What blog?

Do I camp?

2010-09-05T15:05:00.000-04:00

Another question I get, do I camp?

Do I camp? How can I answer this question? Let’s see… in the grand tradition of my Jewish ancestry perhaps I will answer it with another question. Are you insane?

No, I don’t camp! I don’t like bugs! I don’t like sleeping on the ground! I don’t like smelling like the ground! I don’t like wide temperature fluctuations while I sleep. Or getting eaten by animals. Or having to walk down a path to use a community bathroom… or worse… there is no bathroom, just a path… and maybe not even that! I also don’t like having to pack up my entire bedroom, including the walls, after I wake up in the morning.

And I certainly don’t like encountering the other campers. For one thing, they smell like the ground. For another, they have very dirty feet which for some reason are always in plain view.

Oh, and anything that requires me to hang my food from a tree so that I’m not killed in my sleep is not for me.

Camping, I might add, is different from MOTORCYCLE camping. Camping, when one is traveling by automobile and can carry hundreds of pounds of food and gear, is vastly different than camping while on a motorcycle journey where one has trouble finding space for an extra pair of socks.

No to mention that no one has ever had to call the Coast Guard or the Forest Service to help them find their way out of a Days Inn. No one has ever needed a search party to bring them back from the hot tub at a Best Western or the vending room at a Super Eight. No sir, the only people who get lost in the wilderness are people who at some point were in possession of a mess kit.

Do you know how long I would survive in the wilderness? About an hour and a half. A little longer if I had some porn.

I couldn’t start a fire with anything less than a gallon of kerosene and a self-lighting propane torch. I couldn’t figure out which plants were edible and which were poisonous until I ate a little of each and waited to see if I died.

I don’t know on which side of the tree moss grows, north or south. I’m not even sure I know what moss is. And even if I could figure out which way is north, I have no idea how that could be helpful. People in movies who get lost always have to figure out which way is north. Why is this?

I have no idea how to trap or otherwise kill an animal, and even if one surrendered to me I wouldn’t know how to butcher it. And even if I did know how to butcher it, I couldn’t. I have an unbelievably weak stomach and the very idea of cutting into the flesh of anything other than a watermelon gets me queasy. Not to mention that I’m a ridiculously picky eater. If you think I’m going to eat squirrel or rabbit, even to keep from dying, you’re mistaken. And where would one find an appetizer in the wilderness? Is there a way to hunt or trap a Caesar salad or a shrimp cocktail? You don’t really expect me to dive into my entrée without an appetizer or even some fresh bread to get me started, do you?

But I don’t think we have to worry about what I would be eating. This should come as no surprise, but I don’t think I would be much of a match for the predators out there. For example, I can’t recall which animals can climb trees and which can’t, and I imagine that’s the kind of thing you’d like to know before climbing a tree to get away from some stealthy killer who wants your connective tissue for that night’s dinner.

For some animals you’re supposed to stand still when you spot them and from some you’re supposed to run. I have no idea which is which, and anyway, it seems unlikely I could outrun ANY living creature, except maybe a one-legged turtle, and even then only if he’s nearsighted.

And here's one I love, you’re supposed to look for a cave in which to take shelter. Yea, right! Where does one look for a cave? Even if I found a cave I wouldn’t take shelter in it. I wouldn’t even look in it. Snakes take shelter in caves. Spiders and bats take shelter in caves. And worse than that, there might be another lost camper taking shelter in there who will want to tell me about the expensive yuppie Harley he has back home.

You look for a cave, I’ll look for a coffee machine. You look for a mollusk (rich in nutrients), I’ll look for some porn.

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Faux Band Bios

2010-09-04T23:59:00.000-04:00

BASS

Al spent fifteen years studying to be a Rabbi before learning from his parents that he wasn’t Jewish. Taking up the bass, he began to learn the music of Led Zeppelin, saying “They seemed like a logical choice, since they weren’t Jewish either.”

Al collects seashells, prominently displaying them in a glass case in his home. His collection currently contains three shells, and he hopes to double that amount over the next ten years. He is also a bit of an amateur chef, preparing such dishes as grilled cheese, cold sandwiches, and soup, sometimes combining two of those dishes to make a hearty and nourishing meal.

Al spends his weekends celebrity cloud watching, and recently saw a cloud that looked like Madonna looked right after her Borderline phase but BEFORE the Material Girl phase. He also is proud that his first name contains the least amount of letters of anyone in the band, and even in the real Led Zeppelin.

Bass playing is a welcome change for Al from his career doing something or another for some company, and he hopes one day to make enough money playing the bass to retire from his day job, but doesn’t think it will happen anytime soon, seeing as he just can’t live on two hundred dollars a month.

GUITAR

Woody began playing the guitar over seventy-five years ago, when in a former life he studied music under famed jazz guitarist Joger Kofka, considered by many to be the twenty-fifth best jazz guitarist of that period.

Woody is the father of four children who live in another state and know him by another name. He plans to reunite with his children when “hell freezes over” or when a court-order forces him to.

A life-long fan of Jimmy Page, Woody traveled to Australia to meet his musical hero, learning fifteen minutes into a twenty-four hour flight that Jimmy Page actually lived in England.

As a hobby, Woody hunts really, really small game, such as field mice and turtles, neither of which is really game (the noun), but Woody claims not to know that. He also enjoys making snowmen, but finds the season too short to really master the art. He hopes to own his own snow-making machine one day, as soon as he pays off his Marshall stack, which is currently doing double duty, acting as his stage rig as well as his apartment.

Woody is very close with his mother, but admittedly not as close as when she was breastfeeding him, something she did until he was eleven. Odder still is that she was his foster mom.

KEYBOARDS

Keyboardist Andrew is proud of his use of all ten fingers (including the fourth finger and the pinky) while playing the great music of Led Zeppelin, but was disappointed to learn that Zeppelin didn’t do the song Dust in The Wind, as he was looking forward to playing it with the band and had spent a few hours learning it on the piano.

Andrew has played along with the CDs of some of the biggest names in the music business, including The Rolling Stones (16 letters) and some of the shortest names, The Who (six letters), for example. He does not sign autographs, but would consider it, if asked.

A keen negotiator, when purchasing his Kurzweil PC-88 he talked the dealer into throwing in the black keys for free. He has yet to use the black keys, but is convinced that one day they will come in handy. Also, a natural born skeptic, Andrew really can’t believe it’s not butter.

When not performing with Swan Song, Andrew (known as Andrew) designs and manufactures “Will Work For Food Signs”, and has such diverse hobbies as posting huge rewards for the recovery of imaginary pets, and full-contact origami. He gives back to the community by reminding homeless people that they should be happy: no overhead, but feels that any other charitable work would be counterproductive since he despises people.

VOCALS

Patrick’s mother reports that he began singing while still in her womb. Nicknaming him “The Golden Larynx”, his family couldn’t be prouder that he now replicates the voice of Robert Plant, although his father believes that a Paddy O’Neil tribute band would be just as exciting.

Patrick is also an artist whose main course of study has been the great French masters, but Patrick puts a new twist on their work by drawing updated versions of their subjects. His “Mona Lisa as Hippie Chick” is breathtaking.

Patrick is a meatatarian, choosing to eat meat but not vegetables, saying that, “Meat is meant to be eaten, that’s what it tastes so good. But vegetables are meant to be seen, that’s why they look so good.”

He has won numerous titles in shadowboxing and is politically active, working hard recently on an attempt to make Delaware the fifty-first state.

Patrick sleeps with his microphone under his pillow.

DRUMS

Mike began playing the drums when William Ludwig and Avedis Zildjian were still in diapers, although Mr. Ludwig has gotten very old and is now again in diapers.

Mike has studied every aspect of the great John Bonham’s career and plays an exact replicate of John Bonham’s drum kit, including the cigarette ash on the floor. A machinist by trade, Mike often hand-makes pieces of his drum equipment during company hours instead of his doing what he’s supposed to be doing.

A keen observer of human nature, Mike keeps track of the audience members who go to the bathroom during the drum solo of Moby Dick and later appears at their homes to perform the solo on their heads. He is also an avid supporter of the legalization of marijuana, and for finding an easier way to spell marijuana. Mike currently uses marijuana for medicinal reasons, which he defines as “getting fucked up.”

He can perform a note for note reproduction of every Led Zeppelin song ever recorded, looks exactly like John Bonham before he got fat, and plans on one day choking to death on his own vomit.

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August 2010 complete blog... The Love Machine Rides Alone...

2010-09-01T23:07:00.002-04:00

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Pre-Blog

Well, it’s almost time to powder my balls. Previous readers and fellow long-distance motorcyclists (who are male… and who have balls) will know to what I’m referring. That cool, white powder that keeps you cool and comfortable. Not cocaine, the other one. No, not meth, either.

And it means a variety of other things. I like to tell folks before I depart that I’ll be riding around the country for the next month, not because I’m a braggart, but because I like to remind folks to TRAVEL! (And over the years some people have indeed been inspired to travel after learning that I must make an EFFORT to take that time off! As much as I love riding around the country on my bike, it’s easy to find excuses to put it off or avoid it altogether. One must put a little EFFORT into living their life!)

Amongst the many things people say when they learn I’ll be riding state to state until I hit the Golden gate (aside from advice on how to ride my bike) is the offer for me to stay with their friends or relatives. Ah, that’s sweet… that’s generous… that’s thoughtful… THAT’S MORONIC! Are you crazy? I don’t even stay with MY friends or relatives! I don’t even LIKE my friends! I most certainly am not going to crash on the couch of your old college pal, Ned, whom you haven’t seen in twenty years and only recently reconnected with… on Facebook. Nor do I want to stay with your Aunt Frieda (“who’s a great cook” you claim). Let me tell you something, most restaurants aren’t clean enough for me, I can guarantee you that Ned’s house is not clean enough for me to sleep in let alone eat!

My guess is that like many people’s houses, Ned’s house reeks from cat piss, has animal hair and cat food all over the freakin’ place, and hasn’t been dusted since they made settlement. And not to say I’m a picky eater, but actually I’m a VERY picky eater! I don’t want the generic crap Ned and his lovely wife Betty buy at the Pathmark because it’s marked down. Nor do I want food that comes from a can and is measured in POUNDS. Like Albert Brooks said in the film ‘Mother’, “I like my cheese in the ounces.”

As for your Aunt Frieda, yes, she is a good cook… if you like food boiled in chicken fat and guaranteed to clog an artery at about the same time you’re getting a cavity from her carrot cake… which is about an hour after you’ve finished eating. I may have to bring a heart doctor and a dentist with me just to survive dinner at Aunt Frieda’s, and a team of environmental clean-up specialists to have dinner at Ned’s. It’s a little hard to enjoy a plate of Ned’s Kraft Macaroni & Cheese while wearing a white EPA-approved suit, complete with oxygen mask and gloves.

(Speaking of clothing, I’ve vowed for the nine thousandth time that I shall not over pack! Tennis shoes and cashmere sweater… not this time. Monocle and top hat… forget it. Bright red “Al Sharpton” track suit and cowboy boots… hell, yea!)

Another reason I refuse to stay with anybody (as if the fact that I despise people isn’t reason enough) is that there’s nothing comfortable or enjoyable about staying in a stranger’s home, or anybody’s home, really. Aside from the filth, stench, and questionable exterminating practices, there’s that little matter of SOUND! Yes, SOUND! I like quiet! I like the ABSENCE of conversation! I like to watch the weather channel and write my blog while wearing my boxers shorts in the comfort of my air conditioned hotel room, interrupted only by the occasional sound of the white trash couple in the room next door screaming at their kids or the obese bastard in the room upstairs stomping around like a bull in heat. These are noises to which I’ve become accustomed over the years. I DO NOT want to hear Ned and his third wife doing the nasty (ESPECIALLY when it sounds like Ned isn’t doing the driving, if you know what I mean). Nor do I want to hear through the paper-thin walls the sound of Aunt Frieda’s flatulent husband belching and groaning and coughing and hacking his way through a sleepless night after forty years of two-packs-a-day and a steady diet of chicken fat.

And let’s not forget the worst sound of all… conversation. Oh, sweet mother of god. I could write an entire blog JUST about the conversations I have. From the moronic to the boring to the predictable to the maddening. It’s relentless. Every where I go some bonehead wants to give me motorcycle-riding advice (“it’s the other guy I worry about”); or tell me about his Harley and how much he spent on chrome; or tell me the details of the motorcycle trip HE took once, yes, ONCE; or suggest ways for me to save money, like by dining at the local soup kitchen (“it’s not that good, but it’s cheap”) or by staying with his friend Ned; or they want to tell me about things wholly unrelated to motorcycling and about which I simply couldn’t care less: “My Uncle had a bike. Had to sell it though cause the guy he was working for laid him off. It wasn’t like the guy didn’t have the work, but he was getting’ divorced and he didn’t want his old lady to see how much income he was making. I told him he should just get a better divorce lawyer, but he was drinking that night and I was drinking that night, and then we went fishing and he was worried he was gonna lose the boat in the divorce, and, man, honestly? That was a nice boat. It had two motors, but if you put ‘em both on full blast---not that I ever drove it cause I have a lazy eye and it messes up my perif… my prifffer… my vision out the side of my eye. I’m supposed to wear glasses, and I was for a while, but then, you know that little screw that holds the side of the glasses on, the part that goes over your ear? Hey… are you drinking that gasoline? What’s the matter with you, buddy?”

There are other advantages to staying in a hotel. Hotels have wonderful amenities that private homes do not: hot tub, pool, vending machines, A STACK OF TOWELS!, wireless internet, a private bathroom, spank-o-vision, air conditioning, and in the morning I can leave the place in just about any condition I choose. Try leaving Aunt Frieda’s guest bedroom with sixteen damp towels and five empty bags of Doritos on the bed (not to mention using one of her hand towels to wipe the bugs from my windshield). Oh, and do Aunt Frieda and Ned offer me reward points like Best Western does? A gift card for a hundred bucks and two free nights at the end of my trip is pretty sweet.

Let’s see… what else can I complain about before embarking on my journey (which is where the REAL complaining begins!). Oh, here’s a good one. Everyone knows I write a daily blog detailing my journey and yet some of them INSIST on emailing, calling or texting me to ask where I am, what I’m doing, and where I’m headed next. Don’t get me wrong, I love text messaging (especially when pictures of body parts are involved), but why are you asking me what you know damn well I’m going to answer in my blog? It’s like calling the news station at 4:55 PM and saying, “So, anything interesting happen today?”

In previous blogs I’ve covered the subjects of “do I camp” and the people who advise me of the dangers of motorcycling (both of those essays are posted on my blog page), and so I won’t bore you with those details again.

I also know some readers are quite upset with me for not posting the final blog of last summer’s journey with Poncho (Chip), (the one where I made him spit out his water with one perfectly-delivered line), so hopefully I will write that bit while I’m on this journey, and last August me and the famous Ragnar (Lou) rode up to Labrador and New Foundland (750 miles of gravel road through the Quebec wilderness!) and I didn’t write a blog for that trip at all because the trip itself was far too grueling, and so I hope to write some reports reflecting on that journey. (The word “gravel” doesn’t do it justice. It was more like ball bearings slathered in butter. Momma mia!)

Anyway, it’s time to pack, load the bike, and powder my balls!

Remember, if you see a handsome devil on a black Harley, give a wave! It won’t be me, but it’s nice to be friendly! If you see a homely-looking fella on black Harley, that’ll probably be me. Skip the wave.

Blog One Hazleton

Ah, the lure of the open road... the urge to ride four or five hundred of miles in a single day to who knows where. Far away lands, strange places with even stranger people. Adventure... new experiences... new challenges. Sounds exciting, doesn’t it? Well, not tonight. The trip has begun, but I’ve only ridden a hundred miles to Hazleton, PA, where I sit comfortably ensconced in a semi-clean Best Western. I’m a prolific writer by any standard, but I’m not sure how much I can write about a ride that was two hours along a route I’ve ridden a million times... (the last time was this past Saturday).

Fortunately, I have a wealth of subjects from which to choose and then write about it. And I don’t just mean faucets and water heaters.

Previous readers of my blogs might recall my disdain for GPS units. Not really disdain, more like hatred. For I had navigated my way to and from 49 states and everywhere in between with nothing but 3 x 5 cards that I would clip inside the flap of my leather windshield bag. I rarely got lost and I always had fun. Last summer, when Poncho rode with me he brought his GPS along. Upon seeing it for the first time I swore that if I saw again at any time during our trip I would wrestle it from his hands and smash it into a million pieces. Well, let’s just say that a month or two after returning from that trip, when Ragnar accompanied me to Labrador and Newfoundland, he said, upon seeing my shiny new GPS, that if he saw it again on our trip he would wrestle it from my hands and smash it into a million pieces.

“You’re preaching to the choir,” I told him. “No one has hated GPS more than I, my friend, but I’ve discovered that IF USED PROPERLY, it can only help us, not hurt us.”

He was, just as I had been, skeptical, to say the least. He didn’t want no damn machine tellin’ him where to ride and what route to take. Me and him started riding together when I was 19 years old and we’ve taken many cross-country trips together. We’ve also gotten lost together.

