Final Drive: Commuting and the March of the Ants

Most of my riding is commuting, although at times it reminds me more of the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona Spain than actually getting somewhat and at other times, most of the time it reminds me of Ants Marching like a herd of biters on The Walking Dead. I would also say it's worse on the way home as opposed to on the way to work, although all sorts of reprobation, mass destruction and mayhem from johnny playing the hand flute to Carol high on a veritable Brompton's Cocktail , who goes the wrong way on the freeway, probably because she didn't want to miss Jeopardy or Wheel of Fortune. Some of my personal favorites are: Reading the paper, putting on make-up, the driver getting a blow job, talking on the cell phone and texting. What's even more amazing about talking on the cell phone is that a lot of these idiots have cars or trucks with bluetooth/hands free capability and yet they have the phone glued to their ear with their head against the side window or they are talking to the phone like a communicator from Star Trek. Either way, they aren't paying enough attention to the most important task at hand.

One of the biggest dangers I face going to work (as well as coming home from work) is that I use the HOV lane and there is always some idiot that is late for work, wants to get home so they don't miss Dr Phil or their kids baseball game and they cut into the HOV lane without looking to see who already occupies that lane. The other day some steampunk dread looking asshole cut into my lane and when I honked while hitting the brakes and moving over the shoulder, he gave me the finger and was yelling at me. I scooted away and made as much distance between us as I could. Sometimes discretion is the better part of valor. What is even more incredulous is that more often than not, there is only one person in the car and they are trying and often do use the HOV lane illegally. Sometimes I wish I was a cop, as I could make a pretty good living at it based on the jackassery I see everyday. It wouldn't be difficult to find work to do. Like the other day...

The other day I was riding up 87 on the way home, which is my favorite part of the ride. Some guy in a 2000ish Impala is wandering in his lane. As I pass by the ersatz Tommy Chong has a blunt the size of my middle finger, sharing it with his friends. Again, I made way to get as much distance between he and I as possible. The week before, I encountered the second coming of Bob Marley in an old Chevy van on University, near 40th Street. This guy was all over the freaking place. I would have thought Stevie Wonder was driving the van. Once past Mr Doobie, I made sure the distance between us grew. It isn't always like this. Most of the time it's just bumper to bumper traffic on the 202 and it's a de rigueur chore to wade through the marching ants to get to the HOV lane, which while adventurous in some ways, it's a lot easier on the clutch than having to ride in traffic and when it get hot out here, it's a blessing. You haven't lived until you've ridden in bumper to bumper traffic when it's 110˚F outside.

And so it goes, day after day, navigating my way through the morass of cagers, just trying to get to my destination safely. Like Rick Grimes stuck in Atlanta in Days Gone By, riding to work  can be a challenge sometimes, if not entertaining at other times. The thing for me to remember is that job # 1 is to make it to my destination safely. Not too long ago I would have ripped someone's arms out and beat them to death from some of the cager antics i still experience, but with age comes clarity. It isn't worth it. At some point I realized that it was no harm, no foul, let it go and keep going. I'm supposed to enjoy the ride...How about you?

Thank you for reading this blog.

Final Drive: Commuting and the Parade of Elephants

I was going to write an article about commuting to work as I do just that, every day on my RT, because I don't have a car and because I can. There's a lot more traffic here in the Phoenix area than Des Moines, although not nearly as much as New York. Anyway, it's a challenge at times and I thought I'd write about it, you know, the agony and ecstasy of getting from point A to point B, but then we had Bike Week in Arizona.

Arizona Bike Week is something new to me. I moved to Arizona last June and by that time, Bike Week had already passed. This year marks the 17th year that Bike Week has been in Arizona. They expect to draw 60,000 "bikers" this year, so while it's not Daytona or Sturgis, it is a fairly big event and one that draws decent musical acts and lots of tradition biker events. This year, on the final day, "Opie" and "Bobbie" from the television show Sons of Anarchy were leading a ride from Arrowhead Harley Davidson to the Cyclefest event center in Scottsdale to raise money for Crusaders for the Children. Not being a "biker" and not particularly interested in Arizona Bike Week, I didn't know this...Until today.

Twin Wheels Cafe

This morning, I went on a breakfast ride to Wickenburg, where we at at the Twin Wheels Cafe. I had Been there before with the Phoenix Motorcycle Riders Group and it's a favorite with the motorcycle bunch.
I like the place, but for some reason, whatever I have ordered in the past, it seems to be less attractive than what my table mates get. I hate when that happens, but the real eye opener happened on the way home.

On the way back from Twin Wheels, I got on the 101 North, figuring a nice quick trip home across the valley when I hit traffic, and I am not talking heavy traffic, but stopped dead in your tracks traffic. Fearing the worst, I got off at Thunderbird and proceeded to get on again as the traffic looked minimal. The first clue should have been the traffic cop that was leaving the intersection of the off/on ramp. Actually the first clue was Tony or Troy at breakfast saying there was a ride at Arrowhead Harley Davidson, with some cast members from Sons Of Anarchy leading the pack. The third clue was running into the tail end of the ride in the HOV lane. I quickly hit the left lane and started to make time on the ride, heading towards the front. It took me from W. Bell Rd on the 101 to Hayden Rd in Scottsdale to come within a half a mile of the lead. I got off on Hayden as traffic was being blocked for the Parade of Elephants.

Mark Boone Jr, AKA Bobby

The phrase "Parade of Elephants" doesn't do justice to the caravan I witnessed as I rode by. It was like a combination of a 10 mile procession of elephants led by Hannibal over the Alps and unseen footage from Road Warrior, but with better looking bikes. As I rode up on the formation and by it,  I was almost nauseated if not asphyxiated by the maladjusted fuel mixtures on some of the bikes. I have to wonder if the first requirement for owning a Harley Davidson is to reprogram the computer to achieve the exhaust emissions of a Union Pacific 4-8-8-4. I had visions of Michael Bloomberg in apoplexy and respiratory distress if he had to drive behind this extended SOA entourage. No 64 ounce cup of Pepsi Max would be able to break him out of it. Thank god he doesn't live here in Arizona. He'd have these chaps rounded up and shipped out in no time. Then again, may be if he did live in Arizona or was visiting here and had a fit,  he'd be tarred, feathered and rode out on a rail. I favor the latter.

