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 Route 666. 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, folks saw apparitions, packs of wild dogs, and flaming trucks doing 130 MPH, down the center line. 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, probably to deter thievery, and I didn't see any flaming trucks or roving packs of dogs. Get there before they steal the signs. 

  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

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

  So I got out a big wrench, and alternately loosened my fork caps, until one of them fired like a rocket, under pressure from the compressed fork spring, and made a large dent in my wooden overhead garage door, and I’m thinking, hmmm… So I drilled holes in my fork caps, actually Vic did it for me, cause he has a drill press, and tapped the holes for a pipe thread, and fitted them with a 3/8” allen plug. The holes are big enough to accept the nipple from an oil filler bottle. I have 2 filler bottles, measure the correct amount for each side, drain from the bottom, put the bottom plugs back in….and carefully squeeze the precious fluid into each tube. And no more dealings with those pesky springs. It’s just a matter of finding the correct weight oil.   The Harley manual, the bible, says to use Genuine HD Type E , which I found to be a little “squishy,” I did some internet research and found some charts, confusing viscosity numbers, and replacement guides pertaining to fork oil, which led

  rear sprocket pac man damage miles and miles of gravel Drank too many of those 32 ounce beers last night.  Got back on the Loneliest Road and went east through Ely, where we found Utah route 21, which seemed even lonelier.  It's narrower, hotter, and has a lot less traffic. Lonelier.  Almost scary.  Gravelly. A good place to pick up a stone and break a drive belt. When we crossed into Utah, we set the clock forward to Mountain Time, and got on I 15 southbound to Hurricane, UT, where the temp. was a searing 98 degrees.  This was quite a change from the 48 degrees when we left Eureka, NV.  We couldn't find a restaurant near the hotel that served beer (Mormons!), so we opted for Subway sandwiches and a six pack in the room.  Took the Road Glide through a nearby car wash and removed just some of the over 4500 miles of bugs and grime. Pack Man Cracks: that’s the official designation in the Harley Davidson Service Manual, and I discovered it after returning from a cross country bla