Regardless, he didn’t want to be bothered with all that technology crap. Just give him a map and he’ll get us there. Which is true. But I reminded him of the many times we sat on the shoulder studying a map to find a new route around a closed road, or around a ton of traffic, or around a poorly-chosen route that had too many towns or lights or whatever. He wasn’t buying it.

On day two of the trip, in French-speaking Quebec, he got a tear in his seat (his bike only has 125 thousand miles on it) and I used the GPS to get us to not one, but THREE auto parts stores until he found the repair kit he wanted. He GRUDGINGLY admitted that the GPS was indeed handy... assuming you were someplace where no one spoke English.

Then I used it to bypass a town, taking us along a beautiful country road, and later that night I used it to find us a great restaurant. By day three, he was asking me things like, “Ask the GPS how far it is to the next gas stop” and “Ask the GPS if there’s an Italian restaurant nearby”.

So now he’s sold and I’m sold. Of course, I simply don’t enter my destination and let the GPS get me there. That would blow. No, I still plot my own route on a map, choosing scenic roads (green-dot roads in the Rand McNally atlas), and I still write down the routes on a 3 x 5 card. But the GPS is quite a helpful tool... if used properly.

(And as usual, I’m reminded that being close-minded and stubborn, ESPECIALLY about something that I haven’t even TRIED, is foolish of me. Although I’m sticking to my guns on the cross-dressing thing.)

Hazleton, PA. What is there to say about Hazleton that hasn’t already been said about West Virginia? A blue collar town if there ever was one. A coal town (although the mines closed up years ago). Downtown Hazelton (Main Street) is made up of mostly closed up storefronts and the shells of former huge department stores. The stores that remain in business are the usual mix of unambitious pizza joints, auto parts places, shoe stores, pool halls, and of course the ever-present corner bars, which can be taken to mean that they are in fact on every corner.

(It makes me wonder how one chooses a corner bar when there’s so many from which to choose. Surely décor isn’t a factor, for none of these bars have had any renovations or redecorating since the early ‘70s---although I suppose we should be thankful that I mean the 1970s.) Bars in these financially-depressed towns are quite interesting, and not in a fun way. There’s not a lot of spending going on or any type of real revelry. Bars here do exactly what they’re intended to do. They serve booze. Cheap booze, for sure, but booze. No one asks for a martini or a white-Russian, and no one hear has ever heard of a digestiff or an aperitif. (Although they do often order Effen vodka, but it has nothing to do with the brand name, Effen Vodka.)

It’s a place where people come to drink and get blotto in the company of their neighbors. Some, anyway. Others come to get blind drunk and stagger home. These are small town bars. Everyone makes it home no matter HOW drunk they are.

If I sound like I’m being mean or critical, I’m not. These towns are far behind the times. They’re struggling to stay afloat and their citizenry has learned to drown their sorrows or pass the time by drinking. You see a lot of women with bouffant hairdos and a lot of men wearing Wrangler jeans and having Elvis Presley-style sideburns. And you see a lot of people with missing or rotted teeth. The hotel desk clerk had a 1962 hairdo and rotted teeth, and I wanted to take her picture and post it to my blog but she was so helpful and kind that I didn’t have the heart.

Tomorrow, I will take back roads through the beautiful Pennsylvania up to the famous Route 6, and then stay on Route 6 to Ohio. Cleveland, Ohio, to be exact, where I will revisit the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and cast my critical eye on the displays, making certain that that whole Haight and Ashbury crowd isn’t getting a disproportionate amount of display place. Last time I was there one might have thought that the Jefferson Airplane was more successful and influential than the Beatles. Damn hippies.

Blog Two Ohio

I was up at an astonishingly early 8:30 AM (which means “in the morning”). They were calling for thunderstorms in central PA and I wanted to get west as quickly as possible and miss them---which I did (with a big thanks to my six gallon gas tank... over two hundred miles before I have to refuel!).

Although I must confess that the weather wasn’t my only motivation for waking up (or at least getting out of bed) at that ungodly hour. Sadly, I was thinking of the complimentary breakfast in the hotel lobby, served from six to nine AM.

Garbage. It’s PURE garbage... barely even food! And yet there I was, one of many cheapskate guests, barely awake, barely coherent, crowded around a fold-up table that was covered with food-like substances that are almost entirely devoid of nutritional value. Worse, I jostled and jockeyed for position at the toaster, waiting for my bagel the size of a silver dollar to be toasted while guarding my microscopic bowl of Frosted Flakes that I had dispensed from a clear plastic machine and filled with milk that comes in a bag.

All the while I suspiciously eyed the white-trash rednecks that came staggering in like zombies... hair uncombed, faces unwashed, teeth un-brushed, bare, nasty feet clearly visible in their bedroom slippers and flip flops. Moments before this they had been sound asleep in their rooms and only the wake-up call they’d requested alerted them that the bonanza of (what was to them) epic proportions was coming to an end. Like refugees hearing of manna from---well, not quite heaven---they came to feed. I mentally castigated them for their lack of decorum and culture. Skanks. Every one of them. Low-life, white-trash, skuzzy---unpolished and uncouth. And I was, as usual, no better than those that I despised. For indeed I was amongst them and as them. I had greedily consumed two thousand calories of food-like substances that probably cost the hotel owner 35 cents... but I wandered out to my bike feeling like I just bet it all on snake-eyes and beat the house. But at least I’d brushed my teeth and washed my face before appearing in the lobby!

It was a spectacular day of riding through my home state of Pennsylvania. What a beautiful place! I took two-lane back roads up to Route 6 and then Route 6 all the way to Ohio. Great rolling hills, lush, green mountains, and twisty, curvy roads... Pennsylvania is kickin’ it!

Many folks describe Pennsylvania as Pennsyltucky, a reference to Pennsylvania being so rural that it’s like Kentucky (with the exception, of course, of Philadelphia and its suburbs). But this isn’t fair. Just because Pennsylvania is loaded with NASCAR-loving, gun-toting, camo-wearing, pick-up-truck-driving, deer-hunting, tobacco-chewing, teeth-rotting, redneck hillbillies (and that’s just the women) DOES NOT mean that it’s like Kentucky. It means it’s like West Virginia.

Pennsylvania does indeed have a large population of rednecks. I have no idea why this is so, but man is it true. I happen to love hillbillies and rednecks (to a point---I wouldn’t want to have a dinner party with them), and so I like to ride past the rusted school buses and old furniture that occupies the front lawn of so many Pennsylvania houses (and I use that word loosely). In all of my travels I marvel and delight at these types of homesteads. You’ve seen them. Piles and piles of junk and debris scattered haphazardly here and there, including the front porch. A washing machine, an old sofa, 18 plastic buckets that once held roofing cement, three rims for a truck, and a transmission from a 1978 Toyota Corolla... all within easy reach of the front door. Why?

And what the hell are all of these other things scattered around the yard? Huge hunks of rusting metal; giant plastic containers that once held something or another (now only holding rain water---a breeding ground for mosquitoes by the millions); machinery that appears to be integral to something else (and hence useless by itself); HALF of a car (literally); lawn equipment that almost certainly doesn’t operate (and if it does, it certainly hasn’t been used on the lawn on which it currently rests).

Wait... here’s an excerpt from my blog a few years prior, when I rode through Missouri:

What’s with all the shacks? Actual shacks that people live in! Where I come from if someone has a shack he keeps his lawnmower in it. These people LIVE in their shacks (which made me wonder where they keep their lawnmowers—until I spotted their lawnmowers either on the porch or somewhere on the lawn, usually at the end of a single swatch of mowed turf, the mower itself surrounded by overgrown lawn, abandoned in mid-mow as if the operator had to take a call, oh, about two years ago, and was still on the phone (if this was the case, it was probably a call from my Aunt Reese who could easily keep you on the phone for two years).

And junk! Where do they get all that junk to put around their shack? Old school buses, rusting cars, refrigerators—oh sorry, one of those refrigerators has an extension cord going to it... they actually use that one—but what about the six others? And fifty-five gallon drums, road signs, piles of construction debris… where did they get all that stuff? There’s tons of it! I would assume that these people are poor, but if I had to go out and buy all the stuff that they have surrounding their shacks I’m not sure I could afford it! And I don’t mean buy it NEW! I mean buy it in the condition it’s in!

And why are there so many abandoned shacks and mobile homes RIGHT NEXT to shacks and mobile homes in which people are living? Five feet away from an abandoned mobile home is a lived-in mobile home. And I know what you’re thinking, how do I KNOW they’re abandoned? Little things give it away, like there’s a wall missing. Or two walls missing. Or the roof has collapsed into the living room. Or someone has parked a car in the kitchen and then placed another car, upside down, on top of the first. Or part of the mobile home has burnt down and the other part has a tree growing out of it. (Actually, you’re right. I don’t know that they’re abandoned, I’m just assuming. How presumptuous of me.)

But still, why are they in such close proximity to each other? What did they do, first decide it was time to move and then have a house delivered and parked right next to the old house? “Put the new one on the left side of the old one, Marlin. Henry wants to be closer to the coast.”

I may have written that about Missouri, but it sure sums up Pennsylvania. Oh, and by the way, you can say or do anything in this part of Pennsylvania and no one will care, but say an unkind word about Joe Paterno and you, my friend, will not make it out alive. They love their Penn State football up here, and Joe Pa is slightly higher on the list of Gods than God himself.

Route 44 in Pennsylvania is a great twisty, two-lane, that runs clean through several state forests. Few towns, little traffic, and great curves. Encountering two Harley riders with their bikes loaded for a road trip and wearing their gay-ass leather jackets with the giant Harley logos on the back (it was only 87 degrees) who were riding at about 45 miles an hour through all these great curves, I had to pull into the oncoming lane and then right next to a pick-up truck that was literally five feet from the rear of one of the bikes and, uh, encourage him not to follow so closely. He was clearly tired of following these two novice riders down the mountain, but I don’t see how his tailgating them could have helped the situation. He couldn’t explain it either. The bikers was indeed riding like a nine-year old girl, but how he could have continued down that mountain, through all those curves, with that frustrated pick-up-truck driver riding his ass is completely beyond me. After my brief conversation with the pick-up truck driver at 45 MPH, I stayed in the oncoming lane and passed both the bikes, wondering if the bike in the rear had any idea what just took place behind him. If you allow yourself to be tailgated for ANY length of time, you do not know how to ride. You don’t necessarily have to confront the tailgater and threaten him with bodily injury, but you MUST get out of the situation. Otherwise, you have no one to blame but yourself if your dumb ass gets run over.

After Route 44 I rode the famous Route 6 to the Ohio border. Route 6 is supposed to be one of the most scenic roads in America. It’s not even one of the most scenic roads in Pennsylvania, in my opinion. I’ve ridden it many times, and one time I rode the entire length of it from the Jersey state border to the Ohio state border and folks, if you do a little exploring, you will find roads in Pennsylvania that are much nicer.

I arrived in Cleveland by six PM and would have went to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame tonight because they’re open till nine on Wednesdays, but somehow I thought it was Tuesday (when they close at five thirty). I also got off the interstate for absolutely no reason that I can think of several exits before the one for my hotel. I can’t imagine what I was thinking, but I found myself riding around a few neighborhoods in Cleveland and wondering how I got there. I guess I forgot the exit number.

Cleveland is a cool city. It’s a city like all others, for sure, but it has some really neat old buildings downtown, a beautiful waterfront along Lake Erie, and the people are pretty laid-back.

Tomorrow.. the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (I know I said that yesterday), and then the Motown Museum in Detroit, and then Midland, Michigan, with a ride up the coast of Michigan before heading inland. Should be a good day, if I don’t get flattened by a tractor trailer.

Blog Three Detroit

Another beautiful day of riding, made better by my not crashing! I was again up and at the complimentary breakfast by 8:45, this time enjoying a bowl of fruit loops. Wait! Before you pass judgment on my poor dietary choices, read the words again. Fruit Loops. FRUIT! As any fool knows, fruits and vegetables are the healthiest things you can eat. Apology accepted.

I had a nice conversation over breakfast with a fellow Harley rider and for once I didn’t want to choke him. He didn’t tell me how much money he spent on chrome nor did he define everything he’s done by mileage. He was headed out to Sturgis and was going to stop in Milwaukee later that day. Much later, I assure you. He didn’t think he would hit much traffic in Chicago, but I know better. In fact, he might STILL be sitting in Chicago traffic as I write this.

I made a quick blast down the interstate to downtown Cleveland, where I parked on the pier inches from the Great Lake. (Cleveland has such a cool downtown. Neat, clean, the people are nice, the drivers are calm, the buildings are awesome.) I wandered around the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame museum for about an hour and a half and had a great time. I was hoping to have some “Love Me Chicken Tenders” or some “Back in Black Bean Soup” in their restaurant but it wasn’t yet open. (Or maybe a “You Ain’t Nothin’ But A Hot Dog” or a... stop groaning, I’m on a roll... “Hey Sloppy Joe”. How about a... “Here Comes The Sunny Side Up Omelet” or a slice of “Behind Blue Berry Pies”. Ok, I’ll stop.)

I left there and headed west on Route 2. I love this section of road. It’s a clean bit of four-lane—no trucks allowed—with a great many sweeping but still rather sharp curves. You can see the waterfront and the boats and the lake the whole time you’re riding. Every time I’m here, that road is cool and comfortable and the scenery is great. I love it.

I made my way over to Detroit and to the Motown Museum... Hitsville USA! Studio A! I can’t remember what the displays were last time I was there, but this time there was a whole lot of Michael Jackson and Jackson Five stuff. Snore. But to stand where James Jamerson played his bass, in the same tiny studio where all that incredible music was made, is quite enough to make me happy.

Cleveland is a city only barely. It’s nice, it’s clean, it’s friendly. It’s almost forced into being a city and would prefer to be a town. Detroit, however, is a CITY. No doubt about that. I rode around a bit, exploring, and just gawking at the street life. Groups of men and women seated on lawn chairs in the hot sun... not on the front stoops or on the sidewalk, but in various vacant lots... gathering places, it would seem. By four o’clock I had to get out of there. Had I stayed any longer I would have had to join a street gang.

I blasted up the interstate to Midland, Michigan, and after a brief rest in my hotel room, headed out for an evening ride around rural Michigan. I stopped in Bay City, where I discovered the locals spell out the names of EACH of the weekdays, not just S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y NIGHT.

Tomorrow I shall ride across the Mighty Mac, all the while hoping that I don’t get blown off the thing and into the bay below.

Blog Four Michigan

I was so damn tired at 1:30 in the morning last night when I got back to my hotel and started to write the day’s blog that I hardly had the energy to complain or criticize or say sarcastic or mean things about ANYBODY. Worse... I don’t really have anything mean or critical to say TODAY... and I’m wide awake! Maybe I’m softening? Maybe people are becoming better-behaved? Or maybe doubling up on my meds before the trip was a good idea. Who knows?

I’m still thinking about Detroit. It’s always strange to ride through dilapidated neighborhoods and see people sitting on lawn chairs and drinking beer at 2:00 in the afternoon on a weekday. Or anytime. I just wasn’t raised in a home where drinking beer while sitting on a lawn chair in a vacant lot was ever an option. Today I’m 550 miles away in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and I’m quite sure that back in Detroit those folks are sitting in the same lawn chairs in the same vacant lots drinking beer. On a happier note, the only people in Detroit broker than those folks is GM, Ford, and Chrysler.

I was out of bed at 8:30 again this morning (and awake by ten). I discovered a banana in my bag that I’d forgotten about, so with that as my breakfast I was able to skip the white-trash bonanza in the hotel’s complimentary breakfast room and get on the road. I didn’t miss it.

It was a beautiful day of riding through Northern Michigan. Yesterday in Detroit I wanted to join a street gang and maybe do a drive-by. Today in Northern Michigan I had the hankering to trap a squirrel and then smoke my own jerky.

I was also thinking about maybe do some sulphur mining, but I saw several billboards announcing that SULPHUR MINING KILLS RIVERS. I don’t know what that means, but killing rivers isn’t something that sounds fun and so I decided instead to give a ride to some aquatic hitchhikers. But then I saw several billboards asking citizens to SAY NO TO AQUATIC HITCHHIKERS! along side a picture of a boat’s propeller. I don’t know what that means either, but if Michigan says no, I say no.

An easy ride up the highway for a few hours and then I crossed the mighty Mackinac Bridge! Sweet mother of god! What an awesome bridge! Five miles long and 155 feet above the water! The views are incredible and I shot some video with my cell phone camera, keeping a wary eye out for the Federales. This is the bridge that swings up to twelve and a half feet in either direction in heavy wind, and once a young woman in a Hyundai was blown off the side—Hyundai and all—and into the water below. Last time I was on this bridge it was far windier than it was today and I remember thinking, SURELY my bike does not weight more than a Hyundai. Not having the wind to worry about today, I instead wondered if any of the Popes ever shaved their pubes.

The bridge deposited me onto Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, known as the U.P. People from the U.P. are known as “Yoopers”, and Yoopers are, in my opinion, very nice, rugged, hard-working, and a pretty decent bunch of folks. And like most populations of places that have more acres of forest than they do people (by a factor of about a thousand) and where the winter lasts about eleven months and twenty-eight days and brings snow measured in FEET and temperatures measured in extreme negatives, the Yoopers I’ve met are fucking weird.