I decided it was best to jump off at Hayden as there was no way I was going to get to the head of the pack to see the dilettantes of motorcycle stardom as I wanted to stop by GOAZ BMW and take a gander at the new R1200GS, which is a whole new design. Before I get ahead of myself, I want to say that I am in no way "looking down" on anyone. We all have our perceptions and opinions. I am sure some look at BMW riders and wonder if they keep Grey Poupon in the glove box and if the bike comes with a portable espresso maker. I don't know about the Grey Poupon, but I do know of a BMW rider that carries an espresso maker. It really is all in fun and I'd own a Harley in a minute if I could afford a second bike. Believe me, no one escapes my deprecating eye, including myself. That said, I have mixed feelings from just looking and sitting on the new GS. It really looks like and feels like it would be very nimble. I just didn't get the feeling of quality about it though. The switchgear seemed cheesy and cheap and overall I it seemed to have the look and feel of a plastic toy. Time will tell how it will hold up, but on paper, it hits all the right notes. I just don't know if I'd spend 19K+ on one. I looked at the GT and GTL too. I've seen them before and I have to say the GTL is not a direct competitor of the Goldwing. It's a different kind of bike. Looking at the pillion position and amenities or lack of them, the GTL is a GT that wants to make believe it's a full boat touring machine. It isn't. The GT on the other hand is to the RT what the Incredible Hulk is to Dr Bruce Banner. I just love the bike, but the price tag is heart stopping for a sport tourer, but it's an awesome bike.

Now that I am home and Bike Week is over, I contemplate going back to work tomorrow. The commute awaits and so does my article on commuting. Stay tuned, I'll get to the commute next time.

Thank you for reading this blog.

Final Drive: Geronimo, Tom Horn and the Apache Trail

Arizona was one of the last territories to gain statehood, which it did on Valentine's Day, 1912 and celebrated the centennial last year. Alaska and then Hawaii followed next  in 1959. While Arizona is a latecomer to the game, it has a storied past that involves native americans, miners, ranchers and a host of bad guys all trying to make a living or just survive in this unforgiving land. While unforgiving might seem harsh in judgement to people that have never been here, I can tell you that Arizona is as rugged as anyplace on earth and in some ways resembles Mars, except temperatures here often exceed 100 degrees 5 months out of the year. It really is a testament to the native peoples and early settlers that survived if not flourished here. In some ways, I wish I could say the same about myself.

Irish

Since moving Arizona, I have been pretty much on my own as far as riding and even socializing. I have a handful of online friends that live in the Phoenix area, but we pretty much keep to ourselves. Last week I emailed a friend, who I'll call "Irish" (I changed the names to protect the innocent), to find out if he would like to take a ride out to Globe for lunch. Another friend of ours, known as "Cactus Jack" has been bragging up a  Mexican place called Irene's for quite some time and with the improving weather, I thought that last Thursday would be a good day to check it out. Irish arrived at my house at 9 AM, riding his black 2006 Kawasaki Nomad. Good thing it was 9 AM as the pipes were loud and although not wake up the dead loud, they definitely get one's attention. So off we went, Frick and Frack, on our trip to Globe, aided by Irish's GPS, a Tom Tom, which was used on the maiden voyage of the space shuttle Discovery. While advanced for its day, it had issues with roads built after the state's founding. This is ok for the most part as most roads here are just paved horse trails anyway. After making a few corrections, we found our selves out by AZ 88, also known as the Apache Trail. Irish had to stop for gas as the Nomad's range is slightly farther than a Chevy Volt on electricity only, which is to say not very far. During this stop, he said lets go by the Apache Trail to 188, which will bring us into Globe. Being of the adventurous kind, I said sure...

Map of the Apache Trail

AZ 88 is a picturesque road for sure, with gold mining camps and a ghost town along the way. It reminded me of Calico Ghost town out on I 15 going to Las Vegas. Soon afterward, the road got windy, narrow and poorer in quality. Some of the blacktop looked like it hadn't been repaved since Checkers bailed out tricky dick. With expansion crack heaves every 10 feet or so, I just couldn't get the right rhythm. Part of it is that I run higher than average pressure in my tires as I am larger than average. The side affect is a bumpy ride on not so nice roads, but the roads were twisty and not for the faint of heart. The scenery was top notch, just keep clear of the post life facilitating drop offs as there are very few guard rails here. Anyway, we made it to Tortilla Flats, which is sort of a rest stop sized town with a saloon and curio store. Irish had to go inside to walk the dog while I made acquaintances with the Lost Dutchman.

The Lost Dutchman of Tortilla Flats

After Irish's pit stop, we conversed with some canucks who has stopped at the shop and were headed back out. That should have been my warning. The Canadians were looking over my BMW, commenting how they'd love to have the new K1600. Sure, for another $8K in the US, who knows how much in Albertastan. Anyway, Irish asks me if I mind riding on dirt roads. I told him I do it occasionally. He then asks if we should continue on 88 as he thinks some of it is dirt. Since the gauntlet was thrown down and from a cruiser rider, I couldn't say no, so we proceeded onward.

Around the Bend On the Apache Trail

Not long after Tortilla Flats the road did indeed turn to dirt, with plenty of washboard surface with what I would describe as talcum powder on top of it. The road looked like it hadn't been maintained in awhile and there were alluvial ruts that I didn't want to track in as it usually leads to a bad end. The real shocker was to find out that I had 22 miles of this and more before I got back on pavement. At that point, I was in all the way. The road continued on with a combination of relatively short straights, uphill and downhill switch backs with some downhill grades that were interesting with vistas of scrub brush, saguaro cactus and rugged rocky mountains that make Mt Rushmore seem like a cornfield in Iowa. It was the longest 22 miles I've ridden in my life and while it did take an hour and a little more, during the ride, I ruminated over the name, Apache Trail and wondered if Geronimo had taken his people over this trail to get to better weather than the summer heat in the valley or to escape the wrath of the Mexican or US Armies. In surveying the scenery I also wondered if the land here certainly bears a resemblance to the ruggedness seen in Geronimo's face, I think it does. At the same time I don't think Irish and I would fair well in those times. We resemble Tom and George Custer more than I'd like, Irish especially. Speaking of Tom, George and Geronimo, I also couldn't help thinking if Tom Horn, the indian scout, deputy sheriff, Pinkerton Detective, Rough Rider and stock detective cum convicted murderer had graced these same trails as well. I am pretty certain both did, I just hoped my fate would be better than theirs.

