly back to the curb. My clutch cable stuck straight up in the air, looking amazingly like some kind of strange whip antenna. Hmmm. One of them aftermarket cables, she came apart at the ferrule.

It was late on a Saturday and the closest Harley dealer was an hour away. We plied the dwindling crowds at the Rally looking for a clutch cable. We got a few leads and the best one boiled down to this: there was a guy in a bar outside of town who "might" have one that "might" fit...but we'd better get there quick cause he's bent on getting drunk. No...I don't think so. We went to Sears and bought a Vise Grip, cut the cable, cut the sheathing, and tried several attempts at jury rigging, only to eventually tie the cable to the bars so it wouldn't flop around, and make a run for it. I forgot to mention that what had been a perfect weather day, had now turned ominous, with advancing dark clouds and lightening flashes advancing from the north, the same direction we had to go.

We were in a small city, so I knew it wasn't going to be easy. There were at least half dozen traffic lights and twenty miles before I could get to a friend's garage. Using the power of my legs, I rolled the bike as fast as I could, and slammed it up into second gear. She chugged to a stop. But on the second try, she fired, and chugged away. A red light loomed ahead and I saw my friends following in the mirror. I timed the light and blew through green, as well as the next and next. I only had to blow through one red before I was out of town and free except for the occasional hard drops of cold rain and nearby flashes of lightening.

I managed to slam it up into third, then forth and cruised at a slow but comfortable fifty. And then the sky opened up, like the proverbial cow pissing on a flat rock. So I slammed her back down to third and turned on the emergency flashers. I made it to my friend's garage and we managed to fabricate a pivot from the shank of a 7/16-inch bolt that would replace the nylon pivot at the clutch grip, and hold the cable. We cut the ragged end off the cable with a die grinder and also cut about four inches out of the sheathing. We drilled the bolt for the cable to pass through and drilled another intersecting hole at ninety degrees. We tapped the second hole and put in a setscrew. Just to be safe, we added a cable clamp on the outside, but that proved unnecessary. The setscrew held the cable very well. We also added some tubing (held with hose clamps) over the cable sheathing where we spliced out the four-inch piece...just to stiffen it up. The next day we were off to the races (hill climbs), and the day after that we made the 300 mile trip home. And that little piece of 7/16 inch bolt worked so well, it now has a permanent place in my little twin cam tool bag. The twin cams are great bikes, but shit happens. 

A hard rain fell in Wichita Falls, and I couldn't see the road. Saturday shoppers were out near the mall, stupid traffic. I was trying to stay in my lane, and watch out for the assholes, and I missed my turn, and had to double back.  The Texas sun had burnt my naked forehead before the cold rain and sideways wind, outside of Dickens.  I slowed to 45 mph, and turned on the emergency flashers.  We hit Lubbock in the burning sun, and got a room. You can buy beer and wine in restaurants and Wal-Mart, but no booze, except in a liquor store.  So we went to a restaurant and had a beer, and went to Wal-Mart for supplies. Then we rode down to the Copper Caboose, with a parking lot full of pick-up trucks, to shoot pool, and drink happy hour beers, while the cowboys looked at Rose's ass.

Frackville, Pennsylvania

Sleaze bag motel in the state of Virginia. The first thing I do in the morning is check The Weather Channel, and there, on the weather map, is this big mass of green, coming up on Interstate 81, heading in the same direction as us. Green, on the weather map, means rain. Dark green means heavy rain. There was a lot of dark green. But it hasn't reached us yet, so we quick, pack our shit, and jump on the bike. We were going fast, rocking both lanes in traffic for maybe an hour or two, before hunger, and the need for coffee got the better of two mortals. Big Mistake. Big. Cause when we left that restaurant, it was raining…hard, with lightening bolts. And we got back on 81, but we we were in the heart of the storm, and it seemed to be traveling at the same speed we were, and the same direction. And we rode with it. Became part of it. In Virginia. In West Virginia. In Maryland, and into Pennsylvania. A truck fell off an overpass near Harrisburg, causing backups, delays, and white knuckle riding. We took a break at some near-the-interstate eatery, and sat near the window. Sat and watched in awe, as a lightening bolt hit the pole under which my motorcycle was parked, immediately knocking out all the lights and power in the restaurant, and the immediate vicinity. The rest rooms had no light, whatsoever, and we had to pee in the dark. So we rejoin the traffic in the deluge. And we're heading into the mountainous section of the highway, and the rain is getting harder, and the temperature is dropping, and we're nearing Frackville, Tamaqua, and we got this tractor trailer in front, and I'm following him 'cause I can't see the road, just following his taillights, and there's another tractor trailer trying to pass him on the left, going one mile per hour faster, so it takes a long time…and they are throwing up this tremendous wall of spray, and it was like riding in a car wash, a ten foot wall of spray, and the temperature was in the mid-forties, and it was fucken miserable. And another tractor trailer, pulls along side and honks, signals, and Rose realizes that our saddle bag had come open. So I see this exit sign coming up, and I signal and pull off, and ride along some unfamiliar road, with a big fucking truck on my ass, until I can find a safe spot to pull over and close the saddlebag. And we found our way back to 81, and rode to a rest-area near Wilkes-Barre. And they had an electric hand dryer. And I didn't wash my hands, didn't need to…the rain did that. But I was shivering…and I did three or four cycles of the hand dryer, just to get some feeling back in my fingers. That hand dryer sure did feel good. And that was about it for the rain. We'd done around three hundred miles in the heart of the storm, and now, she was tapering off…yep, tapering off.