The U.P. is a sparsely developed place. Yoopers must drive long distances to get to a Wal-Mart or a restaurant, and in the winter that driving is done mostly on snow mobiles. After months and months of freezing temperatures and cabin fever, Yoopers have the perpetual glazed look of people who know for a fact that the warm temperatures are extremely temporary. Very soon they will have ice on their beards even as they sleep. Same for the men. They certainly are friendly people, and I sure like them, but the abundance of dried meat (jerky) on display at every gas station and rest stop and shoe store has me slightly suspicious. (And when I say there’s dried meat at the shoe store, I’m not referring to the leather boots.)

Who kills and butchers and dries and smokes so much meat? And from what animal do they get this meat? Elk? Deer? Turkey? Or perhaps rabbit, squirrel and possum? How could a city slicker like me even tell the difference between a blackened, knurled, rock hard piece of peppered meat from an elk versus one from a prairie dog or a beaver? I don’t even know what a prairie dog is!

During those long, cold, dark winter months, who is going to drive a hundred miles on a snow mobile to get a cheese steak when right outside your back door is a small furry creature that can easily be trapped and boiled? Well, that would be me, actually. But I’m not a Yooper.

There is something about the folks in these isolated communities, especially the ones that deal with extreme winter weather, that is quite distinct. I think it’s their rugged resourcefulness. Not only must they find food and fuel and supplies in innovative ways, but they also must find FUN in innovative ways. This seems to be most often accomplished by lowering the bar on what’s considered fun.

Where you and I might find it fun to drive a Lamborghini or a Porsche, they find it fun to drive. Where you and I might find it fun to go skiing for the weekend, they find it fun to put on snowshoes to get the mail. Where you and I might find it fun to visit a petting zoo and pet the animals, they find it fun to eat them in the form of jerky.

Riding across the U.P. today, with fantastic views of Lake Superior and the Michigan forests, I was slightly disappointed to have not seen any of the famous U.P. black flies. Last time I rode through here, I would see a half a mile ahead of me what appeared to be thick, black smoke. “Oh, good,” I would think. “Some fool messed SOMETHING up and now it’s on fire!”. But just as I got to the smoke, the thick black image became discernable as a mass of black flies hovering about ten feet above the roadway. Why black flies would persist in doing this I can’t imagine, but it’s quite a feeling to duck down and ride under them! Yikes!

Today though I didn’t see any black flies at all. And I didn’t get a speeding ticket (I got one last time) and I didn’t really encounter much to piss me off and hence rant about. My blog is generally much funnier when I’m fired up about some indiscretion or breach of decorum, imagined or not. And of course I take my surly attitude far too seriously to try and force anything. Hey, if I ain’t pissed, I ain’t pissed!

Even America’s moronic, incompetent, rude, and dangerous drivers haven’t been bothering me too much. I do wonder why the mini-van towing the pop-up camper HAS to be in the left lane doing either ten miles below the speed limit or thirty-five miles ABOVE the speed limit. Is there not a middle ground?

And I still wonder why people pull up the FIRST available gas pump and stop, even though the second pump is wide open. Now both pumps are rendered inaccessible, except to the one bonehead.

Oh, and don’t forget my disdain for yuppie Harley riders! I can ALWAYS complain about them!

Tomorrow, I stay on two lanes through the U.P. into Minnesota, through Duluth, and up to Thief River Falls, a town to which I’ve never been. Should be a good day. Unless, of course, I keel over dead from a heart attack or some other means of expiration, for if I do, the Yoopers will almost CERTAINLY dry out my flesh, smoke me, and sell me in the form of jerky at local gas stations, rest stops, and shoe stores. Fuckin’ Yoopers.

Having a beef stick and a two-dollar bottle of wine on the side of the road.

Doing some writing by Lake Superior.

Blog Five Minnesota

Perfect blues skies again today, with white clouds hanging like cotton. The weather has been excellent. But then again, I watch the Weather Channel each night and choose the following day’s destination based on wherever perfect weather is predicted! I’m no dummy!

More nice weather again tomorrow west of here, but I couldn’t find any available hotel rooms at any Best Westerns in North Dakota. Not one. So instead, I’ll ride to the top of North Dakota and then drop down into South Dakota and spend the night there. I’ll be on back roads all day, and though I won’t end up much further west than I am today, I’ll get to revisit Devil’s Lake and hopefully take some pictures this time... assuming the town is still under the lake. Yes, UNDER the lake.

Rode through Michigan and Wisconsin today and ended up in Minnesota. This is all NORTHERN country up here. Lots and lots and lots of trees. Flatland, mostly, with some tolling hills, and pretty desolate. I’m a terrible photographer and yet even I know that I just can’t keep taking pictures all day long of green pastures, thick forests, and blue skies. For one thing, the pictures all look like they were taken at the same time, and for another, they’re not that exciting to begin with.

But I did take some pictures of the interesting things that I see hanging on the corkboards of restaurants and gas stations, ya know, those places where people thumbtack their business cards or flyers advertising items for sale or services for hire. I often see things that I don’t get to see back home in Philly, like folks offering to sharpen tiller blades or transport hogs... or haul feed. Where I come from, feed isn’t even a noun.

And I saw some billboards today with great slogans, like the one for a restaurant that read, “As good as it gets”. Well, now that could be interpreted in more than one way. And I saw another billboard advertising two radio stations. On the left half of the billboard was, “92.5 Country” and the right was “93.3 Rock” and in between the two, in large letters was, “YOU CHOOSE”. That’s it? That’s the best you could do? That’s supposed to make me want to listen to either of these two stations? “Hey, honey! Check this out! Hear that? That’s country! Now watch this... hear that? It’s rock! ROCK AND ROLL! Now watch... yup. That’s right! WE CAN CHOOSE!!! HONEY, WE CAN CHOOSE!”

I also passed a place called “Little Finland”. Finland isn’t that big to begin with, this place must be REALLY little. I wanted to stop and find out what goes on at Little Finland, but I remember once getting some bad hashish at Little Amsterdam and, well... once bitten...

And I passed the “Sucha Deal” carpet store, which made me hope I’d see the “I Could Die Already” deli, but no dice.

I’ve now reached the point in my journey where I no longer have any idea what day it is. And the events of the past several days are all jumbled up in my mind. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and I imagine a hotel room from three days ago. Navigation can be tricky in the dark when you’re picturing the wrong room. I hope I haven’t urinated in any fake plants. (Actually, I hope I have.)

But this is one of the great things about the way I travel. Haulin’ ass. It becomes a whirlwind of sights and memories. I’m not a dilly-dallier. I’m not into visiting the local museums or doing much sight-seeing or visiting too many (if any) of the local tourist attractions. And when I do, it’s usually for about ten minutes.

I’m into riding my motorcycle across the country. That’s all. I want to be on my bike with great scenery rolling past. I want to see whatever I see from the point of view of a passive and passing traveler. An observant and attentive traveler, for sure, but also one with a good imagination. And by that I mean that I can imagine what the WW II museum in Bumfuck, Wisconsin, has to offer, but I sure couldn’t have imagined on the corkboard of the restaurant a flyer advertising for sale a slightly-used bathtub with an asking price of twenty-five dollars (or best offer).

It’s the little things like that which I find most interesting. But really, I’m about riding my bike all day long and seeing whatever I can see from behind bars. Handlebars. I like the sensation of being on a bike. I like that I can twist the throttle and blow past fifteen cars and trucks (and other Harley riders!) and, yes, I might get a speeding ticket, or worse, I might get killed, but that’s ok. I like taking that risk. For me, the reward is well-worth it.

The BMW riders (which includes the Honda ST 1300 and Yamaha FJR 1300 or the Kawi Connie) know what I’m talking about. They ride like that, too. From gas stop to gas stop. Eating in the saddle. Drinking in the saddle. And ALWAYS hauling ass. The Harley guys usually like to cruise. Although I ride a Harley, I ride it like it’s a BMW.

I rode through my old friend, Duluth, Minnesota, today. Don’t know why I love that city, but I do. It’s a working city. Nothing pretty about it. There’s docks and shipyards and things getting done. It’s industrial. So much of it just looks cool, like the way the rivers and the bridges and the roads and the buildings all seem to intertwine and come together in a giant heap surrounded by steep hills that are almost but not quite mountains.

Not much to rant and rave about tonight, although I do occasionally want to open my hotel room door and yell down the hallway, “ARE YOU A FUCKING RETARD? Are you really YELLING in the hotel hallway? Do you not think people are sleeping? Or writing their blog? Or wanking? Can’t you just shut the fuck up?”

Volume. Americans have a problem with controlling their volume. (Although one could argue that Andrew has a problem being tolerant and perhaps he has some boundary issues... uh, well, save that for your blog.) I DO have some boundary issues. I don’t like it when YOUR big mouth causes me to have no choice but to hear what you’re saying. I don’t like it when your cell phone rings and I hear it. And I damn sure don’t like it when the two are combined. Your big mouth talking ON the cell phone... after I heard it ring.

Aren’t people entitled to some peace and quiet? Is it wrong to assume that I should be allowed to sit in a booth at a restaurant and NOT hear the family thirteen booths away discussing a variety of ways to stop the cat from vomiting in the daughter’s bed? And should you really have a conversation in the Quick-mart with your friend about what you did last weekend... if your friend is three aisles away?

Why are people so loud? They chew loudly, they talk loudly, they emit all sorts of electronic noises... ringers and beeps and chirps and idiotic ring tones to indicate which of their homies is calling. Everyday I hear people in the hallway outside my hotel room COMPLETELY oblivious to the cacophony they’re producing, be it talking to each other, yelling to each other, banging their luggage around. I’d have a better time sleeping at an Ozzy Concert.

I will never forget being awakened one time in Mississippi at 6:30 in the morning by a mother and father and their two kids loading up the minivan that was parked in front of my hotel room. THEIR room was upstairs, and they would yell back and forth from the parking lot to the room upstairs, deciding on what went where and where they’d have breakfast and who the hell else knows what they were yelling about. EVERYONE in the adjoining rooms must have heard them. They were so loud it was hard to believe. Six-thirty in the morning... not nine-thirty.

We are a nation of people oblivious to the boundaries of others. And we are fucking loud, to boot.

Tomorrow... The Dakotas! Oh, sweet Dakotas... how can you not love them?

Except one problem... the annual Sturgis Motorcycle Rally is in full swing and there’s a good chance I’ll encounter some moronic Yuppie Harley riders. Hey! Don’t Bro me if you don’t know me!

***

Jerry Fest, Who Fest, Folk Fest... And now Pond Fest.

Come celebrate next to 13,000 gallons of sulphur and algae! Free pond scum to the first 25,000 visitors (must have wrist band). Swimming NOT encouraged.

***

How exactly does one celebrate three years of garbage service?

***

Are they kidding? I ALWAYS bring my crockpot to the pool and at the very least I bring a casserole in case there's a potluck in progress. I may seek other accommodations next time I'm in Thief River Falls, Minnesota. Seriously.

Blog Six North & South Dakota

Another beautiful day! Brilliant blue skies, stark white clouds, and I didn’t get flattened on the highway. My kind of day!

I left Minnesota and entered North Dakota with a huge smile on my face. It’s great out here. Nothing but massive farmland. Speed limits up to 75 MPH, hardly any traffic, and long, straight, flat roads to the horizon. It would be a little boring to ride these roads every day, but for a day or two, I love it.

It’s so spacious. Wide open. One can see for miles in all directions. Every so often I’d come upon a truck hauling grain and I’d blow past him at a hundred miles an hour without ever having to wait for oncoming traffic to clear out. There IS no oncoming traffic! (That would change a bit when I got closer to Jamestown and I instead had to brake hard two different times when oncoming traffic was in MY lane passing a truck in THEIR lane! Nothing quite like heading directly at a car or pickup truck while closing in on each other at a rate of about 150 MPH.)

There’s something about riding through these farms that go on for dozens and dozens of miles that’s intriguing to me. You ride at 85 MPH for twenty minutes past a single field. And then you get to a compound of massive silos, sheds, truck scales, and a few small buildings, all of it neatly organized and professional-looking. I have little clue what any of this stuff is or what it does. I’ve stopped a few times over the years and some friendly farmer or trucker explained a bit of it to me, but it’s still so mysterious and curious. What are they growing here? To whom do they sell it? Is it all owned by one huge company? We have farms and fields and silos back in my home state of Pennsylvania, but NOTHING like on the scale they have out here. These fields are massive. The farm equipment is massive. This is big agriculture out here and I love riding past it all.

I had a wonderful breakfast at one of those really small-town cafes where everyone in the place knows everyone else. It takes one of the old farmers ten minute to get to his table because he stops to talk to the people at a dozen other tables. I saw an old woman with the most insane set of bangs imaginable and I had no choice but to sneak a pic of her with my cell phone. She looked like had she caught me she might have shot lightening out of her eyeballs and roasted me into a wisp of smoke where I sat. Had she done this, I suspect the entire place would have carried on as if nothing had happened. The other cool thing about this place was hearing the waitress say to her customers, “What to drink, for ya?”

After that I pulled over to watch a crop duster at work. It was very cool watching him swoop down real low, spray the field for half a mile, and then pull into a steep climb. After a while I realized he probably wasn’t spraying the field with Old Spice and maybe I should get the hell out of there.

In the afternoon I rode though Devil’s Lake and took some pictures. Last time I rode through here the rooftops of houses were peeking out of the lake. (Last time I rode through here I also had a whole bunch of seagulls do their multi-colored business on my windshield as I rode past them... it was like looking through a Picasso at 75 MPH!) Since then, the water has risen even higher, the road was raised yet again, and now the only thing sticking up out of the water to indicate there was once a town here are tree tops. A friendly young woman at a gas station explained to me that in 1997 they had something like twenty feet of snow, and it was when that snow melted that part of the town was flooded to a height ABOVE the homes! They’ve raised the road six or seven times so far, she said, as the water continues to rise.

I stopped in Jamestown, North Dakota, famous in my journeys for being the place where I once purchased a really nice pair of Dr. Marten leather engineer boots... and then mailed them home two exits later when I discovered that without boot laces to stop this, my pants kept blowing up over my knees.

I listened to a bit of Christian radio today (I’m riding my 2008 Street Glide, which has a radio) and I’m almost ready to believe there’s an invisible man who lives in the sky and controls everything we do. Almost.

I got into South Dakota and saw a lot of cowboys. I kept wanting to say to some of them, “You remind me of that film, Brokeback Mountain. Was it just me, or was there something funny about those two cowboys? What was with all the kissing? And the ass-fucking? That was weird.” But since I needed my teeth to enjoy the buffet at the Pizza Ranch, I wisely kept my mouth shut.

Yes, that’s right. The Pizza Ranch. I rode up, got off my steel horse, kicked open the door, sauntered up to the bar—the salad bar—and loudly said, “Gimme two slices of pepperoni... and leave the pie.”

I also passed a huge billboard that read, “Eat Steak. Wear Furs. Keep your guns. Salute America.” Other than the guy in the Village People, I don’t often see cowboys wearing fur. Except maybe when I go gay night-clubbing. Which isn’t any more often than two or three times a week.

I did see a Harley rider in a gas station and he was wearing leather chaps. It was 92 degrees and sunny. Black leather chaps when it’s 92 degrees and sunny is fucking moronic.

Occasionally throughout North and South Dakota I would encounter a town. These are real western towns, out here. The bigger ones will have a courthouse right in the center, but most of them are small towns. Neat, clean, laid out with the streets nice and straight and wide and the storefronts looking like something out of a Western movie. Some of these towns have been invaded by McDonalds or Burger King, but most of them are unchanged from when they were built eighty or a hundred years ago. They have saloons and cafes or diners, hardware stores and places that repair shoes. Many of the stores are vacant, but there are still plenty that are hanging on. I don’t think towns like that have resisted modernization because of any deliberate attempt to preserve their history, I suspect it’s more because there’s not enough business here to support it. For the traveler like myself though, it’s a trip back in time.

I’m headed to Montana tomorrow. Gonna be close to Sturgis. Let’s hope I can avoid the thunderstorms AND the Yuppie Harley idiots.

Blog Seven Montana

Readers of previous trip blogs may recall that some years back while traveling the country I tried in vain to find a Native American whose teeth weren’t black and rotting out of their head. The search has begun again. I blasted a hundred miles down a South Dakota two-lane this morning and stopped for breakfast at a small-town café where the Native American waiter, a super-friendly and accommodating fella, had teeth that were black and rotting out of his head. It’s quite sad, and these folks HAVE to be in pain a good amount of the time. Quite sad indeed.

Today was a perfect day of riding. The weather was excellent, traffic was light, and the scenery was fantastic. I did see a few yuppie Harley morons, but they didn’t have me annoyed for any more than a few moments. Two dickheads, dressing like Harley catalog models, with their feet dragging on the ground as they pulled into the gas station, did cause me to toss half a cup of coffee into the trashcan and get on my bike, leaving them behind. I was a little worried they would SPEAK to me, and since it was my first cup of coffee and I was only a few miles from the hotel where I’d just woken up, I didn’t trust myself to give a polite reply should they say something unbelievably stupid, like, “Your bike needs to be washed.” Hmmmm... and your wife needs to be banged properly... , would have been the type of thing I probably would have said.