More of the Apache Trail

The plain truth is, the ride wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, just slow and with a bike not meant to ride on that kind of terrain. I did learn a couple lessons though. One, going too slow makes the ride rougher. So rough at times I thought the bike would shake apart and anecdotally, it seems my 49L topcase might be a little looser. Two, don't hold the grips tight or too tight. This wore out my forearms and made the trip back home a pain because my hands were cramping, which has happened before, on a trip to the west coast. It's not a good feeling. Three, getting off the seat at times made the ride better. Thing is, I haven't ridden much dirt, except on a friends YZ250 and a KLR 25 years ago, but taking that short cut as it were has given me some ideas for the future, which would be getting a dirt ready street bike as a second bike or to replace the RT and I've always loved the R1200GSA. Adding insult to stupidity was when two people whizzed by Irish and me like were standing still. It looked like they were riding Honda CRF250L's. Later on we caught up with them at Roosevelt Dam and they looked to be a couple closer to 60 than I was. Ouch.

The Apache Trail next to Apache Lake

In the end it was a successful trip and we had lunch at Irene's in Globe before heading back to the valley. Next time, I will take the paved way to Globe, unless I have a dirt ready bike, which I doubt. Not unless I win the lottery. :)

Thank you for reading this blog.

The Bikes, Rear View

The Bikes, Front View

Tom Horn

Heading out of Tortilla Flats

My Friend, Irish

Geronimo

Final Drive: Make It Progresso or Make It Yourself

There was a TV commercial from the 70's for Progresso soups that had the tag line, "Make it Progresso or make it yourself". This means that Progresso had such high standards that to make anything better, you had to make it yourself. Considering that Progresso was a purveyor of Italian foods for that market, it was a pretty tall claim. I found out recently, this extends to more than just soup.

Recently, I had brought my motorcycle in for a warranty repair of the front ABS cable. If you recall, this problem surfaced on my trip to Crescent City. Normally I do all the maintenance and repairs on my vehicles, but I finally had time to take the bike into the shop to get it fixed and since it was a warranty repair, why not? Josiah of Dirtball Customs in Scottsdale suggested I take it to GOAZ in North Scottsdale for the warranty repair. GOAZ is a multiline dealership that sells and services not only BMWs, but KTM, Yamaha, Honda, Suzuki, Triumph, Ducati and Kawasaki. The owner of GOAZ also owns the Harley Davidson dealer next door.  This said owner is none other than Bob Parsons, owner and founder of GO Daddy. To that end, the dealership is new, modern, clean and seems to be very customer service oriented. I was impressed with them, particularly compared to Victory BMW, which seemed more mom and pop and a little looser, if you know what I mean. If I have anymore warranty issues, I'll give them a shot.

Anyway, in order to replace the ABS cable, a lot of the Tupperware has to come off the bike as does the gas tank. The job took two hours and upon return of my bike, I saw that they washed it as well. Happy as a clam I rode off to go home. When I got home, I noticed some plumbing showing between the gas tank and steering neck I don't normally see. Upon further inspection, it looks like the fuel lines from the gas tank. They should not be visible, but routed along the tank.

I disassembled the Tupperware from the left side of the bike to get a better look at the problem. from what I could tell, the fuel lines were routed in front of the power cable to the Powerlet outlet in the left fairing and the clip securing the power cable was not fastened closed. I disconnected the fuel lines and rerouted them behind the power cable and fastened the power cable to the clip as below:

 

So now with the Tupperware assembled back in its proper place, we no longer see the jumble of hoses and everything is in its proper place:

 

 So, to use the terms of the Progresso commercial, I tried Progresso, but I ended up making it myself...or at least finishing it correctly myself. If I had paid for this, I would have taken it back, but had I had to pay for it, I would have done it myself to begin with. Obviously, this is a minor oversight, but one, in my opinion, is more to do with the business model of many dealerships and not with the expertise of the technician. Most car and motorcycle dealerships operate on the incentive plan. This means that if a job has a book time of 5 hours and the technician does it in less time, he or she is making time, which leads to higher pay through commissions or more paid hours. It's not uncommon for technicians to make up to two times their hours, meaning they can do 80 hours of work in a forty hour work week. The basics are, if the dealer charges 12 hours for a clutch job on a K1200LT and the technician does it in 6 hours, the dealer kicks some money to the technician because the technician is onto to another billable job while his time is still being billed on the original job. The downside of this is that in the rush to make time, mistakes get made. Personally, I'd rather get it done right every time than do it too fast to make a little more money, but hey, that's me. 

So, will you make it Progresso, or will you make it yourself?

Thank you for reading this blog. 

Final Drive: Neil Peart, The Holidays and Shunpiking

I grew up on suburban Long Island in the 60's and 70's and like many kids of that era and location, I found myself in the pastimes of playing in a band and riding mini-bikes and motorcycles. When I was 10 or 11 years old, I thought I wanted to play guitar and my dad got me one, but I couldn't pick up playing it at all. My brother did, as he seemed more musical than me, playing the trumpet since he was seven. For some reason musical ability eluded me. I tried the bass after that and with even quicker negative results, I was again instrumentless. Then something magical happened. I went over my cousin Kenny's house one day and his parents had bought him a Leeds drumset, a four piece kit style that was popular in the 60's and before. When I sat down, picked up the sticks and proceeded to use them, it made sense. Before long my mom got me a used 5 piece set, blue sparkle if I recall and I started taking lessons at the Long Island Drum Center. My first teacher was Bill Cramer. Bill was a striking figure with long red hair and a full beard, not unlike Ginger Baker. Bill also rode a candy apple red 1976 Honda CB750F. It was quite the bike at the time and once or twice he gave me a ride home on it. Bill got married later on that year and moved to California where he still lives. Don Mulvaney took over after that with the occasional Dom Famularo when Don was unavailable.

While Playing the drums came natural, I also picked up some bad habits that Don tried to cure me and I am not sure he did cure me to this day. Having played on my own for almost a year before taking lessons allowed me to learn in ways that weren't necessarily according to Hoyle. I won't get into them here, but I think this extends to a lot of things in life. Around this time, my brother and I got our first bike, a Rupp mini-bike, on which were learned the fine art of riding. I am sure I learned some bad habits there too, but I never had lessons to straighten me out, not in 25+ years of riding full-size motorcycles on my own. It's not a matter of pride I say this at all. If anything, I am frugal and I just never spent the money to get further training on the motorcycle, which I think has hindered me in some ways, like taking full advantage of the capabilities of my motorcycles, at least in anything other than a straight line.