Worlds Largest Ball Of Twine

Route 30 in Ohio seems like we are far off the grid. There are no rest areas now, only little towns, where you slow down from 60, to 50, to 35, watch it pass, watch it pass, then speed up to 50, hold it, hold it, and there's the sign that says 55, one sign was bent into the ditch so you could hardly see it, and crank her up to 60, and set the cruise. I saw a sign in Huntington for the Al Gore museum. We picked up route 24 in Huntington, hammered through Wabash, cannonball, and then we were on a two lane, cutting straight through corn and soybeans. A motel and a sign in the window that says "open," so I shut down the bike, walk over and bang on the window, ring the bell. Dude says it's $40 a night, has wi-fi, HBO, but no coffee. It's a deal. So I ride, with no helmet to the liquor store, and buy a three dollar six pack of Natural Light, and we ride on down to Miss Karol's, and have some wings,  and some Old Styles: Chicago beer, served in the can, ice cold. And all the locals were out, it being Friday, and everyone was just enjoying themselves, even the waitresses. And we did almost 500 miles today.

 

 I walked out past the Griswald Feed Store, to the liquor store, where I bought 2 large coffees. We left the key in the room, and headed west, again on 24. We got on historic route 66. We rode the Mother Road into the city of Normal, Illinois, where I gassed up at a Shell station, and took a big dump. I guess you could say it was my first Normal Dump. Get your kicks...on Route 66. We got back out onto the interstate: I-55, south, into Springfield, where we got onto I-72 west. The weather had turned hot and we slathered on sunscreen. I was just cruising along, a few mph over the limit, when two dudes on Harleys blew by. I jumped in behind them, and rocked with them almost all the way to the Missouri line, at 80-85 mph. A fuckin good ride, passing everything on the road. Rose and I stopped briefly in Hannibal, MO, Mark Twain's hometown. Hannibal has a series of levees and gates to keep the river out of the downtown. Life On The Mississippi. Rode west out of Hannibal on 36, careful not to exceed Missouri's speed limit of 65, by more than a few mph. Seemed like the troopers were out in force in eastern Missouri. And then it started to rain, not heavy, but just enough to need rain gear, and make the road more slippery. The rain stopped somewhere around Brookfield, where we gassed up, and rode squinting, into the setting Missouri sun. Downtown St. Joseph sits right on the Missouri River, and we got a room there at the Holiday Inn. Hot, tired, rain beat, and vibrated, we unpacked the bike, and entered the air conditioned coolness of the Holiday Inn 6th Street Bar, and I proceeded to work on a beer buzz. We went out and walked around the downtown area in the heat. Tattooists were smoking in the alleys outside the parlors, and, for a saturday, it was dead, so we went back to the Holiday Inn 6th Street Bar, and drank some more.