Later in the day I saw two more Harley yuppies with their leather chaps and fingerless gloves and Harley bandanas on their heads making a mess of fueling up and drinking some water and getting back on the road. They looked confused and tired and hot, and I can assure you it wasn’t because they’d just ridden 700 miles. It was more likely because it was their first road trip.

I’m not quite as much a jerk as I might sound. I have nothing against new riders or even riders who don’t ride that much. I have no problem with them at all. But don’t act like a bad-ass. THOSE are the people who annoy me to no end. If you can’t even ride your bike without dragging your feet on the ground, why in the world did you spend 20 grand for a bike and 800 bucks for all the Harley clothes? Chaps, leathers, boots, gay-ass stickers to put all over your shiny new helmet... and you can’t even ride the bike in first gear up to a gas pump and THEN put your feet down!

Now, you might say, what do you care if he bought all that gear? He likes all the Harley stuff. And what do you care if he drags his feet? It just means he doesn’t know how to ride.

Here’s why. Firstly, you’re right. He doesn’t know how to ride... which means he has a good chance of getting himself killed. But before he does, he’s gonna slow me down, slow everybody else down, and just generally be a traffic menace. And he’s an embarrassment.

Isn’t it good to see people who know what they’re doing? Isn’t there beauty in proficiency? (See the excerpt below about proficient riding.)*

And I don’t really care that he wears all that Harley crap. But you can bet your bottom dollar that should he and I strike up a conversation he’s gonna tell me how many miles he rode today AND how much money he has in chrome on his bike AND some other worthless, meaningless bullshit that’s gonna show he’s just a wannabe. I don’t like braggarts, especially when they brag about something that’s meaningless. No one cares how much money you spent on chrome, especially since you didn’t even install the parts yourself! And no one cares how many miles you’ve ridden today or last Tuesday or that one time on your trip. For one thing, it’s not even CLOSE to the amount of mileage I do, and even I don’t brag about that because the Iron Butt guys ride twice as much as I do... and most importantly, IT’S NOT A COMPETITION!

Saying, “I went out for a ride last Sunday.. did about 250 miles...” is like saying, “I made about 50 grand last year. Probably more than you did, right?” You sound like a jackass. And I got news for ya, even if ya rode 800 miles last Sunday, if you haven’t ridden the bike since, and don’t intend to ride it for another three weeks, you’re probably a wannabe.

And as for chrome... oh, sweet mother of god! Look here, you Chromo... ANY FUCKING MORON can go to the parts counter and pick out a bunch of chrome crap to have installed on their bike! To old school bikers, saying you had three grand or ten grand or ANY amount of money worth of chrome put on your bike makes you sound like a idiot. Who cares? It’s shit from a catalog! It’s not original, it’s not clever, it’s not even FUNCTIONAL! It’s just chrome! And you didn’t even bolt that crap on yourself! You paid some exorbitant labor rate to have that garbage installed. It’s like saying, “I had a dinner party last week for ten people. I served Big Macs, two large pizza’s from Dominoes, and Pepsi Cola in cans. I spent 80 bucks... that’s a lot of money, don’t ya think?”

And not only will they brag about their idiotic chrome and their Harley pants and Harley boots and Harley shirts and Harley gloves and Harley head scarves and Harley belt buckles and their Harley leather vests with all sorts of gay patches on it, but they’ll ACT like bad-asses. This is really not cool. Don’t walk into the coffee shop all loud and boisterous like nobody there would have the balls to fuck with you. The guys I know who are all serious bad-asses are also humble. They don’t get off on being a bad-ass or on being a biker. The reason these yuppie Harley idiots annoy me is because they’re playing a character. They’re acting the way they thing bad-ass bikers act. And even that would be ok with me if they backed it up, but when you get in their face they fold up like a lawn-chair.

But I’ll say again, I have no problem with new riders or people who only ride occasionally. Just don’t act like a bad-ass if you ain’t a bad-ass, and if you ARE a bad-ass, don’t act like it. Anyway, enough of that! (Although you know there’ll be more in upcoming blogs!)

After my excellent breakfast with Chief Rotting Teeth, I rode through the spectacular South Dakota countryside and once again basked in the scenery. Huge fields... rows and rows of crops for dozens of miles... huge farm equipment, some of blocking both lanes of the road! I took video as I squeezed past one giant machine, having to ride the white line to fit past it!

Rolling hills and bright blue lakes, white puffy clouds against a rich blue sky. It was perfect. I kept it at 85 MPH and didn’t see a smokey bear all day. Not one.

I crossed into North Dakota and took a road I’d ridden previously and always loved. It went a little out of my way but was worth it. The western quarter of North Dakota is without a doubt the most scenic part of the state. From there I rode through Montana’s Painted Canyon and to my hotel for the night. Tomorrow I shall ride scenic roads through Montana and get close to Idaho. I expect to hit some storms and showers either tomorrow or the day after, but I want to explore Idaho, Oregon and Washington, and storms and showers are just gonna have to be a part of that experience. No way around it.

Dead bugs. LOts of 'em:

* An excerpt from a previous blog:

I have a friend riding with me on this journey, but the riding will of course not be a problem. We are both extremely experienced motorcyclists who can ride at any speed on an any road under any circumstances with our motorcycles inches from each other. In fact, we take great pride and receive great enjoyment from our precision riding.

Allow me to explain. Riding down the road like a couple of goofy weekend warriors, looking around, going slow, oblivious to the traffic, oblivious to the road (every road has its own personality), riding at the speed limit or below, is not our style of riding. No thanks, grand pop.

Not that we ride balls-to-the-wall all the time, but the slow, meandering, lazy style of riding is for squares, man. If you’re old-school, you have to push it. You have to be riding near the edge of your abilities, testing yourself, testing your relationship with your machine. Every curve is a challenge, the perfect lean, the perfect acceleration. Not that we think about it, necessarily, or focus too hard on it. It’s just part of who we are. And it’s fun!

Yes, we go slow sometimes and just cruise. But for us, going slow means ten over the speed limit.

As a young rider, after many miles of solo riding, and when your confidence in your abilities is secure, you turn it up a notch by riding in tandem with a friend. Not with him thirty feet behind you so he gets stuck at the traffic light while you make it through. Not with him fifteen feet behind you and riding in your blind spot so you can’t tell where he is. But right next to you. Now your lane is cut in half, your buddy is two feet from you, and you really have to stay sharp.

Everyone is a little tentative at first, but over time, over many miles, your trust in him and your confidence in yourself grows. A system emerges, not conscious and not deliberate, but born of necessity. You are not just watching your side of the lane for potholes or debris, you’re watching his side as well. You may have to back off and let him get on your side of the lane to keep him from slamming into a pothole or some gravel. Or you may speed up so he can duck in behind you for a moment. Or the guy on the left may swing out over the center line to let the guy on the right move to his left for a few seconds. And then they are quickly back in formation.

All of this happens without a word or a glance or a honk of the horn. You read the road, and you know each other’s riding style, and you both react in an instant. And it is beauty in motion, because the movements aren’t jerky or tentative, they are deliberate and smooth, as if it’s been rehearsed. And it is a beautiful thing in which to partake. There is satisfaction in proficiency. There is BEAUTY in proficiency.

I have traveled hundreds of miles in a day with a fellow motorcyclist and not said two words to each other. A point at the gas tank means stop for gas. A point at the stomach means I’m hungry. A point at the shoulder of the road means pull over. A wave of the hand forward means take the lead, a wave backward means get behind me. A rev of the engine means something. It may mean watch me, we have to turn off up ahead, or it may mean I think I saw a cop, slow down, or it may mean check your mirrors, I see a guy coming up fast behind us. All I do is rev the engine and my friend will figure out what I meant by it.

There are other rules of the road. Every so often I drop back and check the gear he has strapped to his bike, making sure nothing has shifted or come loose, and he does the same for me. Sometimes, if he’s worried about it, he’ll point to his gear and I know what he means. I’ll check it out and either give him a thumbs up or I’ll pass him, which he instantly knows means that I’m looking for a spot to pull over so he can check it himself. We keep an eye on each others bikes all the time, when we’re moving or when we’re parked.

Sometimes a flat palm waved downward means slow it down, we’re getting a little fast and I want to take it easy for a bit. It’s easy to get used to traveling at high speed, seventy-five or eighty, so much so that sometimes you slow down to, oh, sixty-five miles-per-hour, let’s say, and it feels like you’re hardly moving! We take turns keeping our speed in check.

It’s great fun to ride side-by-side on two-lane twisties, but when the curves are simply too tight to take side-by-side at the higher speeds, one of us drops back, we go through the curve at single file, and then we come out of it side-by-side again. Fuckin’ cool.

On the highway it’s even more fun. Leaving your lane to pass a car and getting back into your lane in perfect unison. Or splitting cars, one of us passing on the right, one of us passing on the left, and reuniting in the lane ahead of the car at the same time.

And we read the traffic the same way. We know when to pass and when not to pass. The key to side-by-side riding is to not get separated. If you guys get split up all the time, you don’t know how to ride in tandem. I don’t want to have to pull over as traffic whizzes by me because my idiot pal didn’t make the light and now we’re separated. Go through the lights together! Go through stop signs together! Pass together! I don’t want to leave my buddy stuck out in the left lane of the interstate as I get off at the next exit and he doesn’t know where I went! Or he has to risk life and limb to catch me! Or a there’s a big space between us and some idiot squeezes his car in there.

I can’t tell you how many stories I’ve heard of guys getting separated and not being able to find each other. Chip and I have traveled in packs of twelve or fifteen bikes or more and not a single one of us has gotten separated from the pack.

Of course, the other key to tandem riding is to not get each other killed! That’s why I don’t ride with people I don’t know, and I if I do, we ride single file. Me and Chip (and Ragnar, and Mountain Bill, and Youngblood, and Sporty Mike, etc.) can ride motorcycles in our sleep (and I think some of them have!). I feel safer with any one of those guys two feet from me at seventy miles an hour than I do with your asshole yuppie neighbor the accountant and his chromed out Harley fifty feet behind me at forty.

Social Decorum

But if you think yuppie Harley idiots bother me (and they do), ya know what’s worse? Breaches of social decorum. That’s right. On one hand I prefer meth-fueled, greasy, hairy, dirty bikers who are unacquainted with any sense of couth or social graces, and on the other hand, I don’t believe one should wear their baseball cap (or any hat) in a restaurant, ESPECIALLY a nice restaurant. (If you wanna wear your hat in an Applebee’s, I don’t care... I will never step foot in an Applebee’s to witness this egregious breach of well-mannered-ness anyway. And besides, Applebee’s isn’t even really a restaurant.)

Here’s an example. I just wandered over to the pool area to see if the hot tub was available (or if there were any hot chicks in bikinis in need of mouth-to-mouth), and I heard a mother SCREAMING at her child (surprisingly named, Jeremiah) to stop splashing his sister (whose name I mercifully didn’t catch). Firstly, why would you name your child Jeremiah, and why do you have to scream? There were other families in the pool area, don’t they deserve a bit of quiet?

What’s the opposite of self-consciousness? I don’t know. I’ve been trying to think of the best way to describe the opposite of self-aware and I can’t do it. But I believe when it comes to this subject there are two kinds of people. Those who are self-aware and those who aren’t. Self-aware people walk quietly to their table in a restaurant, for example. They avoid eye-contact with the other diners, and they make an effort to look straight ahead at where they’re going.

People who are not self-aware walk to their tables in a restaurant while carrying on a conversation with their companion, who is six feet behind them, or by telling a boring story to the hostess who is leading them to their table, or by staring at you or your food as they walk by. They’ve breached social decorum. They’ve invaded your little space, either with the sound of their voice or by the simple act of making you unavoidably aware that they’re looking at you... or your food. (Don’t you love these douche bags who walk through the restaurant checking out what everybody is eating? Just unabashedly staring at your plate, mentally judging your selection. I have nothing to hide when it come to my choice of entrees, but I’d prefer if you directed your gaze elsewhere. It’s called social decorum, or perhaps it’s better known as mind your own fucking business.)

Or how about these people that inject themselves into your conversation? Don’t you love these imbeciles? I have nothing against eavesdropping. In fact, I encourage it. But the trick is to KEEP IT TO YOURSELF! Are you familiar with the word, discretion? You can listen, you can remember what you’ve heard and then tell your friends later, but don’t let us KNOW you were listening! Don’t invite yourself in to the conversation! Even when you’re being helpful!

It’s called discretion. The act of being discreet. Some people get it and some people don’t. Social decorum, or again, better known as mind your own fucking business.

Tomorrow I will discuss some of the other social graces, like being able to tell when the listener of your story (me) is no longer interested and would prefer if you SHUT THE FUCK UP. There are little social clues to give this away. Like, he’s ignoring you. Or he’s staring at you with a crazed look in his eye, fantasizing about throwing you from a bridge. Or he’s tying a rope around his own neck.

Social decorum. Uncle Andrew will break it down for you. It won’t do any good. You’ll still chew with your mouth open, you’ll still say to the waitress, “GIVE ME... a whatever”, you’ll still blab away on your cell phone at dinner, and you’ll still say “No problem” instead of “You’re welcome”, but maybe, just maybe, when you read one of my Facebook status updates about one ignorant douche bag or another you’ll stop for just ONE SECOND and wonder if perhaps it’s you to whom I’m referring. Let me remove the suspense. It’s DEFINITELY you.

Blog Eight Great Falls

Here’s what I want to know. Am I whacked out of my head on Peyote, corn liquor, Phenobarbital, two hits of acid, and coming down from a meth bender... or do some men actually hang fake testicles from the rear bumper of their pickup trucks?

Isn’t the giant pickup truck testicles enough?

How did it start? Did someone say, “I have an idea! Let’s hang some fake testicles from the rear bumpers of our trucks! It’ll be great. Ya know what I'll do, I’ll call my Uncle Serge and see if he has any in stock. He’s in the fake genitals business.”

Or did the fake testicles predate the notion to hang them from the rear bumper of a truck, and upon seeing them, some pickup truck owner exclaimed, “I know what to do with them! Gimme a pair of them bad boys and some string!”

And to whom does the idea of hanging fake testicles from the rear bumper of a pickup truck appeal? What does it say about the fella who buys a pair and hangs ‘em compared to the fella who declines? What does it say to others who casually observe your balls hanging from the rear of your truck? (And they are YOUR balls, you paid for ‘em.)

Do women find men with fake testes hanging from their rear bumpers attractive? Does a woman think, “Hmmm... nice truck... nice CAT baseball hat... nice mirrored shades... and LOOK AT THOSE FAKE NUTS! I gotta give that ole boy my digits!”

Who was the guy sitting in an office at a drawing board who turned to his coworker and exclaimed, “I GOT IT! LET’S MAKE SOME FAKE BALLS! I’LL BET GUYS WILL BUY ‘EM AND HANG ‘EM FROM THE REAR BUMPER OF THEIR TRUCKS! WE’LL BE RICH!”

Oh, and do women who drive pickup trucks hang fake ovaries from their rear bumpers?

And what about these idiots who put ten million bumper stickers on the back of their car? Do you think we read them? Do you think we care?

“Oh, look, Mildred. The woman in the blue Ford Focus thinks an embryo is a baby. How interesting. She also loves her cat, and her car once climbed Mt. Washington. Let’s throw one of these fake testicles at her!”

“Heavens, no! These fake testicles are a gift for our nephew, Jeremiah. I’m hoping he’ll hang them from the rear bumper of his truck and do our family proud. Hey, Marcello... the guy in the red Saturn likes NPR, the Arctic Monkeys, and he supports the legalization of marijuana. What a douche.”

It looks stupid! Almost as stupid as those idiot Harley riders who plaster those idiotic stickers all over their shiny new helmet!

Here’s another question. Which way do I turn the handle in the hotel shower to make the water hot.... OUCH! NOT THAT HOT! For god sakes! I’m a plumber... an actual plumber... that’s what I do for a living! And even I can’t figure out how most of these things work. Every night I stay in a new hotel and every night I have to take an aptitude test before taking a shower!

I had a delicious HOT complimentary breakfast at my hotel in Miles City, Montana, this morning. Simulated eggs, synthetic bacon, orange juice from concentrate, and skim milk. I ask you, reader, is my entire existence a fraud or merely my diet? (Hmmmm... it sounds like the trip might take a turn for the existential, perhaps becoming truly a trip?)

After my fake breakfast I had some conversation with some fake bikers. Actually, they were nice guys, not yuppie Harley wannabes. They were typical HOG members (Harley Owners Group), but at least they rode their bikes rather than JUST talked about them.

I rolled out of Miles City under beautiful blue skies, cool temperatures, and an easy day ahead of me. I wanted to do some exploring in this part of Montana, and so I booked my next hotel room an easy 400 miles away. In Montana, 400 miles is NOTHING!