Photo by Rob Wallis

With the year coming to a close, I reflect on this theme, of not only bad habits, but of taking the short way around the barn too. Back when I started to play drums, I had my favorites: Sib Hashian, Gary Mallaber, John Bonham and Keith Moon, to name a few. Then I discovered Neil Peart. I remember being blown away by La Villa Strangiato. Neil and Rush opened my mind to not only better music, but lyrics whose philosophy meant something and still do. It was like I had found music that had made sense to me, just like when I picked up those drum sticks the first time at my cousin Kenny's house. In the intervening years, I have been to at least 5 Rush concerts and I have followed Neil's career if not life and I have been amazed, not only by his continual improvement, but his ability to overcome adversity. He really is an amazing human being that humbles me not only behind the kit, but in most things. One of his terms is shunpiking, which to paraphrase Neil, is taking the road no one would take unless they lived on it. Neil applies this to riding. Being mostly a commuting rider, I don't find myself shunpiking on the bike too much. The reasons are one, time, I never seem to have enough time to explore and riding a R1200RT doesn't lend itself to dirt and off road excursions. I have however done this a little bit with life. In the past 34 years, I have explored many different types of jobs, whether part time jobs when going to school or full time jobs just to make a living. I've worked as a groundskeeper, glazier, auto mechanic, bail enforcement agent, child abuse investigator, and IT worker, just to name a few. I've met people from all sorts of socioeconomic backgrounds in many different roles. I often wonder, what would it be like to stay focused on one thing, improving and perfecting skills, becoming a true master. In fact I envy those that either put in the time with single mindedness or seem to be born with the single passion in life and pursue it with vigor. 

Brutus?

So, during this holiday season, I find myself reflecting on my shunpiking and wonder if I have at times, if not always, tried to take the short way around the barn. The truth is, there is no shortcut to competency or mastering something. It's a process that takes time and that amount of time can vary for individuals as well as the object we are discussing, however, once we make that breakthrough, it is self-evident. The key to this is that mastering or competency is not a destination, but a milestone along the way and the path is continual improvement or evolution. In my own case, I do not understand my own path anymore. At 50 I find myself looking back and wondering what and why. May be I should be looking forward, but as a contextual person, I need to understand the past to proceed forward. I am still trying to figure this out. As far as Neil goes, I think he doing fabulous. I would have one piece of advice for him and this is coming from a fellow introvert (ISTP if you must know): Relax around people and don't be afraid to mix a bit. I think he is a little neurotic about privacy, but then I am an anonymous fool. I wonder what advice he'd have for me? Happy New Year Neil and to all.

Thank you for reading this blog.

Final Drive: The Eagle Has Landed

In my last post, I alluded to some exciting changes in my life and those changes have come to pass. I have since and just moved from Iowa to Arizona. My wife accepted a position within the company she works in Scottsdale and we've moved to a nearby town of Fountain Hills. To that end I will be looking for employment, but that is another story for another day.

I rode the bike from Des Moines Iowa to Fountain Hills Arizona, but I have to admit I didn't take any pictures. I was leading/following my family, so I didn't have all the opportunities and really time to take many photos. I did however have some impressions of the trip.

Kansas/Oklahoma/Texas Panhandle has some serious wind. It knocked my normal 45 mpg down to 33 mpg on the highway. For the most part there were head winds pushing against me. There's not much to say about those parts of the country and I will leave it at that. I was glad to be through it and on to New Mexico where I felt I could make some headway. The scenery in New Mexico is a lot prettier than the previous states, but the temps did heat up a bit and gas mileage improved a little, although the wind wasn't quite as bad, I expected better. I suspect the quality of the fuel might have something to do with it. I ended up in Gallup New Mexico for the evening and it's what I would call a Native American run tourist trap. Expensive, somewhat kitschy, and lots of turquoise jewelry that's probably made in Mexico or China. Did I mention check cashing establishments, store front churches and pawn shops? I was glad to get on the road the next day.

I could feel the anticipation traveling on I40 in Arizona with not much more than 200 miles to go to my destination, while the RT hummed along at 80 mph with occasional passing car going into triple digits effortlessly. I stopped off in Holbrook to top off with fuel and met Gary and Di Vitacca from Buckeye who were headed back home after a long trip. Gary is a retired carpenter and rides a beautiful Harley Davidson Ultra Classic. We talked for awhile, with Gary giving me pointers on where to get good Italian food in Phoenix and what roads to ride, admonishing me on my choice for getting to Fountain Hills, as he called it "boring". That's ok, as every road in Arizona is a new one to me and I like learning for myself. After handshakes and bidding farewell,  I hit the road down AZ77 to AZ377 to AZ260 then AZ87 to Fountain Hills, passing through Payson and Heber. The high altitude was a nice respite with ponderosa pines and cooler air.  It reminded me of riding through Oregon from Bend to Crater Lake. The most challenging part of the ride was the downhill descent after Payson, with 6+% grades and some turns. I did much better with this than I did last year, but a reminder was a Chrysler Minivan that was pulling a trailer turn over on it's side. Going around a downhill turn, the trailer turned the van over like a tail wagging a dog. The drive got out through the windshield by kicking through it. It was a total vehicle loss for that family, but at least no one was hurt bad.

Descending into the valley brought along with it heat. I am not talking about 85, 90 or 95 degree heat. I am talking about 107˚F spite. Coming into Fountain Hills, I felt like someone set my thighs on fire. Understand that a R1200RT doesn't really throw off much if any discernible engine heat. It's the best bike in that regard. If you don't want engine heat on you, buy a BMW boxer bike. Anyway, with leathers, gloves, full face helmet and calf high boots, I felt like I was one of those roaster chickens you see in the supermarket, rotating on a spit. I fully expected to see Satan on the East End Peak of the McDowell Mountains standing there laughing his ass off at me while banging his pitchfork on the mountain to the music of AC/DC's Hells Bells. Even Sam Kinison crept into my mind with his bit about living in a desert. Well, Sam was wrong. People in America do live in a desert. The difference is that we have air conditioning and food. Speaking of deserts, I don't think this place has gotten rain since Goldwater lost in 1964. Holy smokes is it hot, but it's a dry heat, just remember that.

So, the adventure begins after 1500 miles on the RT and I look forward to exploring the area and finding all the great roads I have heard about. I expect to put a lot more miles on the bike out here than I would have in Iowa. That is a good thing. I will be writing a lot more too. Welcome back.