Cool river air out of St. Joe, over the Missouri River, into Kansas. Perfect riding weather:  80 degrees, patches of fog, and no helmets. Stopped in Hiawatha, then rolled down route 36 west, at an easy 68 mph, to Mankato, where we picked up 128 south, then 24 west, to Cawker City, home of the world's biggest ball of twine. An amazing ball of twine it is:  just under 18,000 lbs. While we were there, two Harleys pulled up: a man on a bagger. and a woman on an FXR. They told us about a place, not far, they said, called The Garden of Eden, that some local dude made out of sculptures on his lawn. "I'll follow you," I said. And we headed west on 24, then south on 281. About 4 miles south of Osbourne, Kansas, there come a terrible clanking from the woman's 1994 FXR. We pulled to the side. Her bike had recently been rebuilt by Harley Davidson of Wichita. The noise, she said, sounded like a piston banging, then a grinding. Not good. Her old man tried to get AAA on the phone, but it being sunday, no one answered. Some local folks stopped their cars, made some phone calls and tried to get a friend with a trailer to come get us off the road. When all else failed, a decision was made. Since it was "mostly downhill" to Osbourne, they would try to "coast" into town. Rose and I headed back to Osbourne, as we were low on gas. Last I saw, the dude had his Electra Glide parked by itself, on the highway, with the flashers on, and he was pushing the woman on her FXR, up to the top of a "grade," so she could coast again. The temperature was in the low 90's, and there was no shade. Osbourne didn't have any gas stations with high test. or even "plus," but we found one with 89 octane, and headed west on 24. The temps seemed to rise as we rode into the sun and, almost to the Colorado border, we stopped in Colby, Kansas. It being Sunday, all the liquor stores were closed. Gas stations don't have beer. But we passed a bar (it also looked closed) with a Harley out at the curb. We parked in the sun on Main Street, next to the other Harley, and entered the air conditioned coolness of The Beehive. We sat at the bar next to a patch holder, and ordered some drafts (no PBR), and some hamburgers as thick as two by fours. And we proceeded to eat and drink away 400 miles of Kansas road dust. We got a room over near I-70 at the Motel 6, and as soon as I entered the back entrance to the stairway, I could detect the odor of burning herb. We're not that far from Colorado. High Plains Drifting.

Rain And Beer

Fast, we were going fast, trying to get as many rain-free miles as possible. I 84 to I 81 in Scranton.  A slight sprinkle and some wet roads after Nuangola, cloudy and threatening.  Big lightening bolts to the west near Berwick on I 80.  Stopped on the shoulder of the interstate and put on rain gear, just before the deluge - no visibility, 50 mph with flashers on, trying to stay behind taillights of car ahead, rain running down my neck, can't see shit; drinking the rain in my open mouth.  Maybe a half hour of hard rain before she let up.  Stopped for gas near Bellafonte and got a cup of coffee; stripped off some of the rain gear.  Rode another hour or so, into Brookville, where we got a room for $60, at the Budget Host Golden Eagle, saloon on premises.  We had prime rib, cooked to perfection, and several beers, after which, I walked to the bar across the street, and bought a six pack of PBR, to bring back to the room.  Pennsylvania. 340 miles, today.  Weather Channel says 80% chance of heavy rain, tomorrow.

  Got on I 80 in light morning rain.  On and off showers into Ohio.  Heavy rain near Akron.  Let me tell you:  Akron is the land of lane closures, poor signage, uneven pavement, grooved pavement, slippery when wet.  And traffic.  And assholes. All the conditions for a White Knuckle Ride. Took I 80, to I 76, to I 71. Passed Columbus, Ohio and the Budweiser factory, picked up I 70 west, and blasted into Indiana.  Got a room on the west side of Indianapolis, with a free hot breakfast: $50.  For supper, we ate shrimp cocktail, calamari, chicken wings and a burrito, at the Coachman, right across from West Indie Harley Davidson.  And beer.  Full moon sat in the morning sky.  Indiana - gained an hour - Central Time.  Crossed Illinois, and crossed the mighty Mississippi into Missouri.  Missouri is a helmet state.  The Road Glide seems to like running along at 75 mph, in the 80 degree, overcast afternoon.  But the sky got darker as we approached Kansas City, and then, opened up, let loose.  Once again we donned the rain gear for the rest of the ride to Blue Springs, an eastern suburb of Kansas City.  Got a $50 room at the Days, ate some mediocre Mexican, and drank beer.  Worked out some of the kinks in the hot tub, before going back to the room and:  beer.