First stop was a small town where I picked up Route 12, a green dot route! (Green dots routes are the routes on the Rand McNally full-size atlas—the ONLY atlas to use!—that are marked with green dots indicating a scenic route. Try to stay on as many green dot routs as possible and you will be very, very happy. Trust me on this.)

I’d ridden this route some years ago but I had little recollection of it, so I wanted to take my time today and explore. I rode around the small town of Forsyth, marveling (as I usually do) at life in these small towns west of the Mississippi. It’s just so different from where I live in Pennsylvania.

I think what’s most interesting about these towns is that they were clearly once much grander and bustling and vibrant than they are now. These are not towns that have ALWAYS been rundown. They did not gather and grow haphazardly out of necessity, like a tent city might, or a border town.

No, these towns have huge, grand buildings along their Main Streets. Great brick-fronts, with ornate decorative touches, stone or iron, the craftsmanship impressive even now, many decades after they were built. These buildings were once the pride and joy of a bustling and successful Western town. At one time much money was made and spent here.

But the buildings are closed now, vacant. Or of they’re still in use, it’s partial use, or far undervalued. One might see an enormous, five-story brick building with beautiful windows and an intricate stone façade, and yet only the first floor is occupied... by a store selling used clothing. In some other town a building like this might be in service as the town courthouse or used as an office building for the railroad. Here, it’s a cheap rental property.

As I ride around these small towns I try to observe as many small details as I can. I look at the cars parked on the streets and in the driveways, are they new, old, expensive or junk. Today it was jalopy central. There were no doctor’s offices, but there was an auto parts store. There were no brand name clothing stores like The Gap, but there was three consignment shops. There was fast food and there was a pizza shop, but no diner and no real restaurant.

I fueled up here and hit the road. The next hundred miles up Route 12 were fantastic. Perfect weather, little traffic, and the scenery was great. Long stretches of flat grassland for as far as the eye can see. Where I come from we call it a lawn. Here’s it grassland.

There was the occasional herd of cows, the intermittent bright blue lake, and the fairly frequent homestead, that compound of buildings known as a ranch. This is ranch-country, and though I’m not sure exactly what people do on ranches, in Montana there sure are a lot of them. But there were also numerous abandoned and depilated buildings, former ranches, or else buildings at whose one-time use I cannot even guess. Why is there a huge wooden barn (now collapsed in on itself) in the middle of five miles of grassland? For what was that used when it was built back in the forties or thirties or maybe even the eighteen hundreds?

After an hour or so I got to Roundup, Montana, the town where I once stayed in a hotel that had an enormous sign in the lobby advising guests that there is to be “No Bird Cleaning In The Rooms!” and where I met an old man on Main Street who told me that he’d left the town of Roundup to go fight in WWII, saw France and Germany and all sorts of other places, and after the war came back to Roundup and hasn’t left since. What a story!

Sometime after Roundup, the scenery started changing. There were some hills, and some rock formations, and some more trees. And then the road started to rise a bit, and at one point I could see the Rocky Mountains far off in the distance. And then more trees and more rocks and soon the rocks became small mountains and the trees became forests. For the first time in hours I started riding through some curves. Now we’re talkin’! (See the video below.)

The scenery was amazing! Thick, green forests, but between them steep, rocky hillsides often leading down into canyons with rock or river at the bottom. It was empty of people and towns and traffic. A perfect ride. I got to a crossroads and turned down a side road to head to Great Falls, my destination for the night. After a few miles I decided to make a u-turn and continue on the main road to the next town and fuel up. Good thing. It was a hundred miles up that road to Great Falls with no gas stations and I would NOT have made it without running out of gas.

I made it to my hotel without hitting any showers or thunderstorms, but as I sit here writing my blog I see on the radar that they’ll be here any moment. Tomorrow will be scattered thunderstorms and I’m gonna take green dot routes all the way to Washington. There were no hotels in the northern part of Idaho available for tomorrow night so I’ll head to Spokane and stay at the Best Western I stayed at last time I was there. I hope they remember me. .

TURN DOWN YOUR VOLUME BEFORE VIEWING!

Blog Nine Idaho

Finally, I have something to write about in my blog! It’s been a boring blog this year, I know. Sorry ‘bout that. Not much has happened, I haven’t gotten angry or frustrated or annoyed anywhere near as much as I usually do, nor has the traffic or the people I’ve encountered had much of a negative effect on me. And I have to admit, I’m much funnier when I’m pissed.

And though I’m not pissed today, I still had some good things happen that are worth writing about. It all started bright and early, around 7:30 local time, when I opened the curtain in my hotel room to look out the window and check on my bike, which was safe and still clean despite the thunderstorm that rolled past as I slept last night. I could see the sky was clear this morning and it was beautifully sunny!

Two parking spots away were two Harleys with their luggage strapped to the backseat and atop their luggage were their leather jackets, which looked as if they had been sdet there to dry out. I recognized the bikes as two of the many that I’d passed yesterday afternoon. Now how could they have gotten wet already today? And if they got wet last night, how come their luggage is still on their bikes with their jackets atop rather than up in the room with them? What is going on, I wondered. For I am a student of human behavior and this had gotten me intrigued.

Down in the breakfast room I watched one of the happiest and most satisfied employees I’ve even encountered in any line of work, let alone doing what THIS guy was doing, which was cleaning the tables after the guests consumed their free HOT breakfast and then left. This guy LOVED his work! Not only did he greet everyone with the biggest and warmest, “GOOD MORNING! COFFEE IS OVER HERE! HELP YOURSELF TO THE REST”, but he would almost RUN to the table as soon as someone vacated it and lovingly and enthusiastically wipe it down with a wet towel. I’ve never been that happy even when I was having a threesome with two college cheerleaders (although THEY were usually on the internet at the time and I was usually home alone).

Outside after breakfast I saw the Harley riders walking to their bikes, and while I normally try to avoid eye contact or any type of signal that might invite conversation, observing that damn breakfast-room cleaner and his happy spirit had put me in a friendly mood. Of course, I said what could only be described as a MORONIC thing to say and I wonder if later those two will write in THEIR blog about the imbecile who saw their jackets drying out and said, “You guys hit that rain last night?”

I would not have been angry or offended in the least if one of them had replied, “No, Sherlock, we forget to take them off before getting into the hot tub.”

Fortunately, they are more tolerant than I am, and they said that they had indeed gotten caught in the thunderstorm last night on the way to the hotel. Well, I had passed them only a few hours before I got into town, which was WELL before the storm rolled through. What took them so long to get here, I wondered. And what did they do, leave their jackets on the bike all night while they slept in the room? I had to know.

I said, “But I passed you guys only a few hours outside of town. I would have thought you’d get here long before the storm hit.”

“Yes,” they sheepishly agreed, and one of them explained, “But we were doing some sightseeing and then we stopped and had dinner and by the time we got back on the road it was starting to rain. We were only about ten miles away, so we just rode to the hotel.”

Just then I knew how Tom Cruise’s character felt in “Rain Man”. Or maybe I knew how Dustin Hoffman’s character felt in “Rain Man”, because I had the overwhelming desire to repeat everything they said. “Sightseeing!” I exclaimed. “It’s Montana! You can see EVERYTHING as you ride down the road! What sights took you six hours to see?”

They both laughed (I was laughing as I said it, which is one of the ways I keep people from striking me when I make fun of them to their face). They said they stopped at the Harley dealer (so had I), and they stopped at some western type of place, and then had dinner... or something like that. It wasn’t making much sense to me.

I had to ask. “But how did your jackets get on to your bike to dry out so early in the morning? Did you leave them there overnight?”

They explained that they’d gotten up at the crack of dawn, packed the bikes, and left the jackets there while they had breakfast and wandered around.

“More sightseeing?” I said, and they laughed. I also wanted to ask if they learned what a complete disaster leather is NOT JUST in the rain, but for two days afterward. But I didn’t.

The weather folks were predicting scattered showers and thunderstorms throughout Montana, but it looked as if I were to go way up north before heading west I might slip around them. It worked. It was another day of brilliant blue skies, breathtaking white clouds, and perfect temperatures, not a drop of rain all day. The last time I’d crossed the Rockies this far north (at Glacier National Park) it got COLD at the top! Today it only dropped to 65.

Today was a day of passing cars and trucks. Actually, everyday is a day of passing cars and trucks. I can’t help it... I love it. I’m not a jerk, I wait (usually) till there’s a passing zone. I don’t cut right back in front of anybody or force oncoming traffic onto the shoulder. But I do like to pass.

There are many reasons for this. For one thing, it’s safer to be far ahead of the pack. I don’t wanna be stuck behind these boneheads while I’m just WAITING for someone to get on my tail. And I don’t wanna be stuck behind these boneheads where I can’t see around them, and people in the oncoming lane can’t see me, and people pulling out of a side street can’t see me. I wanna be alone. No one ahead of me and no one behind me.

I wanna be able to see wildlife on the sides of the road, or gravel or debris in the middle of the road, and not having cars in front makes this much easier and is one less thing to worry about it.

I also like to ride between four and five hundred miles a day. I need to be riding at about ten miles an hour over the speed limit throughout the day if I wanna get to my hotel before midnight. Each time I pass a car (or a few cars or ten cars at a time) I accelerate up to 90 or 100 miles and hour and get my ass down the road. I also like to stop and have coffee or ride around a town and explore or take a detour. To do all that stuff and cover that many miles each day I need to pass.

Some people have said to me, that’s too fast! You can’t see anything! You’re flying past all that great scenery and not experiencing it! To them I say, you’re an idiot. After riding five hundred miles of back roads in a day, how could I NOT have seen a ton of scenery? I see scenery all day! I’m surrounded by it! And 60, 70, or 80 miles an hour is NOT that fast on a big Harley dresser when you’re the type of rider who can ride a motorcycle in his sleep (although riding a motorcycle exhausted was what caused me to crash in 2006!).

Not everyone can ride at those speeds for five hundred miles each day (for 30 days in a row, no less), and not everyone can ride at those speeds AND see all the scenery. But then again, not everyone can ride a bicycle like Lance Armstrong. Not everyone can hit a baseball like Babe Ruth (I know, I know, I’m not terribly up to date on my sports analogies). Some people SHOULD ride at the speed limit and get stuck in a parade of cars and stay there all day for three hundred miles and get to their hotel at three PM and sit around all day cleaning their bikes and telling road stories.

Other people can ride fast all day long, pass a million cars, and get to their hotel by six or seven and write their blog. I like to ride fast, I like to pass cars, and I like to ride a lot of miles in a day.

Me and Poncho spent three weeks on the road last year and we rode like that every day. Me and Ragnar spent two weeks on the road last year, and we rode like that every day (except for the days when we were on murderous, evil gravel). Me and Youngblood ride like that all the time, even when we’re passing a bottle of brandy back and forth at 85 MPH to keep warm! (Although we will ride a little slower when he has his wife on the back.)

The point is, I’m as comfortable riding at high speed for many miles a day and I realize that not everyone else is. There are people who ride faster than me and farther than me each day. I can’t do what they do and it would be unsafe for me to try. I ride the speeds and the distance at which I’m comfortable and safe.

Another reason for passing is that it’s fun. Plain and simple. Yes, there’s some risk involved at riding at those speeds. There’s risk involved in riding a motorcycle at ANY speed. But I would bet on a guy like me being safer at 70 MPH than I would on some of these folks who ride at exactly the speed limit or below. That doesn’t mean they’re safer by any means. In fact, it may mean they’re LESS safe. 70 MPH might seem unsafe to them because they don’t know how to brake, or to swerve, or to brake and swerve. If it takes you half a mile to stop while riding at 70 MPH, I guess you would be terrified to ride at that speed!

(One of the ways I know this is because I often encounter fellow travelers and they tell me their bikes are harder to stop while on a road trip because of the extra weight. Well, it’s true that they’re harder to stop, but they don’t take any more DISTANCE to stop! The added weight means added traction and with added traction you can increase BRAKING POWER, meaning you can brake harder and the tires will not lose traction and skid. They would know this if they PRACTICED braking!)

Anyway, I spent the day flying past cars and trucks, up and down mountains, in and out of curves, and I had a great day. Idaho is simply a spectacularly beautiful state. Thick forests, jutting mountains, clean, well-designed roads, and the drivers are quite good and quite considerate.

Looks like the weather for the Pacific Northwest is gonna be ok for the next three or four days, so I’m gonna head to Everett, Washington, tomorrow and see what’s there.

I have more to write about the events of today, but I wasted so much time on writing that crap about passing and riding fast that now I’m tired. Time for bed!

Authentic Native American Expresso sold in a Tee Pee

Idaho clouds!

The hotel has Harley parking...

Blog Ten Seattle

Well, it’s time to update my thinking, clarify a few things, and admit I was wrong.

First let me say that while there is no question that I can’t stand showboating, bullshitting, yuppie Harley riders who drag their feet and can’t ride, let me ALSO say that a great many of the Harley riders I encounter on a daily basis are in fact REAL riders. Just because they don’t ride as FAST as I do or have as much experience doesn’t mean they don’t ride. Many of them ride regularly, and many of them take a few weeks off from work each year and ride their bikes around the country. Maybe they got started riding a little later in life, but once motorcycling got into their blood they stuck with it. They ride in a variety of weather, they ride far from home, and they are at as much risk for getting killed as the rest of us. I don’t consider them any less of a motorcyclist than I am.

And truth be told, I know plenty of “old school” bikers who don’t ride half as much as these middle-aged, new–to-the-party motorcyclists I meet. I’m glad that the sport (or hobby) of motorcycling has exploded like it has, and now that most of the yuppies have gone back to sailing or driving their Vettes or playing golf or whatever it is yuppie wannabes do, the folks out there who are still riding are (generally speaking) folks who love motorcycles. I think it’s great.

In light of that, I’m going to try to stop prejudging every person I meet who’s on a Harley and stop automatically assuming they’re yuppie wannabes. I will, however, continue to prejudge every person I meet INCLUDING those on Harleys as being long-winded, boring, annoying, simple-minded, and generally of the disposition I find intolerable. And in case you think I’m so antisocial and judgmental that I simply dislike everyone, let me remind you of the blog from several years back when I described a fella I met in Alabama as a “pretty nice guy”. Evidently I DON’T think everyone I meet is annoying, do I?

Next... well, after years and years of hating the idea of a GPS like the Jews hated the Nazis, I have finally (over the last three days), given up my 3x5 cards and switched to an ALL GPS METHOD OF NAVIGATION! Damn! I love it! How stupid and stubborn was I to hang on to a method that involved WRITING THINGS DOWN instead of using technology! I’m an idiot! The GPS is awesome!

Now, let me make it very clear that I DO NOT LET THE GPS FIND ME A ROUTE! No way, no how! But during the last three days I continued with finding my own green-dot route using a map like I always do, but then I programmed THAT route in the GPS. So in effect, I’ve turned the GPS into an electronic 3x5 card... albeit one that tells me how far the next gas station is, how far it is to my hotel, and allows me to zoom in or out on the map as I’m riding. I love it!!! And I have no choice but to admit that I was stubborn and wrong for having rejected the GPS for so long.

But I will stand by my notion that YOU the rider should choose your route by using a Rand McNally map and picking the green-dot roads and then program THAT route into the GPS. If you allow the GPS to choose your route you will end up on interstates all freakin’ day, and if you exclude interstates you will STILL end up on back roads... but not green-dot back roads, no, it will be back roads that blow.

***

I woke up this morning to beautiful blue skies and cool temperatures. After a nearly inedible HOT breakfast of an egg-like substance (so inedible that I had an entire plate full—and did I mention that it was free?), and some coffee-flavored water, I shot the breeze with a couple of Harley riders for a bit, and then hit the back roads of Washington.

About a hundred miles later I came to a small town and stopped at a little coffee shop. I sat out front in a rocking chair enjoying a cup of coffee and exchanging pleasantries with the locals as they wandered past. Small-town America. The only place where absolutely nothing is going on and yet there’s so much to see. The shop was immaculate and filled with interesting art (if you find, say, photographs of old people walking on a beach interesting, or perhaps twisted hunks of metal that spell out the word HOPE). It was a far cry from the restaurant I’d visited yesterday in Montana that was staffed by some of the dirtiest Native Americans I’ve ever seen. Wanna bite to eat? No thanks, kimoSLOBie.

Back on the road I was digging the Washington scenery. Long stretches of golden fields, some gentle hills, and not much else. Soon, though, I saw ahead of me some mountains, dark black against the blue sky. And then the road began to climb and curve and then descend and curve. And it was a motorcyclist’s dream! A two lane road that ran beside a flowing river surrounded by huge mountains. Sharp curves, but well-designed, allowing me to maintain my speed as I leaned the bike into them.

I’d shot some video earlier with my cell phone camera as I passed some cars, and I shot some now as I flew down the mountain. What a blast! It’s not easy to hold a cell phone in one hand and steer with the other, especially if you don’t want it to look like Michael J. Fox is holding the camera, but when I press my elbow into my chest and then lock my wrist, it doesn’t turn out bad at all.

Another hundred miles of these great roads and incredible scenery and I realized that I was riding the southern part of the Cascades! Back in 2005 I’d ridden the northern part of the Cascades and completely loved it.