Final Drive: I'M Back

After a look hiatus due to surgery as previously described, I am back. I'd like to say bigger and better than ever, but I will take what I can get. I've ridden a few times in the last week and everything seems to be working fine with the bike and myself. The Battery Tender Jr and Stabil did there job as the RT fired right up. More to follow, especially some exiting news, but it looks good for now.

Final Drive: If not, what?

As I recuperate from anterior cervical fusion at home on this cold January day, a thought came to my mind that I want to pose to my fellow motorcyclists: If you couldn't ride, what would you do? This question arises from my own malady as it is always a possibility. The other thing is, as we get older and accrue more physical and mental limitations, the more likely that at some point we will have to give it up. Could you give it up?

This came up in a discussion with my friend Ross, who had back surgery some time ago and the doctor said he wouldn't ride again. Second opinions are great things and Ross found a surgeon that had a solution that would keep him on the road. The point was that Ross said he couldn't imagine living without riding. Are all of us so determined to ride such that it preempts everything else and not being able to put us in the fast lane on the road to drive off the cliff?

On some level, I think we are more adaptable than that. Humans, so long as they live and breath, will adapt to current changes in their given situation. The only time I have seen where people take the final plunge is where the pain is too great. I am no judge in this matter though, as each person must decide their paths for themselves. That said, would you accept no being able to ride again?

My trip last year to Crescent City was an effort to get in the last ride as it were before I had to deal with my neck issues. Not knowing the outcome I wanted to see as much on two wheels as possible before hand. I don't regret it at all. While I do think the quality could have been better on my part, allowing for more time or even trailering, I still would do it again.

If I couldn't ride again, some might suggest buying a convertible or sporty car (I should think I would want one anyway), or taking up some other activity as a replacement. This is where I break ranks and I think most would agree at this point that someone that would say this just doesn't get it. Riding isn't a hobby and it isn't really an addiction either. To those of us that like to "get out in the wind", it's bloody necessary and a convertible just doesn't cut it. For those of us that live in parts of the country where it snows a good part of the year, we understand that necessity and frustration.

For me, there would be no substitute as there isn't one. If you cannot ride, you probably cannot do other activities that would give the same joy and sensation. I think it would be just one long winter.

Final Drive: Epilogue - A Bridge Too Far

A Bridge Too Far is a 1977 movie about a WWII offensive called Operation Market Garden, where the allies had tried to capture several bridges that spanned the Rhine River. This would have allowed a quick invasion into Germany and an end to the war. While we now know the outcome of WWII, Market Garden was in fact a failure. In my previous articles (Zen and the Art of the Motorcycle Trip, Fear and Loathing in Crescent City and The Long Ride Home) about my trip to Crescent City California this past August, I discuss the trials, tribulations and other experiences during that trip and while ruminating about it for the last couple months, I have wondered if it was like A Bridge Too Far. Did I bite off more than I should have, or was it reasonable to attempt such a long trip without having much experience in touring?

While I was successful in getting to and from my destination without a major mishap, in retrospect there were a few things I could have done differently and some things I should have given more consideration. In the past, I have given people grief about trailering their bikes to rallies. I won't give anyone grief anymore. There's something to be said for arriving at a destination refreshed and ready to ride, not to mention I could have put a lot more miles on the bike out there than I did. I could have prepared better by taking smaller trips before hand to get used to riding the bike for more than an hour at a time. There is a big difference between commuting 30-40 miles a day, the occasional joy ride and then covering over 4200 miles in nine days. Finding your limits when a few days from home is not a comfortable feeling. Another thing that would have helped was doing some physical training too, but I'll explain my reluctance forthcoming.

The one thing I should have given more consideration was a preexisting condition that I had found out about the previous April. Actually the story goes back before that, back to the previous October. I had been training for The Iowa State Games to participate in the Strong Man competition. This involves several stages of a strength contest that you can find out about here. I thought I could be a modern day George Foreman, defying what the expectations are for a then 48 year old man.  Well, my quest for the king of defying gravity had come to a halt. I thought I had impinged the brachial plexus on my left side. This is also known as Thoracic Outlet Syndrome. The strength in my left arm had decreased to the point that I couldn't lift well (dumbell pressing movements were particularly revealing) and I had given myself almost two weeks off and went to the chiropractor. To give you an idea, I had been able to keep pace pretty much equally left to right with a hand gripper. Now with a #1 Captains of Crush, which is 140 pounds, I could do ten relatively easy reps with the right hand, but only five with the left. I had similar results with incline dumbbell presses as another example. Well, the chiropractic adjustment didn't go as well as I felt a shock down my arm when he adjusted my neck. I decided to take off three months to see if it would get better by itself as having this problem kills all upper body workouts.

The problem with my neck continued and I went to my physical therapist who said he wouldn't touch me and advised me to go to my primary doctor, who sent me for a MRI. Well, it turned out I have degenerative disc disease. I have bad disks between C4-C5 and C6-C7, stenosis and bone spurs. I had been getting headaches, pain down to under my shoulder blade and sometimes my arm, especially when I cough (and still do).  I went to a neurosurgeon to discuss the findings of the MRI and what my options are. Getting old sucks. I thought at best I would have had to wait until the following year for the Iowa Games if at all. I really wanted to do this. It was to be a last hurrah before accepting middle age. I went to another doctor, an orthopedic surgeon for a second opinion. Basically, he said I have a crappy neck for someone my age and surgery would make a sucky neck less sucky (those were his words, not mine).

So, the road leads in one direction, it's just a question of time to destination. If I do nothing, at some point I'll have very serious issues and you'll just call me hand truck man.  It's basically slowing down the process. This guy also recommended three levels of anterior fusion and decompression, but also said we'd be visiting the rest of the neck from the posterior down the road some time. So, I am done in a sense, from doing certain things, whatever that is. Mobility will be less, and I bet I will have to turn my body to see behind me instead of my neck. I will probably have four weeks home, a total of eight weeks in collar and four months until I am back to normal, whatever that is. On top of this, I also have disk issues L4/L5. I wonder if I can get a two for one deal?

Back to motorcycles. Because I was facing what I am facing, I decided to go on the motorcycle trip anyway. I felt that if I had the surgery in May like the doctor wanted, I might never ride again and certainly not until later in the year when the riding season is over anyway, which means I would have to wait until the following year. So I took the risk of not only not fixing the problem, but also taking the risk that if I had an accident that if I had no issues I would otherwise might walk away from, but I could end up like the ersatz Superman Mr Reeves. Was it foolish? May be. Hindsight is almost always 20/20. This also explains the goofy hand problems I was having on the road as well. Even now, my left arm fatigues much easier. Anyway, the end result of all of this is that I am going to get the surgery sometime next month.