I pulled to the shoulder of I95 to put on  rain gear, but the rain was so hard, I was soaked in a minute. Rose was, too. Low on gas, I got off at the exit and as I opened the gas cap, a massive lightening bolt struck a nearby tower across the road; a bolt so fat and searing, like a bludgeon of white fire. Hot and dazzling. I tried swiped my card at the pump. Once, then twice, and the message read, "see attendant." The woman inside the station said that when the bolt struck, she heard something "sizzle" in the computerized register. We stood there dripping. Other customers were hoping the pumps would come back on. The attendant let us get coffee, and we drank coffee, dripping puddles around the little store. Eventually, the rain slowed, and we left without gas. We gassed up in Fayetteville, and dealt with 70 mph bumper to bumper traffic, and rain on I 95. A White knuckle ride, for sure. We stopped at a diner, and I dug into the laundry bag, for a dirty but dry t-shirt. Better than a clean wet one! And I stripped and changed in the parking lot. After some fried chicken lunch special, we were back on I95, into Virginia: Emporia, Petersburg, and Richmond, in rain. My feet, in those desert boots, were all day soaked. And we came over an overpass, on a curved ramp, and saw that the 5 mph stop and go traffic, continued with brake lights, nothing but brake lights, for as far as the eye could see. And I said, "Fuck This."  And I said it out loud. Said it to the rain, said it to the unbroken line of brake lights, said it to the nice folks all snug in their tightly sealed cars. So we got off at the next exit. 89 maybe? Ashland maybe? And we got a room at the Marriott Springhill Suites, the only hotel we could find, and to tell the truth, it was getting dark, and I was tired of riding in the rain. And surprisingly, the room was $87. So we walked over to Buffalo Wild Wings, and had a shot of Jim Beam, and some Big Beers, and some Thai Curry Wings, and some more Big Beers, before walking back to the Marriott, buying more beers in the lobby, and heading for the room. Rode 379, soggy, white-knuckle miles today. Stuffed my boots with old maps, coupon books and papers, hoping they'll be dry for the morn.

****     

                                                            

Me and Dale switched bikes. It was on Huckleberry Turnpike, and I let him ride my four speed Evo, and he let me ride his five speed Shovel. It's a slow road, curvy, bumpy, narrow, and we were tooling along, maybe, twenty-five, thirty miles per hour, just kicking back. We might have had a few beers. So we tooled along past the swamp maybe a couple of miles, and I figured I'd had enough, and wanted to switch back, so I applied the rear brake to stop, and absolutely nothing happened…nothing, the five speed shovel just kept a-rolling along. Maybe it even went a little faster. I felt just a touch of panic, maybe, just a little…so I hit the front brake, and she stopped just fine. Dale pulled up along side, smiling like the Chesire cat. "There's no rear brake," I said. He chuckled and said "arrgh…," or something like that. And we both laughed, switched bikes, and rode on, past the bodega, and out onto route 32. I think we might have gone to a bar.

We were riding like banshees,  northern Jersey,  back up into New York. Jeff was riding his rigid Evo with the home-made short pipes, Tony had his high mileage Shovel, with the flat black Suzuki tank. And, of course, there were Twincams. It was warm for October, and the sun was going down when we came up out of Jersey, and stopped at a dive just over the state line on a curvy two-lane. A biker dude named Mark, came into the bar, asked which way we were heading, and asked if he could ride along. “Sure, man…the more, the merrier…”

Hey...you guys look crazy and drunk...wanna ride my bike?

It was dark when we went back out to the parking lot, and we saw Mark’s bike: a “new” 2010 Honda chopper, kinda cool looking, 1300 cc’s, and pretty much stock, with 6000 miles on the clock. And he invited us all to try his bike; he was really happy with the bike, and wanted our opinion. And maybe he was feeling his beer. So Greg said, “sure,” he would like to ride it, and Mark showed him where the key was, and Greg took off into the night. And then, maybe five minutes later, we heard the downshifting, slowing headlight, and Greg pulled back into the parking lot. Greg liked the bike, and Mark told me that I should try it too. I’d already had a few beers, so I declined, but both Mark and Greg persisted…”go on, man, try it,” they said. So I walked to my bike and got my helmet. I got on, and fired up Mark’s new Honda, and blasted out of the gravel parking lot in first gear. Second gear though, was not where I thought it would be; I’m not used to forward controls, and when I finally found second, the RPM’s were a little low, and I putt, putt, putted, off into the night, then quickly found third, fourth, and fifth. By this time, I was probably doing seventy miles per hour, but I don’t know, because I couldn’t see. I’d forgotten my goggles, and my eyes were full of tears. At the end of the long straight-away, I could see through the tears, a gravel drive, where I could turn the bike around. The bike handled well on the road and on the gravel, though the front end seemed a little light through the high speed sweeper. There was lots of power, but the engine seemed nowhere near as torquey as a Harley. I told Mark that if he got a less restrictive exhaust, and air cleaner, if he let the bike “breathe,” it would wake the bike up. Gotta let ‘em breathe! Anyway, Mark rode with us to another tavern. Just One More! And we got on the interstate highway, and played a game of high speed leap frog, blowing out the carbon, waking up the tourists, blasting by Camrys and Sentras with exhaust pipes howling. Like Banshees. And I have to say this, Mark’s Honda chopper was pretty cool: nice lines, nice paint, but I don’t think I’ll be parking one of these in my garage. I’ll just stick to my high mileage Twincams.