I finally got the interstate and hopped on for a few miles to downtown Seattle, where I spent an hour at the Music Experience Project. What a great place, and PERFECT for kids!

After that I got back on the interstate heading to Everett, Washington, and my Best Western for the night. Seattle has a four or five lane highway that ALTERNATES the direction of it’s traffic based on volume and time of day. So on either side of the road is a solid white line, and all the road signs are duplicated front and back so they can be read whether traveling north or south. It’s an odd sight to look in the mirror and see the road signs; if not for all the other cars around you, one might think he was headed the wrong way.

In Everett I rode down to the Puget Sound and visited the giant cargo ships and the Naval warships at the dockyards. Then I rode around and found an excellent restaurant on the water.

Back at my hotel I planned tomorrow’s ride around the Olympic Peninsula and did some research on visiting Mt. St. Helens. I think I’ll go there Saturday.

The next three or four days are going to be uncharacteristically warm and dry around these parts, so I think I’ll stay in Washington for a few days before heading into Oregon.

Headed down the mountain.

And some curves.

Now what is so dangerous about passing a few cars? (Other than riding at ninety MPH with one hand on the bars while holding the cell phone camera with the other?)

Blog Eleven Olympic Peninsula

Ya know how every so often you find a friendly and attentive waiter or waitress, one who does their job efficiently and in a manner that makes your dining experience a joy? Like that waitress that I met in a restaurant back in 1998, when I was riding through Kansas? Well, tonight I met another one in Kelso, Washington. She did a good job.

See? I have nice things to say sometimes!

Now, getting to the more important matters. Ya know what I’m SICK of? That moronic Storm Stories, on the Weather Channel. Every night when I get to my hotel room the first thing I do is turn on the Weather Channel and then look at my map to figure out where to go next. And every night I have to listen to some hayseed describe his experience during the tornado or hurricane or snowstorm or hail storm that leveled his house or washed away his trailer or froze his dog to death. Sweet mother of god! I get it! It was windy! Stuff was blowing all over the place! How many times can we listen to some farmer describe wind? “It was a powerful blast... like a jet airplane... it was so loud I couldn’t hear my milk cow mooing.”

And then they interview people who share their thought process at the time this extreme weather unfolded. That’s what I want to hear when I’m trying to find out if it’ll rain tomorrow at the place to where I wanna ride, what went through your pea brain as the tornado appeared on the horizon. “I thought it was far enough away that I’d have time to shave my pubes... but then I realized it was only about five miles away, right by the Calhoun place, just past the pig trough, and I knew I had to get my mother into the barn as quickly as I could. Not easy to do cause she has one leg longer than the other, and they’re both fake legs anyway. But then I saw the wind whipping up and I thought to myself, those dame roosters ain’t gonna make it.”

And then they always manage to interview the sheriff, who inexplicably has a southern accent, no matter in what part of the country this has taken place. “Well, I gotta call from my dispatcher who told me there was a wheezing dark cloud up on the horizon. I drove on down to frontage road and when I crested the ridge I gotta good look and said, That ain’t no damn cloud. That’s a tornado. And that wind sounded like a jet airplane, like the kind you fly in. With stewardesses.”

Yea, yea, we get it. Every night it’s the same yahoos and hayseeds describing what went through their heads as the storms came and washed or blew everything they owned away. But a know what NEVER goes through their head, and it’s the ONLY thing that would go through my head? I’M MOVING THE FUCK AWAY FROM HERE! To someplace where cows don’t get impaled by street signs, where schools don’t have tornado warning horns on their roofs, and where my sheriff doesn’t have a southern accent!

***

What a great day I had today! Amazing! I rolled out of Everett, Washington, and down the interstate at an insanely early eight PM local time, doing eighty-five MPH, and somehow didn’t have to touch the breaks for about ninety miles, and that was only when I exited at Olympia. Seattle and Tacoma have some excellent drivers and some SWEET rush hours. The highway was packed, but traffic kept moving fast and efficiently. (Although I recall that the last time I was here it was raining like mad and those round, plastic reflectors they have all over the highway--like a tennis ball cut in half and glued to the ground, a shiny, slick little HUMP!--were scaring the hell out of me! I know it’s totally safe, but I’ll never get used to feeling the back end slip an inch to either side when I roll over these things at highway speeds.)

I rode by the Boeing plant, and though I didn’t want to spend the 52 bucks to take the tour, it was cool seeing the giant buildings where they build the planes, and the huge storage house where they let the peanuts get stale before packaging them in an airtight plastic pouch big enough to hold six peanuts.

At Olympia, I hopped on Route 101, which I planned to ride around the entire perimeter of the Olympic Peninsula. Finally, some new ground on which to ride! I’d never been here before, didn’t know anything about the place, and wasn’t even really sure what a peninsula was.

Well, I still don’t know what a peninsula is, but Route 101 around the Olympic Peninsula is one the best rides there is! The scenery is spectacular, interesting, and varied, and the roads are well-paved, with lots of hills and curves and passing zones. There’s a few really cool, funky towns here and there, with restaurants and little coffee shops and some art stores, but they won’t slow you down. Stop if you want, if not, roll on through and keep riding! It’s about 400 miles all the way around, with plenty of gas stops and restaurants.

There are lakes and bays and rivers and tree-covered mountains and fishing villages and eventually some beaches and forests and more bays. For a while you ride right next to the Pacific ocean and right through that cool ocean breeze. There are ports, some that have ENORMOUS cargo ships, and others that have a hundred commercial fishing boats or sailboats all tied up at the docks.

It seems like the scenery keeps changing, too. At one point I rode through a bunch of unbelievably tall trees, like the Redwoods (they may have BEEN Redwoods, for all I know; I know zero about trees). There are a lot of towns that have quite a bit of interesting history and some great historical buildings (although I didn’t stop at any of them).

This is a REAL sea coastal road, a two-lane, like the one along the coast of Maine or around Nova Scotia (the Cabot trail). But the bays loaded with boats was what really blew me away. It’s so cool to see the inlets and coves, the water a rich, deep blue, surrounded by tall mountains covered with thick forests. This road is awesome! Definitely in the top five roads I’ve ridden.

Of course, it was sunny and HOT today, with beautiful skies, temps into the 90s at one point (although low 70s when the road was right next to the ocean), and I think that’s not very common around here. If you ride here (and I really hope you do!), try to have some flexibility so that you can ride it on a hot sunny day.

Tomorrow, Mt. St. Helens!

Blog Twelve Mt. St. Helens

Another beautiful day! A spectacular ride to Mt. St. Helens volcano. Twisty roads, great scenery, and I was informed delightedly by a highly exuberant park employee at the visitor center that there was plenty of ash blowing around today.

He shared this news with me as if he was telling me that the rest of my trip would be paid for by Zsa Zsa Gabor. I'm not sure why I'd be excited about seeing blowing ash, but park service employees are notorious for loving what they do. It's true. I've encountered many of them over the years who truly, truly delight in describing (nine thousand times a day, I might add) things like the sleeping habits of the blue-breasted wobbler or the similarity between shrubs of the high plains and bushes of the rocky coasts. Things about which even guys doing life in the hoosegow wouldn't be interested in hearing.

Of course, I'm reminded of my own penchant for writing in my blog pages and pages of detailed motorcycle-riding philosophies that aren't very interesting even to other motorcyclists, or my proselytizing about yuppie Harley riders, but at least I'm not wearing green shorts and khaki socks that go up to my knees. And if I am, you can’t see them.

The road to and from Mt. St. Helens (there's only one road in and out) is truly great. Sharp curves, lots of passing zones, bridges, fantastic scenery, and of course, a great view of the miles and miles of scarred earth. It looks like candle wax that has spread out in tentacles around a candle, but this isn't wax that leveled these huge swaths of forest, it was lava.

After riding those great curves and climbing a few thousand feet, you arrive at the observatory, really just a visitor's center with a huge platfrom from which to oberve the volcano. It’s great to just sit on a bench and let that powerful, howling wind wash over you while you stare at the very top of the volcano, which is just about level with you and remarkably close... maybe a quarter mile away.

Of course after two minutes of that I sat on a bench and let the powerful, howling wind wash over me as I watched the other tourists come and go. It was far more interesting than staring at the top of the volcano. It’s not like I could see into the thing, and it just looks like a regular mountain whose peak has been abruptly chopped off. There was indeed a great deal of blowing, gray ash that swirled in clouds, thick and dusty, and the views from up there were fantastic, but what could possibly be more interesting than watching people climb the steep walkway to the observation deck and then without warning get SLAMMED by the wind? Especially the elderly people who almost got knocked over. I know it’s kinda cruel, but I didn’t tell them to wait till they were 93 years old to come see Mt. St. Helens. It’s not like it’s a NEW volcano!

I desperately wanted to see someone’s toupee get blown off, but I had to settle for baseball caps that took flight, often flying further than the plane the Wright Brothers first built. Few things are more hilarious than watching people chase their own hat, which inevitably gets blown another few feet away JUST as they’re about to capture it, as if it had a mind of its own.

It’s great to eavesdrop on tourists... sometimes. Not always. Sometimes it’s annoying and makes me want to jump into an active volcano. But other times, like today, it’s a blast. People walk to the railing, look at the volcano (probably the first time most of them have been this close to a volcano) and it’s truly amazing to hear what they say. Aside from the usual predictable and unfunny jokes about hoping it doesn’t blow off right then, some people don’t even react! They look, and then turn to their companion and say (referring to the visitors center), “Wanna go inside?” And then they go inside. There’s something disturbing about this. They came all this way, they look for three seconds, and fail to make any observation, at least aloud and right then. I’m pretty notorious for spending the minimum amount of time at a tourist sight, but had I been there with someone I’m SURE we would have made SOME discussion of the volcano before us!

Even when Poncho and I rode to the Grand Canyon, we were both ready to leave after ten minutes, but at least we looked at each other first and said, “Damn. That’s a big-ass canyon. They got anything to eat around here?”

It’s also great to hear the way people speak to each other, spouse to spouse, parent to child, sibling to sibling. I notice this with my customers, the wide and varied way in which people communicate. Some people are bossy, some are passive, some are obnoxious. It’s really strange.

After hanging there for a while, I rode back down the mountain at high speed, laying into the curves, having a blast, and enjoying the scenery. I rode another 150 miles over to Yakima, Washington, and stopped at the Harley dealer hoping they’d put a new back tire on my bike while I waited. No such luck (not that I blame them. What kind of jack-ass comes into a Harley dealer at 2:30 in the afternoon on a Saturday and tries to get a tire replaced? That would be me.). But the service manager said to come back first thing Monday morning and she’d hook me up. So I think I’ll hang around the scenic and lovely Yakima, Washington, tomorrow, maybe ride some green dot roads out to Mt. Rainer, and have an easy, relaxing day. There is a serious heat wave out here (in the mid-nineties today), and so I’m not sad about spending some time in my air conditioned hotel room tomorrow and researching where to go next.

I’m thinking of heading down through Oregon, visiting the Redwoods and some Northern California spots, and then back up through Oregon to Idaho.

Video of volcanic ash aboove Mt. St. Helens.

.

Blasting down the mountain.

Blog Thirteen Mt. Rainier

As many of you know, I've dedicated my life to making this world a better place with the hopes that others will see my behavior as an inspiring example and my compassion will spread. I think it's working. I may have mentioned in my blog from 2003 that upon coming to a four-way stop sign somewhere in Indiana, I generously waved on a car-full of yahoos while I patiently waited, despite that technically I came to a complete stop at least a second before they did.

Well, yesterday, at a four-way stop sign in Yakima, Washington, I received my payback as some kind soul yielded to me though he clearly had the right of way. Is the world becoming a better and more compassionate place as a direct result of my grand and selfless gesture those many years ago in the Hoosier state? Hard to say for sure, but I would guess that it is. You're welcome, world.

(I also informed the hotel desk clerk that the complimentary chocolate chip cookies in the lobby are HORRIBLE, and thank goodness there are kind people like me in the world who will get rid of them.)

Yesterday morning, in the hotel lobby, I saw one of the greatest thing I've ever seen. A shining example of the self-absorbed behavior about which I'm forever criticizing and commenting. A seemingly nice elderly fella comes into the lobby, sets his suitcase down on the floor, and then when the fella in front of him steps away from the desk, the elderly fella steps forward.

Except he leaves he suitcase where it was, which was in the middle of the floor and just behind the other guy. Naturally, when the other guy turns to leave he trips directly over the suitcase, which could not have been left in a better place had the elderly fella INTENDED to trip the guy! Hilarious! Not that the guy tripped, but that the other moron set his suitcase down right under the guy’s feet!

Really? Did it really not occur to him that the guy in front of him might trip over that suitcase? Emmett Smith couldn't get around that suitcase. Fred Astaire couldn't get around that suitcase. And though I’m guilty of occasionally doing unbelievably stupid things myself, it’s unlikely that I would ever set something down, especially in a public place, without stopping to think if it would be in anyone’s way. I don’t double-park, I don’t take up two parking spots, I don’t leave my shopping cart in the center of the aisle as I walk away, I don’t block people’s access to things because my head is up my ass. My folks raised me to, ya know, be aware of my surroundings and try not to inconvenience others. Some people do this, some do not.

And now if this type of thing happened once in a while and I complained about it, I would rightly be thought of as a nit-picking jerk who found fault with everyone else except himself. Actually, that’s kind of a good description for me regardless. But more to the point, have you noticed this type of thing happens all the time? Most of the time we forget about it ten seconds after it happened, but I like to notice these things and write about them. (And of course some people don’t notice them at all!)

Charles Dickens said that if you want to know about a society, look at its prisons. I say, if you wanna know about a society, look at its drivers. Motorcyclists (and many non-motorcyclists) are especially familiar with this type of self-absorbed and inconsiderate behavior on the road.

How about the guy who gets on the interstate, no turn signal, and as soon as he’s near the end of the on-ramp, he cuts across the white lines, across all the lanes of traffic, and then gets into the far left lane where he sets the cruise control so that he’s doing the EXACT speed limit, and is COMPLETELY OBLIVIOUS TO THE LONG LINE OF CARS BEHIND HIM THAT HE’S JUST SLOWED DOWN! OBLIVIOUS! He has no idea that he’s being passed on the right by people who were JUST in the left lane of the interstate moving along quite nicely.

He then may remain there for several weeks, never, ever noticing the parade of vehicles all bunched up behind him. It’s unreal.

Or when you’re coming up on a guy who has been behind a tractor trailer for three days and JUST as you’re ready to pass him and the tractor trailer, he decides to come out from behind the big truck and get into the left lane. He then gets NEXT to the truck where he remains for another three days. He’s OBLIVIOUS to the motorcyclist who’d been coming up behind him, gaining on him for the last three miles as he sat behind the truck, and who is now DIRECTLY behind him imagining various ways of killing him, some that would shock you.

Who does these types of moronic things? I’ll tell ya who, the type of guy who sets his suitcase down behind another fella and then watches him trip over it, that’s who.

People who don’t know me but who read my blogs or my Facebook comments are often surprised upon meeting me in person at how friendly and happy and outgoing I am. “I thought you hate everyone,” is usually what they say.

“Not at all, you moronic, imbecilic, half-wit,” I usually reply. I just like to be a social critic, pointing out the things that collectively add up to wasting ALL of our time, slowing ALL of us down, annoying us, and just generally creating a good deal of the stress and frustration in many people’s lives. Not that tripping over a suitcase or having to slow down on the highway is THAT big of a deal. I realize there’s some merit to the suggestion that some of us (myself included) should relax, slow down, stop being in such a hurry. And if we did that, perhaps we wouldn’t GET so annoyed and frustrated.

To that I say, fuck you. I’m not sitting behind your dumb ass in the left lane because YOU think I should learn to relax. I can operate at whatever pace I choose, with the exception of violating the law, which I admit that’s what speeding is. But ya know what, if the speed limit is 65 mph and there are literally thousands of cars moving along safely and efficiently at 75 mph, it’s not up to YOU to slow down the whole freakin’ left lane of us. Call the cops and report three thousand cars speeding on I-95 southbound and let them handle it. Oh, and mention that there’s three thousand cars speeding on I-95 NORTHBOUND also.

Also, let’s say you’re only running into the store for a minute, I shouldn’t have to wait that minute for you to come back out and move your car so I can get out! I shouldn’t have to wait ten seconds! I’ll wait ten hours if you’re courteous, but if you’re going to FORCE me to wait because you don’t care about anyone but yourself, or because YOU think I should be patient, I shouldn’t mind waiting a minute, I should learn to relax... no, sir. That’s not how it works and that’s not how it SHOULD work.

But getting to the bigger point, in observing and defining this type of behavior, I do believe that I’m touching upon the much bigger picture of the way the world is today and how it GOT that way. It’s because many of us (myself included) are morons. If you can’t tell that you just slowed down the whole left lane of the interstate, why should we expect that you can form a reasonable opinion on the war in Afghanistan? Or on taxation? Or on constitutional issues or political issues that would require a well-reasoned opinion on for whom to vote.