So right now, my trusty steed, Hans Eric (my daughter Olivia's name for the bike) sits in the garage waiting for another day. I still have to put some Stabil® in the gas tank and put a trickle charger on the battery. This is the first time I will have to put a charger on any bike and to that end, I will have to go out, buy a charger and you'll see an upcoming article on winterizing a bike. I also promise NOT to dwell on medical issues as this is a column dedicated to owning, riding, maintaining a motorcycle and reflections on such, not an adventure into Münchausen Syndrome.  One positive thing that has come out of all of this in the last few months is that I have had to let go of a lot of things. I believe that not letting go is what causes a lot of people to go through what we call the "Midlife Crisis". Life is process that includes a lot of transitions that we have to make adjustments. One of those transitions is growing older and in that process we may find we don't have the same capabilities we had at 20 years old. Another is hanging onto expectations of what success in one's life should look like. It's a lot of baggage to carry around and I am glad to get rid of a lot of it. It doesn't mean I don't have dreams and desires, just that I've cleaned house in which I've kept what is important, gotten rid of what isn't and found a couple new ones. It's made all the difference.

Hans Eric Awaits...

Thank you for reading this blog. 

Final Drive: When Things Go Bad

What follows is a true story and the names have been changed to protect the guilty.

In the winter of 1992 a friend mine, Pete, had the bright idea of going into the specialty car business. His bright idea came shortly after inheriting what was at that time, a decent sum of money. His idea of “The Specialty Car Business” entailed buying a kit car, specifically one that is tailored after the AC Cobra. Pete, being the fiscally parsimonious type, decided against having it shipped to his house, but thought better of it and wanted to go out to Fargo North Dakota to pick up the car. Had this been after 1996 when the eponymous movie of this location came out, I would have had fair warning. Such was not the case.

At the time, I was between jobs, so Pete asked if I wouldn’t mind riding along. As long as I shared driving chores, he’d pay for the motels. Not being afraid of frugality, even if it wasn’t my own and always up for an adventure, I said yes. I should have known better. In February of 1992 we started off in Pete’s 1972 GMC K20 pickup, pulling a trailer that we would use to transport the kit car back. It was an open trailer, single axle if I recall correctly.

We left Long island in late January of that year and headed west on US 80 across Pennsylvania. The first sign of trouble came in Ohio. At a rest area, I decided to take a look under the hood, checking the oil and other pertinent vital signs as I was suspect of the truck due to it’s age, Pete’s general lack of concern for anything mechanical and his penchant for making a dollar chase a dime. To put this comedy in perspective, Pete graduated Embry Riddle with a degree in Engineering. Anyway, while checking things under the hood, I noticed that the coolant recovery tank, AKA radiator overflow tank was bubbling over. To those that work on cars, as I had,  one would make a couple assumptions: One, the thermostat was stuck or two, there’s a leaky head gasket somewhere on that engine that is pressurizing the cooling system, thereby forcing coolant out of the radiator. When I asked Pete about it, he said, “it does that all the time”. (Note to reader, when someone says this, while it may be true, use your better judgement.)

Like a true victim of Stockholm Syndrome, I went along with my captor, I mean companion, and said, “ok”. At that point, I figured I was already almost 500 miles from home, so I might as well continue on. What was the worse that could happen anyway, break down? If it did, I could always hop a Greyhound bus back to Long Island, so away we went. The trip out there was fairly uneventful as we stayed in Youngstown Ohio and Madison Wisconsin on our way out to Fargo. I had never been through the mid-west before, so it was a new experience for me. The people were much friendlier than back home as evidenced by the pretty girl tending the check-in at the flea bag motel we stayed at in Youngstown. I had never seen such a happy woman, particularly one that could pass for Jennifer Anniston’s sister and when questioned as to the source of her happiness, she said “you two are the first guys I have seen all night”. Well, that made me completely forget about the radiator overflow. The way I saw it, a sharp New Yorker could be running this place in no time and things were looking up.

Well, things weren’t looking up for long. In fact they were looking up for only another 48 hours or so. On a cold night riding across the Red River Bridge from Moorhead to Fargo on I 94, I looked out the side view mirror as a normal check and I saw a large white plume exiting the left exhaust pipe. A quick check of the passenger side view mirror revealed that a plume was not exiting the right side exhaust (the truck had true dual exhaust). In a very short amount of time I surmised that not only was something amiss, but that indeed, we had struck water and in the worst possible way. Luckily, we were at our final destination, so we stopped at a Select Inn in Fargo and pulled for the night. The radiator was down coolant, which confirmed my intuition, in my mind. I would have to wait until morning for further diagnosis as Pete would go to the new owner orientation at the the manufacturer of the kit car, while I worked on the truck.

The next day, and remember this was the end of January so the temperature was in the negative territory, I pulled the plugs and sure enough, cylinder #7 spouted green. I contacted Pete with the bad news and told him that I’d have to remove the heads for root cause analysis, which I did. It turned out that Pete’s 4 bolt 350 was in fact a 2 bolt 305. The hint was the lightweight head castings and it was confirmed not only by the bore diameter, but by the fact that the head gaskets were indeed head gaskets for a 350 as the bore diameter of the head gasket was 4 inches versus 3.736 for the 305. Whoever had done the engine work believed it was a 350, but never questioned gap between the bore and the head gasket. The head gasket was blown around the water passage at 1 o’clock, which was leaking into piston #7, which is on the driver’s side, all the way in the rear. We were able to have the heads milled, proper head gaskets procured and I reassembled the top end of the engine, again in subzero weather. I cannot say enough about the fine folks from North Dakota and Manitoba Canada, who came out to see if I was alright and offered me hot chocolate and coffee.

This particular incident was a tremendous learning experience for me on many levels. While it was fortunate that I was able to perform the repairs and we had the tools to do so, the incident did not have to happen. Bad things do indeed happen to all of us, sometimes through no fault of our own, but this one was preventable. First off, taking a 20 year old vehicle halfway across the country should have been thought through more thoroughly. Pete didn’t have the truck long and he obviously didn’t know it well in terms of what worked, what didn’t and what needed attention. The coolant recovery tank bubbling was a hint. I will say I take some of the blame, because I did know better and didn’t act on it forcefully enough, but I think I paid for that by fixing the vehicle, which taught me a lesson, which is, if something is wrong and you know it, say so with extreme prejudice. When I discovered the first evidence of a problem, We should have turned around in Ohio as we would have made it home. Hind sight is always 20-20.