519 to Buttzville

519 is a road, mostly smooth, curvy, two lane blacktop. At the New York state line, I followed her down. It’s cow country, sheep; 20 mile per hour turns that sneak right up, a narrow tunnel, and there’s Vernon, and Hope. All the way to Buttzville; so named because, at one time, it was the butt watching capital of America. Butts reigned supreme. Not so much anymore. But there was a nicely packed butt in skin tight camo, right in Hot Dog Johnny’s. So I ate lunch: two dogs, mustard, pickles, and kraut with a big cup of buttermilk. That’s the special. And I gassed up and headed north on 519, all the way to the state line, with a song in my head, from Bob Seger:

She's totally committed, to major independence

But she's a lady through and through

She gives them quite a battle, all that they can handle

She'll bruise some, she'll hurt some too

But oh, they love to watch her strut…Bob Seger

There Was A Bug Inside My Helmet

I grabbed the beanie

from atop the dilapidated battery charger

fired up the four speed and raced the setting sun

to the tavern.

There was a bug inside my helmet

I could feel him getting comfortable

near the top

of my shaven dome.

Only ten more miles to the bar

I pushed the helmet back, slowed for a red light

I could feel him hiking my skull

There was definitely a bug inside my helmet.

Familiar bikes sat in the gravel outside

the air conditioned neon tavern

I skidded to a stop, lowered the stand,

removed the beanie, a little bug flew away.

My friends all laughed when I said

there was a bug inside my helmet

and there's the familiar brown bottle

first one of the day.

I drank a few and fired up the four speed

not sure where I'd go next

in the heated summer night

There was definitely a bug inside my helmet.

Night court was in session, just down the street, and a whole lot of folks seemed to be drifting towards the neon beer sign, after handing over their money to the judge. The bartender leaned down to pull a beer from the bottom of the cooler, and displayed Grand Canyon cleavage.

But it was cold outside, the end of October. Me and Billy, we could see our breath freeze. Billy How Do You Like Me Now. While going through my junk box recently, I'd found an old hand warmer, satin finished, aluminum case, smooth, a little bigger than a pack of smokes, in its own red flannel pouch. I filled it with lighter fluid, fired it up, and slipped it into my pocket. It certainly did warm my pocket, but it also made me smell like kerosene. Billy, that’s Billy How Do You Like Me Now, said he caught a few whiffs going down the road. It was easy now, to understand how it wound up in the junk box. I hung my vest, with hand warmer, near the door, and sat all the way at the other end of the bar.

It was amazing how many people wandered in from night court; we had quite a little party. Proper thing to say here, is that me and Billy (How Do You Like Me Now), didn't drink much. I will say though, we were thoroughly warmed, and that we took the back roads out of town, instead of passing the sheriffs station. When I went past the bank, the thermometer read 34 degrees, and even though the hand warmer had long since died out, I still smelled like kerosene. But I carried the glow, not just from the beer and the grand canyon cleavage, but from a good ride with a bro, and from the sound of his exhaust roaring one way, and mine roaring the other, when we slapped gloves, and headed for home.

I took a picture of Andy, when I was testing out my newly constructed helmet cam, which was basically, a full sized Nikon camera, mounted on a chunk of 2 x 3, that was epoxied to the top of an old helmet. A 1/4 - 20 bolt through the whole gizmo, threaded into the tripod mount on the camera, and a zip tie, for security completed the set-up. The firing mechanism consisted of an "air shutter release", with a long air hose that ran from the shutter button, down the sleeve of my leathers, to a squeeze ball in my right hand. We were coming from Fishkill, and I told Andy that I wanted to take some pictures. When we jumped on Interstate 84, Andy took off, speeding in the left lane at eighty or ninety miles per hour. I tried like hell to stay with him, but all the weight and wind resistance from the full sized Nikon film camera caused a hell of a strain on my neck. I persisted, and finally caught the mutherfucker near the bridge and signaled for him to slow down...

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“Sometimes it's a little better to travel than to arrive” 

― Robert M. Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry Into Values

“In a car you're always in a compartment, and because you're used to it you don't realize that through that car window everything you see is just more TV. You're a passive observer and it is all moving by you boringly in a frame. 

On a cycle the frame is gone. You're completely in contact with it all. You're in the scene, not just watching it anymore, and the sense of presence is overwhelming.” 

― Robert M. Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry Into Values

“The test of the machine is the satisfaction it gives you. There isn't any other test. If the machine produces tranquility it's right. If it disturbs you it's wrong until either the machine or your mind is changed.” 

― Robert M. Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry Into Values

“The real cycle you're working on is a cycle called yourself.” 

― Robert M. Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry Into Values

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