Yea, it’s kinda funny to hear me rant about the slobs who come into the breakfast room of the hotel with their hair all matted, their teeth unbrushed, and their nasty-ass dirty feet in flip-flops as they yell to their children across the room (the same children who wander around nearly getting hot coffee spilled on them as they get in everybody’s way), but really what I’m ranting about is that THESE people are the American voter. Or maybe they don’t vote, which is just as bad (although one could argue that they’re doing us a favor by not voting). THESE are the people who blame the politicians and the corporations and everyone else for the problems of the world, yet they are oblivious to the problems they cause the rest of every day. The point being, if they can’t recognize the small problems that THEY cause, I’m not so sure I trust their opinions on the big problems.

***

Moving on. I spent an extra night in Yakima, Washington, so that I could take my bike into the dealer Monday morning and get a new rear tire. So, having a Sunday to spend in Yakima was great, especially since I was nowhere near Yakima all day, having left early in the morning and headed back to Mt. Rainier. That place is incredible. The roads are perfect. Lots of curves, lots of passing lanes. The scenery is BEYOND spectacular. Steep mountains covered with thick forests, rocky ridges, deep canyons, and atop of it all, the snow-covered top of Mt. Rainier, so close you can almost touch it.

Unlike many of our National Parks, this one is not terribly cluttered with motor homes and meandering tourists intent on driving as slowly as possible through the park, slamming on the brakes at the slightest hint of animal activity, usually a squirrel or a beaver that’s mistaken by the couple from Long Island for a grizzly bear or a sasquatch. HONEY, STOP! I SAW SOMETHING MOVE!

Washington has one of those great traffic laws like Alaska has, whereby if you look in your rear view mirror and see five or more vehicles behind you, you MUST pull over and let them pass (although in Alaska it’s four or more). The signs read DELAY OF FIVE OR MORE VEHICLES ILLEGAL. SLOW VEHICLES MUST USE TURNOUTS.

Of course, to the geriatric motor home operator, these signs don’t read KOA KAMPSITE TURN HERE, so there is no reason to actually read them and perhaps process the information. No, to the geriatric motor home operator who left the house three years ago and hasn’t read a road sign since, life is TRULY a highway. Not a highway with road signs, not a highway with other motorists, but merely a highway to be navigated at a leisurely pace, well-below the posted speed limit.

At one point, along an beautiful stretch of road with hardly any traffic, I pulled out my cell phone camera, clicked on the video cam, and planted my elbow in my chest to hold the camera steady and shoot some video. Seven seconds later I had to quickly brake, downshift, and turn on my high beams as I saw a car ahead of me, in my lane, coming right at me as he passed a car in his lane. It wasn’t really THAT close, but had I not braked it would have been much closer. I’m nothing if not committed to finishing something once I start it, so despite that I was staring death directly in the face, I resumed videotaping just as he shot back into his lane. He cut it WAY close in front of the guy he was passing, and it wasn’t like I couldn’t have rode the white line or braked even harder if I’d really had to get out of his way, but what’s amazing to me when you watch the video tape is that at seven seconds you can hardly even see the guy in the distance and at ten seconds he has already passed me!

Later in the day, I pulled into the oncoming lane to pass a car, two bikes, and a motor home, and just as I did the car also pulled out to pass. Well, I don’t know about the rest of y’all, but I’m ALWAYS waiting for that to happen and my finger is ALWAYS on the horn button ready to go and I’m ALWAYS ready to shoot to the side and avoid being ran off the road. Sure enough, I laid on the horn, moved to the left a bit, and he went back in his lane, surprised as hell! I missed his fender by MAYBE two feet, tops.

Later, we discussed the incident like two rational adults. He explained that he’d looked in his mirror and hadn’t seen me, so clearly it wasn’t his fault. I inquired as to how he could have looked in his mirror and not seen me, since I was clearly there to be seen. I also calmly pointed out that I had my turn signal on for half a mile behind him before I pulled out to pass and HE didn’t signal his lane change at all, which is illegal, reckless, discourteous, and almost got me killed. I offered to provide him with a similar near-death experience, but he must have had an appointment scheduled because he declined my offer.

I wasn’t really upset (the meds again), things happen, people make mistakes. It was very close, but I didn’t crash. However, when he gave me the finger out the window, I felt that perhaps a discussion was in order.

After riding around Mt. Rainier all day, I took a different route back to Yakima and was AGAIN blown away by the scenery. More curvy, twisty roads, more mountains and forests, but this time the road closely followed a fast-flowing river, and went past lots of cool, off the beaten path types of houses and cool stuff.

There were also lots of giant rock faces, steep hills with huge ruts worn in them from centuries of weather, and fascinating terrain that is a joy to ride past. So much to look at and just take in as you blast down the empty road.

It was in the high-nineties today and sunny, and should be dry and warm in this region for the next week or so. Tomorrow, Bend, Oregon and then probably the Redwoods after that.

PS Before anyone writes to ask why I didn't tell the guy the suitcase was behind him, I was outside at the time and watched this through the window!

Mt. Rainier

Mt. Rainier... fantastic!

Notice how far away the car is at seven seconds, at how he squeezes past me at ten seconds. Less than three seconds from far away to right fuckin' there! Yikes!

Blog Fourteen Oregon

Ya know what I love, these boneheads who tell me to, “try and find where the locals eat. That’s where you’ll find the best food.” The locals? What locals? The locals who live in the high rise apartments in downtown Chicago and who make about seven million dollars a year? Yea, I’ll bet they do dine in some nice restaurants. But the locals who live in trailers and shacks and do their grocery shopping at Wal-Mart and drive nineteen-year-old Toyota pickup trucks painted seven different colors? Hmmm... forgive me for being skeptical of their culinary expertise.

These are people for whom the quality of food is judged not by taste or smell or presentation or the conjoining of flavors and ingredients in interesting and adventurous ways. No, these are people for whom the quality of food is judged SOLELY by price.

One thing I’ve learned (usually the hard way), is that you can’t ask the kid who works at the gas station where the best restaurant in town is. He will direct you to the cheapest restaurant. In fact, you can’t ask anyone where the best restaurant in town is. Often there IS no best restaurant in town, and when there is, you can’t always trust the locals to direct you to it, for they each have their own opinion on what’s good and what’s not. Those opinions are often in conflict with my own.

Hotel desk clerks are no better. To them, Outback Steakhouse is about as good as it gets. To me, Outback Steakhouse is no better than prison food.

Oh, and not only do these locals do their grocery shopping at Wal-Mart, but they buy their clothes at Wal-Mart AND... are you ready for this? Wal-Mart has a jewelry counter. A jewelry counter. At Wal-Mart.

Now, I’m not being critical. I understand that in different parts of the country people have different ways of looking at things. In Moscow, Indiana, a diamond engagement ring from Wal-Mart is gonna make Bertha love her daddy all night long. But where I come from, ANY piece of jewelry I purchase at a Wal-Mart and give to a woman will get me killed. If not by her, then CERTAINLY by her mother.

And when it comes to food... if a steak, lobster tail, two vegetables and a desert costs $9.99 for all of it, I can assure you I will be not be dining at that restaurant. In fact, I will not be present at anything called “Lobster-fest” if it’s not taking place along the coast of Maine. The natural habitat of a lobster is not within walking distance of a Pearl Vision or a Payless Shoes.

The Harley dealer in Yakima had me outta there in less than two hours with a new rear tire and an oil change. It was interesting to sit in the service department and observe a fella wander in with a COCKED handgun sticking out of his jeans. My friend Mountain Bill informed me that those types of handguns are supposed to be carried cocked, and there is a safety activated by the handgrips... or something like that. The point is that it won’t just go off and shoot him in the leg even though it’s cocked. The reason for this type of setup is that it enables a quick-draw, and a quick-draw, by the way, is important when one is in the service department of the Harley dealer in Yakima, Washington. If you think the Bronx or Compton has some dangerous ‘hoods, hang out at the service department of the Harley Dealer in Yakima, Washington, yo. Bloods and Crips won’t even go there (except on Saturdays, when they have free hotdogs. Evidently it’s hard to do a “drive-by” with a delicious all-beef hotdog and a fairly nice bun in your hand. Limit two per gang member).

I rolled south under beautiful blue skies and VERY hot temperatures. Mid-nineties by noon. I’d planned a route of almost all green-dot roads, and decided to roll the dice on some NF roads. NF roads are National Forest roads, and one never knows if they are going to be beautifully paved two lane pleasures to ride... or tiny gravel roads that will make you wish you’d never been born.

Today’s NF roads were through the Mt. Hood National Forest, and they were paved (thank goodness!) but not very wide at all. Around every sharp blind curve I knew that if there was ANY type of vehicle coming at me I could be in trouble. During the thirty or so miles I rode through the park on these very thin roads I only saw one oncoming vehicle, and we had enough notice that he pulled over at a wide spot and let me pass.

Mt. Hood was spectacular, or at least as spectacular as a snow-covered pointy pile of earth and rock can be. Let me say something about mountains. I’ve seen enough mountains to last me a lifetime. They’re neat to look at, and it’s cool to have them in your view as you ride, but what exactly am I supposed to do with them? They're really just enormous pointy piles. People go on and on about how beautiful the mountains are. Well, you can only see them when you’re at a distance. If you’re actually ON the mountain you can’t tell it’s beautiful. You can only tell it’s steep.

About five years ago I rode to Mt. McKinley in Alaska, and every step of the way all I heard was, “Just wait till you get to Mt. McKinley! What a mountain! You’ll be blown away! It’s the tallest mountain in North America! Twenty thousand feet tall!”.

Blown away? Are you kidding? It’s a big freakin’ mountain, but who cares? Should I sit there for three hours and rock back and forth like Rain Man... a big mountain... a really big mountain... a huge mountain... a very, very big mountain.

And let me ask you, do you think I can tell the difference between a mountain that is twenty thousand feet tall and a mountain that’s, say, fifteen thousand feet tall? I got to Mt. McKinley, I looked up and said, “That’s a big mountain. So, you guys got anything to eat?”

But riding around Mt. Hood today was awesome. There is such beautiful scenery all around the mountain that it would have been a great ride regardless. But to have that huge, snow-covered pointy bastard suddenly appear... large, imposing, striking... as you round a curve, was very cool.

The road would change direction quite regularly, sometimes heading gently east, sometimes curving sharply to head gently west, but always delivering you further south. So at times you would lose sight of the mountain and then it would suddenly appear, each time giving you a different view than the last time you saw it. I must admit that there were times when I came out of a sharp curve and got a clear view of the mountain, its jagged peak appearing so suddenly that it was almost shocking. Wow. That is one serious mountain.

I rode through a large section of forest that was recovering from a fire, and I rode through a lot of thick forests with very tall pine trees. (I think they’re pine, I have no idea what they are.)

There are great roads in Oregon and great scenery, and I’ll be back in a few days. But I’ve got a hankering to see some fake titties, some fake tans, some fake people, and some real money, so I’m headed to Northern California tomorrow. Might ride through a redwood.

The last time I was in Northern California I crashed my bike, which was no fun at all. It’ll be a new experience seeing the redwoods without one eye stitched up, a concussion, fractures of the eye socket, and assorted scrapes and bruises. Oh, and it’ll be cool to tilt my head back to look up at them and not get vertigo.

TURN DOWN YOUR VOLUME BEFORE VIEWING!

Blog Fifteen California

I knew instantly that I’d arrived in California. The ugly brown grassy hills that look like camel’s humps... the crappy little restaurants... the peculiar driving habits of the leather-skinned seniors... the hundreds of black SUVs with tinted windows... and the Welcome To California sign. (That sign, I might add, will just about be the last road sign I see until I get to the Thank You For Visiting California sign. The state of California doesn’t like to diminish the beauty of their ugly brown grassy hills and crappy little restaurants with things like WARNING CURVE AHEAD or CONSTRUCTION ZONE USE CAUTION.)

I left Oregon under beautiful blue skies and temps in the 80s. Traffic was light and I hauled ass down a spectacular green dot road as happy as a clam. Great scenery in this part of Oregon. Rivers, lakes, mountains, rocky hillsides, deep valleys, and of course, the ever-present trees. Lots of trees.

Eventually I made my way to the Redwood forest. Momma mia! These are some huge trees! It’s astonishing how tall they are, and they’re a joy to ride amongst. Because of their massive size, riding past them provides a perspective that one doesn’t normally get. Everything seems out of scale. It’s hard to tell sometimes if the trees are enormous or if everything else has been shrunk. Your eyes can easily play tricks on you. It’s really cool.

For example, because the trees are so freakin’ tall, if you look up at the tops of them for a few seconds as you ride past, it appears as if you and the trees are NOT MOVING, but that the sky above is rushing past! Really unusual!

I stopped at the visitor’s center and listened to an interesting and informative talk by a park ranger on how to identify redwoods. I will summarize for you now. They’re the freakin’ tall ones.

Arriving in Crescent City, California, I was reminded that I don’t really like California that much. And it’s not because the first and only time I ever crashed my bike was in California. Nor is it because there really IS an abundance of crappy little restaurants. And it’s not because I don’t like the scenery, which I don’t (it generally blows). Nor is it because the state of California is stingy with their road signs. Or because they elected Schwarzenegger as their governor (I actually like him) or because he’s married to a corpse. Nor is it because the laid-back attitude of the Californians is annoying (they call themselves laid-back, I call them lazy). Actually, I don’t know why I don’t like California. I just don’t.

I’m not excited to be here. The thought of visiting California doesn’t fill me with a sense of adventure and wonder and it never has. Many times over the years I’ve been at the border of Nevada or Arizona and never even bothered to ride across to visit California.

Some states... just their names... fill me with me a sense of wonder and romance. I can’t wait to get there and explore. Or get there and just sit around. But not California.

Traveling is a state of mind. Plain and simple. If a place, any place, fills you with a sense of wonder and romance, if it triggers some longing to go there or some memory of something you perhaps heard about that place, or read about it, or imagined, then going there is going to be a great adventure.

But there’s more to it than that. You must go there allowing yourself the luxury of that state of mind ONLY. You must allow yourself to be excited simply about going there... NOT about what you’ll find when you get there! Not about what you expect to see or do or learn. No way. You must have no expectations, no assumptions, no preconceived notions. You must simply be excited to go there and whatever you find there... well, so be it.

I’ve never gotten to a place and then been disappointed by what I found there. Never. A traveler doesn’t travel in search of reward. A traveler travels to SEE what’s there! THAT is the reward. And if what’s there BLOWS, well, there’s no disappointment in that because now you know! That’s what you came to find out, and you found it out.

The tourist does the exact opposite of the traveler. The tourist goes there expecting to find, for example, great sights and fine dining and perfect weather He books his trip with the idea that it’s going to be great! And so if it turns out that the sights aren’t so nice, the restaurants aren’t that good, and the weather is bad, well, his trip was a disaster. Not so, for the traveler. The traveler leaves that place content with the knowledge of what it’s like there. It’s that knowledge, that experience, good or bad, that the traveler longs for.

And not surprisingly, the traveler is far easier to please. I’ve been in towns that were complete tourist traps. Contrived bullshit, strip malls, and tons of traffic. And I had a blast. Because now I know. I haven’t been back since and I will never be back, but when I think about that place, or when someone asks me, I can define the very essence of it with astute detail. I’ve been there, I’ve investigated, and I can tell you with certainty that it blows.

The tourist is also one who is usually lacking in imagination. They need to be TOLD that they’re having fun! They need to be provided a road map to adventure. Nothing wrong with that if you’re on vacation and you don’t want to have to think. Nothing wrong with that at all. The tourist drives from one national park to another, completely oblivious to the sights and the towns and the smells and the adventures that are waiting to be discovered BETWEEN the national parks. No, the traveler fails to notice any of that and remains on autopilot until paying the admission to the next national park and then becomes delighted and excited and just can’t believe how amazing it is there! They don’t mind that there’s ten gazillion other tourists around them and that the scenery in the park has been carefully preserved and protected and often sculpted, manicured, or even BUILT to enhance the experience.

But for the traveler, that’s no fun. The traveler wants to go somewhere, anywhere, and subtlety find out what makes that place distinct. Though a place may not be grandiose and exciting in any way, it will have its own personality, its own quirks. Its drivers have their own habits, its food, its restaurants have their own characteristics, and much else about a place can turn out to be distinct.

The tourist wants to be treated like a guest and announces himself as being from somewhere else and challenges the locals to show him a good time. The traveler wants to go unnoticed as he does his best to notice as much as possible.

Blog Sixteen Still In California

What a day. I open the door to my hotel room this morning and across the parking lot I see a motorcycle laying on its side. The owner (the guy with the leather chaps, leather jacket, and ¾ helmet) is casually and VERY LOUDLY explaining to an old geezer standing next to him that it’s no big deal, it happens. It got a little off-balance and it tipped over, that’s all.

I’m wondering why he’s talking so loudly, but I’m especially wondering why he’s standing so calmly and nonchalantly as his Yamaha cruiser just lays there on its side.

ANYTIME I see a motorcycle laying on its side my heart skips a beat. I hurry over to him just as he says, completely unconcerned, “My buddy will realize I’m missing eventually and come back to help me.” And he chuckles. He’s paying such little attention to the bike that it’s almost like he’s unaware it fell over.