My advice for taking a trip with any vehicle is:

• Know thy vehicle. If you are mechanically inclined and do your own maintenance, go over the vehicle extensively, to be sure that it is ready for the trip. Do all routine maintenance and inspect everything that you could reasonably think might break or fail. If you are not mechanically inclined, have a trusted mechanic go over the vehicle and service it prior to the trip. 

•  Buy some sort of road side assistance through the AAA or your insurance policy. Also, I would advise that you should budget money for repairs that could arise on the road, especially if the vehicle is not under any manufacturers warranty. If you can’t afford to fix it on the road, you probably shouldn’t be there.

• If you are mechanically inclined as I am, bring tools along, and I would also suggest a repair manual as well. Trust me, unless you fix cars day in and day out, you won’t remember torque specifications, torquing sequences and other specifications that may be important in a repair. Also bring along a Volt/Ohm Meter, some wiring, various solder-less connectors,  fuses if your vehicle uses them and electrical tape. 

• I would also suggest a scan tool for the computer. On today’s vehicles, they are almost a mandatory diagnostic tool when troubleshooting problems with a vehicle. Two overlooked items are food and water. Bottled water is cheap, so having a couple litres shouldn’t be a problem. As far as food goes, jerky is something that works well, as does other dried foodstuffs that can keep without refrigeration. MRE’s (Meals Ready to Eat) are favored by some as well. These are food rations used by the military for field use. While not as good as eating at Emeril’s, they are more than sufficient in a pinch.  

• I would also suggest not only having a cell phone, but a laptop as well with a cell card, MiFi or a cell phone that can tether.  Google is a great asset when trying to figure out what is wrong and manuals or other information on your vehicle can be stored digitally on your laptop. In those cases where you are out of cell range in the middle of nowhere, SPOT (http://www.findmespot.com/en/) has satellite products that can save your bacon in an emergency. 

• Last but not least, make sure someone knows where you are going, when you are leaving, and when you are expected to return.

Final Drive: The Long Ride Home

Pashnit - CA 36

Ross and I left Crescent City Thursday morning and headed back out on CA 199 towards Grant's Pass and on to Medford and beyond. On our return trip we decided to take the most direct route possible in order to save a few hours. After passing Medford on I 5, we pulled over for gas in Ashland Oregon. Ross thought it was a good idea to take OR 66 as a shortcut to Lakeview Oregon so we could pick up route 140 to NV 95 and head to Winnemucca Nevada, where we would pick up I 80. I wanted to go farther down I 5, get off at route 89 and head towards CA 395, which would take us to Reno, where they have the world famous Awful Awful burger at the Little Nugget Diner. Of course this would have put us about 170 miles west of Winnemucca, which is about two and half hours in travel time. Word to self: There's no such thing as a shortcut, not in this life, nor in the next one.

Between my frayed goofy hands and the layout of the road, I would welcome the end of that day. About 10 miles after Ashland, there are a series of curves that are almost switchbacks, climbing in altitude, with no guardrail and not a lot of bargaining room either. On one of the turns, a left-hander, a car came around and much to my surprise, two squids attempting to pass the car. At that point I had a few thoughts passed through my mind. One, I wasn't going to try hang-gliding a 570 lb motorcycle into the wild blue yonder, so the choices were predicated on what the squids did next. If they kept tight with the car, I could get around them, if not, I would impale their skinny worthless asses with fine German engineering. Luckily, the first situation presented itself. Outside of a 20 mile stretch of crushed stone where they were repaving the highway and a couple misses with mule deer, things would get better, but it wasn't an easy road to make time on.

El Aguila Real - Bobblehead Biker

Getting to Lakeview seemed interminable. What was only 282 miles probably took seven hours. My route would have added about 80 miles to Winnemucca, but I have to wonder, which one would have taken longer? At the end of that day it really didn't matter. I was happy to be done with it. Ross and I checked into the Freemont Inn in Lakeview, which was pricey for what it was, but at least I could lay down and relax before dinner. It was already past my dinnertime, but there was a Mexican restaurant a couple blocks away. While it doesn't look like much, it was pretty good and probably the best bet at that time. The best part was the Dos Equis, although I wasn't feeling up to being the "Most Interesting Man In The World". Sometime during dinner, a well weathered gal sauntered into El Aquila Real wearing technical gear that told me she must ride some sort of enduro or adventure bike. She looked as rugged as the landscape and my journalism instincts, if I had any, told me there must be a story there, but it was getting late and I wanted nothing more than to hit the hay. Unfortunately, that would not be the case. Upon getting back to the motel, I found that the internet access sucked. Being the inquisitive techie suffering from internet withdrawal, I decided to take a look see as I had seen a wiring closet on the way to our room. From what I could tell using Netstumbler, I came to the conclusion that one of the WiFi access points was down. Oh well. I would have to sit in the lobby to check my email and get my internet fix, although the hotel manager was appreciative that I troubleshot his wireless problems. I suppose getting tech help in that part of the country is hard to find.

Sin City Stan, Teri Conrad and Noel Burke - Stan Folz and Joel Schneekloth

There was some bad news that night. A couple riders crashed their bikes, bringing the total to three that had crashed their bikes on the way, during or after the trip to the Rally in the Redwoods. Sin City Stan was the first, crashing his Nomad on 299 I believe, totaling the bike with him and his wife getting banged up. I found out that night that Noel "Badger" Burke and Teri Conrad crashed as well. While Noel totaled his Nomad, he wasn't hurt bad, but Teri did not fair so well. I believe she dislocated her left hip, broke her right ankle and banged up her right knee while riding in Oregon. Not a good end to a trip and being far from home has to suck. It seems that every rally I've been to has had at least one spill and some a few, so may be it is to be expected, but it's something I really don't want to get used to hearing about.

The next day came quickly and I was looking forward to getting back on the road and out of there. There was a contingent of Goldwing riders that were staying at the motel, all with the latest generation of the Goldwing and all from Canada, the province of Alberta if I recall. They were heading to San Diego by way of Las Vegas. After riding through part of Nevada, I agree that what happens in Vegas should stay there. I think the state motto is Gambling, Drinking and more Gambling. You could find yourself in a ghost town and it would have functioning slot machines in the abandoned saloon. They even have superstores for liquor. I get the feeling that the temperance movement in the last century must have skipped Nevada. Not that I blame them. After riding NV 140, NV 95 and I 80 through the state, all I saw was tumble weed, jackrabbits, liquor stores and gambling. It was also hot as hell or nearly so. According to Cactus Jack, hell is a little farther south in Arizona. I'll take his word on it. Arizona is hot as well. We did run into some tumbleweed and Ross got a real nice gash on his shin that went through his jeans. I was glad I had tall riding boots on as the tumbleweed was and would be of no consequence for me. Before getting on I80, Ross and I stopped for gas at the Sinclair on the eastern end of town. We were quite surprised to see a man walking around the store in his underwear. At first I thought may be some indigent was perusing the isles looking for a freebee or may be it is some sort of Nevadan midday ritual that is required to remove the evil spirits acquired from a night out of gambling and drinking. Of course I was wrong on both counts. It was the owner of the store and husband of the woman working behind the counter. They must have different cultural norms in Pakistan or whatever south Asian country from where these people came.

NV 140 - Joel Schneekloth

Getting on I 80 was a relief as we could haul ass and make time. We had hoped to make Salt Lake City by that night. Riding across Nevada was uneventful except for an uneventful stop for gas in Elko, before hitting the salt flats in Utah. Temps had been in the low 100's in this section of the trip and I shed my leather jacket so as to keep cool. Even so, I was pretty warm and my arms were pretty red from the sun. The one thing I will advise to anyone riding in the desert heat is to keep well hydrated. I try to drink a two to one ration of water to Gatorade when out riding and it seems to serve me well. I probably drank close to a gallon a day without needed to go to the bathroom when in high temps, so that tells you how much fluid is lost just sitting on a bike.

Bonneville Salt Flats - Ross Chess

Coming down the hill in West Wendover, the highway lines up with the runway on the air force base and for an instant, I thought I'd be going down there for take off. Once past the border of Nevada and Utah, the road becomes flat and straight going across the Bonneville salt flats. To some, images of The World's Fast Indian might come to mind, but at this point all I could think about was motel, food and bed in that order. The one thing I didn't count on was the wind. Holy smokes does it get windy on I80 going across Utah. I felt like I had to put the bike at a 45 degree angle to stay in my lane. Of course it wasn't 45 degrees, but the wind was bad enough that I kept to the right lane as the wind was coming from the south and riding in the left lane was problematic when trucks would disturb the airflow to the extent that it really threw me off. I'd have to say the wind was more than a constant 50 mph and it was so strong that I remember riding through Stansbury and the water was getting blown off the lake  and it was spraying me to the point it was like rain. By the time we reached the Comfort Inn in Salt Lake City, near the airport, I was pretty much shot. Ross and I were so beat that we decided to skip dinner, but I ran out for beer and chips at Roy's Phillips 66 on Admiral Byrd Blvd. It was like an expedition too and I recall the guy working behind the counter giving me the more than once over as if he though I was already in the bag or wondered if I was going to rob the place. I must have been a sight to see for sure.

Buford Wyoming - Jenny Glenn

The next morning, after a visit to the lobby for a complementary breakfast (something Comfort Inn does well with) we were ready to take off on the next leg of the trip home. With over 550 miles the day before, I was looking forward to another 540 plus miles that day heading to Sidney Nebraska, while Ross would be splitting off at I 25, heading south to Lafayette Colorado to visit with a friend, which would make his day almost 530 miles. We took off at 8 AM and headed into somewhat busy traffic on I 80 and on our way up I 80 around Park City, Ross and I became separated as he likes to ride a little more vigorously than I do at times. We didn't connect again until I stopped in Rock Springs for fuel, which was 166 miles later. At this stop, we agreed to stop in Rawlins for lunch and continue on from there.

Traveling across Wyoming seemed almost interminable as Nebraska at times, mostly because I just wanted to get home and also because a lot of it isn't very attractive, at least not on the I 80 corridor. It's quite a bit different than Jackson Hole, that is for sure If you've ever traveled any great distance, it seems that the closer to home one gets the more impatient one becomes. It's sort of an inverse relationship and between my goofy hands, increasingly sore ass and impatience, I was starting to fray around the edges a little bit. Luckily, Ross and I stopped in Buford, the smallest town in America, so he could fuel up and we could say our goodbyes. While using the rest rooms I was treated to what I would describe as a combination of comic relief and the twilight zone. While using the rest room standing up, a gentleman entered and went to use the stall with the stool. I was treated to an autodidact in a rural accent of pretty good New York dialect. From what I could tell, the gentleman probably had tourette's syndrome and possibly worse, although I was glad he wasn't pissed at me and god help whoever he was pissed at.

After saying our good byes, Ross and I rode off and he split off at the I 25 interchange near Cheyenne, where I continued on to Sidney Nebraska for my last night on the road. At this point I increased velocity to about 85 mph and set the cruise control. The interesting thing is that I got the best mileage of the trip on the stretch from Rawlins to Sidney, which is a 250 mile stretch and I used three quarters of a tank for 51 mpg. Not bad for the speeds and 400lb load of rider and gear. At this point in the trip, I had a different kind of anticipation . Instead of worrying about being able to do it, I was impatient to get home. The closer I got to home, the more impatient I became. The weather would temper that as I ran into the edge of a storm going across Nebraska on my last day on the road. It was windy, overcast with threatening skies that remind one of tornado weather. The one thing I hate about riding in the rain is lightning. I finally ran into rain and stopped at a McDonald's in Aurora Nebraska to wait it out. I was still 250 miles from home, but I knew that I would be home that day. A quick text home revealed that it was raining there and it was raining in Aurora too, so I put on my rain gear and decided to head out. By the time I got to Lincoln, the weather had cleared and traffic picked up, but so did my pace. I had never felt so relieved as when I crossed the Missouri river into Iowa. It was a combination of joy, relief, anticipation and contentment on some level. Some might say even cathartic. I got off I 80 in Council Bluffs to fill up on gas and get my rain gear off. At that point, I was close enough to home I felt I could walk it if I had to, even if I was still another 120 miles from my home. Riding back on I 80, the bike and I hummed along at 80 mph, where the road was just flowed beneath me and I really wasn't aware of it. It reminded me of flying in a single engine airplane. I had a lot to think about on this trip and I will visit with it in an epilogue that will be forthcoming in a couple posts. My next post will be about another expedition I did almost 20 years ago, entitled, "When things go bad". Until then, keep the shiny side up.