I offer to help right it, and accepting my offer, he bends down to start lifting. I tell him to hold a second while I lower the kickstand so we don’t drop it onto the OTHER side after we get it upright, and then I say to him, “Do you know the trick to lifting this yourself?”

He says, no, he doesn’t, and I’m just about to show him how to EASILY lift his cruiser up all by myself when he interrupts me to say that he only has one lung, there’s no way he can lift an 800 pound motorcycle by himself. He says this with such an air of superiority, as if he kinda feels bad for the silly bald guy who knows nothing about motorcycles. Naturally, my acid tongue is ready to say, “One lung? You don’t need to be RUNNING when you lift it!” but I realize that like many people who ride motorcycles, he already thinks he knows everything and there’s nothing I can do to change that. Even if I had a 110 pound girl lift the bike for him, he would still not learn a thing.

So we lift it together, and I ask him where his buddy is. “Down the road somewhere! He didn’t realize I’d dropped it and he left”

I’m incredulous. “You’re friend was just here and left you? He thinks you’re riding behind him?”

He laughed, and told me that eventually his friend will realize he’s not there and come back to find him.

Once again I bite my tongue. I wish him a safe trip, and then more out of habit than anything else I foolishly ask where he’s headed. He tells me California (we’re already in California) and then adds proudly that they’ve ridden 3200 miles.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? You just rode three feet and dropped your bike! Your “friend” left you behind because he’s so fucking oblivious that he doesn’t even know you dropped your bike... good thing it wasn’t on your leg and burning a hole in your chaps... and you wanna tell me how many fucking miles you rode?

I didn’t say any of that, of course. I just walked away. He had no idea that the Harley across the parking lot was mine, I didn’t tell him how many miles I rode, and it wasn’t until I walked all the way around the building to the restaurant next door that I saw his friend come riding back into the parking lot looking for him.

Anyone can get off balance and drop their bike. But I can guarantee you that me or any of my friends would immediately pick the bike up off the ground... yes, by ourselves, and there is no way... NO WAY... that we would leave someone behind with their bike laying on its side. It would never, ever happen.

How the hell could that guy (who was riding a Harley Road Glide) get so far down the road without being aware his riding partner was missing?

Welcome to the world of motorcycling, 2010. It ain’t like it used to be.

I headed south on highway 101, with the Pacific Ocean to my right, the hills to my left, and a layer of solid white clouds about a hundred feet above it all. And I mean solid. They stretched out as far as the eye could see over the ocean. At times the road would climb or the clouds would drop and I would ride through thick, damp fog. It was chilly, but I didn’t mind a bit because I was only riding the coastal highway for about 80 miles down to Eureka and then I was heading east. It would get sunny and warm then!

In fact, as I’ve written about previously, one of the things I love about motorcycle riding is those early morning starts when the air is still damp and chilly. I don’t even bother getting all of my warm gear on, I just tough it out for a few hours, letting my body get colder and colder until I’m just about frozen to the bone... and then just when I’m ready to cry uncle, the sun starts to peek through the trees, a get a slight blast of warm air (it might only last for a few seconds)... and I know what’s coming. Soon, the air gets warmer by a few degrees... and then a bit warmer still. And pretty soon it’s hot out! I’m still cold, but as I ride the warm air thaws me out and that, my friends, is a sensation I love.

You know what I don’t love? I don’t love hearing about Snooki. Everywhere I go I hear about Snooki and those other morons on that idiotic show. It’s bad enough I had to see a clip of the President of the United States admitting he doesn’t know who Snooki is (that’s ok, President Obama, she doesn’t know who you are), but I still see these morons on CNN. What the... ?

Just before I got to Eureka (which was the town I spent a few days in while recovering from my crash in 2006), I headed east on Route 299 to Redding. A green dot road if there ever was one! That road is as gorgeous as Snooki is dumb. What a spectacular ride! Miles and miles of sharp curves, sweeping curves, hills, valleys, vistas, bluffs, rivers, streams, lakes, mountains, forests! I don’t even know what a vista or a bluff is but I’m SURE I passed a few. The only thing that road didn’t have was two college cheerleaders 69ing, but for once I wasn’t disappointed about that (I saw a DVD once where that happened on the road side when their car broke down. It didn’t seem believable at the time, but after a while I started to think it COULD happen.)

This was my first time on Route 299 and indeed in this part of California and I have to admit it’s incredible. (I know that in yesterday’s blog I said some mean and hurtful things about the State of California. I’m willing to amend my thinking.) I dropped down on Route 44 just past Redding (to stay on green dots) and then back up to 299 and then to my hotel in Alturas, California. Three hundred or so miles of the most perfect scenic roads in the country!

This part of California is amazing! There are some old abandoned western towns along this route that are really cool. (California was at one-time REAL cowboy country. Ranches, farms, rustlers, and ranch-hands who would name-drop during power lunches.)

The views along Route 299 are spectacular. Tree-covered mountains, deep valleys, rivers, tall rock faces, and funky little towns, laid-back and cool. It’s quiet and desolate for most the way, and the curves are GREAT! There are switchbacks after switchbacks, and some curves that are just perfect for laying it way over at 70 MPH.

I stopped at a grocery store in a VERY small town that was also an ACE Hardware. There were pickaxes and shovels for sale in the frozen food aisle, and nuts and bolts next to the produce. Weird.

I couldn’t decide whether to go south to San Francisco tomorrow or maybe Reno, but I opted for north to Boise, Idaho. I have no idea why.

Blog Seventeen It’s Nine O’clock in Boise, Idaho

Ah, the little differences one spots when traveling from place to place in our great country. In some places, a motorcyclist almost gets killed when a car turns left in front of him. In other places, a motorcyclist almost gets killed when a car comes out of a side street and T-bones him. And still in another places, a motorcyclist almost gets killed by getting read-ended. It’s the diversity that makes our country great.

Another day of perfect weather. Before I go any further, allow me to explain that I’ve had seventeen consecutive days of perfect weather on this trip not because I’m lucky. It’s because I watch the weather channel each night and get the precipitation forecast for the next three days and I plan my route accordingly. For many years now, for many month-long road trips, I’ve spent sometimes 29 of my 30 days riding through perfect weather. Poncho was indeed quite impressed when he joined me last year and I delivered to him 21 consecutive days of exquisite weather. We hit not a drop of rain (except for one pop-up thunderstorm in the Badlands, but it was over in ten minutes and anyway, those pop-up storms are unavoidable in the west).

It’s not that hard to do if you’re flexible and have the proper tools, namely a map and the weather channel. When one looks at map of the routes I’ve taken on various trips, it might look like a retarded bee buzzed around and wherever he landed on the map, that was where I went. My routes are crisscrossed, twisty, nonsensical, often doubling back on themselves, and often I plan (like I’ve done for tomorrow) a weirdly shaped route going way out of my way just to come back to a town right down the road from where I started. This is because I stay on green-dot routes, regardless of how efficient they are, and also because of weather. There is great weather in Idaho for the next three days and so I’m going to stay around here. Tomorrow night I’ll figure out where the NEXT three days of great weather is, and I’ll head over that way. I can usually do this while at the same time making my way home.

I spent some time exploring Alturas, California, this morning before I left, and I think it’s a very cool town. An old town, with a real western vibe. Cowboy country. Old-fashioned storefronts, folksy, everybody knows everybody.

I rode through the Oregon deserts all day today. Amazing. Just like the Nevada deserts, but with more hills and valleys. Not a town and barely even a car to be seen for a hundred miles at a time. Great, steep, rock faces. Giant pyramids of earth and stone. Rivers alongside the road shining in the sun. Desolate. Quiet. Contemplative. Hot!

At one point I came upon a small caravan of a few motor homes, a few cars, and a few tractor trailers. At the front of the line was a small motorcycle with a guy and a girl onboard and their camping gear, going just SLIGHTLY above the speed limit. I twisted the throttle and blew past the whole lot of them and got way ahead. It was 90 degrees, and even at 85 miles an hour I was sweating like a priest at a little league game, I can’t imagine how those two were handling it at 60 MPH, two-up, and on that Honda 400 CC.

Sometime later, while sipping a cup of coffee and sitting on a bench at a gas station in a small town, the two of them rolled in to fuel up. They came and sat next on the bench next to me and I apologized to the girl for scaring the hell out of her when I blew past at a hundred miles an hour. She said she wasn’t really that scared although she might have looked it. When I passed them, it looked to me that she damn near jumped out of her skin and I felt kinda bad about it. I was glad she took it in stride.

They’d been on the road for a while having left San Francisco to do some exploring on the bike. They’d been mostly camping out, and though I was surprised to learn the bike was a six speed, the rider informed me that he was keeping his speed down as to not punish his machine. I forget what year it was, but I think it was from the 1970’s.

It was great to see a young couple out riding around the country, especially on that bike, because if you’re riding around on that thing it’s because you WANT to be there! Hopefully I’ll come across them again in fifteen years when they’re riding around their Goldwing.

People often ask me which is my favorite scenery to ride past. I don’t really have a favorite. I love it all, and I vary it enough so that it never gets boring or repetitive. Sometimes I ride through forests, other times coasts, other times mountains or deserts or rivers or farmlands, sometimes I even take interstates just to mix it up a little. Each type of scenery provides a different experience, something different to look at and think about, and even a different style of riding.

But today I realized that as much as I love coasts and farmlands and forests, I REALLY love riding through the desert. And I think I figured out why. Not only is it fascinating to look at, but it’s safe! It’s probably the safest of all the terrains through which to ride. You can see for a hundred miles in all directions. There are no cross streets from a which a vehicle can suddenly come flying, and if there is a cross street, you can see if anyone is at it or approaching it an hour before you get there! There’s no brush or tree line from which a deer or an elk can come running, and there’s no agriculture equipment taking up half of your lane just around that blind curve. There ARE no blind curves!

You can set the throttle for 85 MPH and sit back and relax. Constant motion until it’s time for fuel. And the deserts intrigue me to no end. They’re huge! How did people ever make their way across these things on foot or even on horseback? I can’t imagine.

And the things one sees in the desert. Fifty miles of nothing and then suddenly a single house, five junk cars in the yard and a dilapidated old motor home in the field. Who lives there? WHY do they live there? How did they get there? Where do they work? I never, ever grow tired of that curiosity. (The Nevada desert is particularly fascinating when it come to the people who live way out yonder. They are some strange ones.)

It’s just weird out in the desert. Deserted old buildings, ghost towns that you’re through in the blink of an eye, old billboards no longer in use, and those sporadic houses or trailers way, way out in the middle of nowhere, but very much still lived-in.

So after a great day of riding the deserts of Oregon and I got on the interstate for 50 miles down to Boise, Idaho. I like Boise. It’s Boise, baby, what’s not to like?

Tomorrow I’ll take a giant circle, leaving Boise and heading up through the Sawtooth National Forest and then looping back down to Twin Falls, Idaho. Green-dot roads all the way!

I’ll have to check the weather tomorrow night to figure out which way I’ll start heading for home, but I’ve got a serious jones for either an all-beef hot dog down on the water-front in Chicago (the best hot dogs in the country), or a steak in Kansas City. I’m leaning towards Kansas... I LOVE riding through Kansas and Nebraska with those fields and farms that go on for miles and miles and miles. And I love Kansas City.

You know what else I love? When I see someone I’ve known for twenty-five years on Facebook and discover that they’re practically illiterate. Or when an old friend emails me after reading my blog. “dood... I red youre bl,og! Holly shitt! You road to califona on youre bike? Doess youre ass hurt? Ha ha ha!”

Uh, no, but my brain hurts.

I’d also like to know why every time something bad happens in places like Pakistan or India, THOUSANDS of people get killed? They have a mudslide, thirty thousand people die. They have a flood, forty thousand people are killed. An earthquake, fifty thousand. A train falls of the tracks, eighty-two thousand people are crushed to death. There are TWENTY million people homeless from this flood in Pakistan. What the hell?

Blog Eighteen Twin Falls

What a day! Momma mia! Idaho, in case you don’t know, is amazingly beautiful. The first thing I see when I leave my hotel this morning in Boise are these massive brown humps, fascinating to ride past. It’s like you’d imagine the terrain on another planet to look like, Mars, or Pluto, or maybe even your anus.

It’s just magnificent. There is no level ground. The entire terrain around here is made up of these massive, brown, very steep hills. But really, they’re not hills. They’re humps! The most accurate way to describe them is humps. They are enormous piles of earth, and the road goes sometimes between them and sometimes right up and over them. There is also a river that snakes its way between these massive humps, and at times you ride next to the river, and at other times you ride up and over one of these huge humps and look down on the river.

The river banks are also amazing. They too are not level with the river, but are jagged, abrupt edges, ten or twenty feet ABOVE the river, as if the earth has been caving into the river in huge chunks, or as if the river level has dropped so low you can now see the exposed walls of the banks.

There are houses here and there between the humps, and on some of the bigger humps there are house built right into the side, no doubt at great expense.

It’s very cool riding up and down and around and between these massive humps. There are plenty of perfect curves,, but then the road also starts to climb. Now you’re getting higher and yet still blasting through these sharp curves. The terrain starts to become greener, there are trees here and there. And then the trees get more numerous. And soon you are in that cool mountain air surrounded by thick forests. For most of the time, the road corkscrews up the mountain, so as you look along side the road you either see far below down into a valley, or you look down at the road itself on the mountainside, far below you.

You pass old mining shacks and abandoned mining equipment rusting in the fields, and then you get to Idaho City, a former mining town built in the 1800’s. There are cool old buildings, an authentic western “Main Street”, complete with saloons and a court house, and a distinctly NON-touristy vibe.

Traffic is light, the scenery is amazing, and the curves are perfect for motorcycling. There are dozens and dozens of sharp curves and switchbacks, all high above the valleys and the river and the steep mountainsides covered with trees. The speed limit is 45, which makes sense because those curves are NO JOKE. This is a sport-biker’s dream.

I come out of a curve onto a straight-away and a good ¼ mile ahead of me I see red and blue lights on the shoulder. Yep. He got me. My first speeding ticket of the trip. I usually get two.

I pulled over next to his really cool BMW police bike, gave him my paperwork, and started checking out his bike. I asked him a bunch of questions... it had a laser gun for when he was parked (well, that I managed to learn a few minutes earlier!) and radar mounted on the dash that gave him the speed of the vehicle approaching him AND the vehicle ahead of him. He said that it was all over the message boards that they were working this stretch of road hard. They wanted the bikers to come and visit, but they wanted people to be safe. (I visit the cruiser message-boards, not the sport-bike message boards, and so I don’t keep up on these things.)

Two of his homies showed up (also on bad-ass BMW police bikes), and I started asking the three of them what was the most common cause for bike accidents around here. They said there are CONSTANTLY bike wrecks (just last week they had to airlift a Harley rider outta there), and it’s usually gravel or sand around a curve, or just inexperienced riders. Often, one bike goes down around a curve and takes out the pack. They said there are also head-on collisions as bikes pass cars on the double-yellow. I tried to get as much advice out of them as I could, trying to really discern if it was gravel that caused the bikes to lose it, or just poor riding. They seemed to think it was a combination of both. I always like to hear about what caused a wreck so I can learn from it, and I especially like to hear what motorcycle cops have to say because those folks train constantly and are up to date on all the latest techniques and statistics.

As you can probably tell from reading my blog, I’m not one of those guys who wants to hear what your Uncle Fred thinks is the best way to ride because he’s been riding that way for twenty years. I’ve been riding for twenty years and for most of those years I was NOT riding properly! I want to hear about how to ride from the professionals, the manufacturers of bikes and brakes and tires. The people who design and engineer the stuff we use, and who test it relentlessly. I don’t even trust my OWN experience to tell me what’s right or wrong. Though I have an incredible number of miles on a bike, that doesn’t mean that I’ve actually figured out what’s right or wrong. I may have developed bad habits, or found ways to get something to work and so I stick with it, completely unaware that there might be a BETTER way to do it. Or maybe I don’t understand WHY something is working or NOT working, and so I develop a philosophy or a habit that seems to fit the facts, but the truth is that there’s more to it than I realize.

I love these idiots you encounter on the road or on the message boards who just know EVERYTHING... AND the best part is that they figured it all out THEMSELVES!! They’ve never read a book or watched a DVD or taken a course or looked up articles or information on the internet, yet they’ll swear to some insane thing like (and someone told me this once!), “ABS ain’t no good in the rain. I tried it one day and the front end was ok in a straight line, but when I leaned her over it took longer to stop.” You’re a fucking moron. A total, and complete moron. A danger to yourself and everyone around you. Half an hour on the internet will teach you that there’s not a manufacturer or a rider or a racer who has tested ABS brakes who will not tell you unequivocally that on wet ground ABS brakes are the only way to go. (And I mean tested them properly---I don’t mean your Uncle Fred tested them on Sunday with his yuppie friends.)

The point being that almost all of my knowledge about motorcycling comes from OTHERS! Despite my considerable experience, I am not an engineer, I’ve not ridden under track conditions that are carefully monitored, and I’m not a researcher who compares data. Yes, often times I’ve developed the proper techniques on my own as a RESULT of years of experience (and trial and error), but I’ve only become confidant they’re the proper techniques after comparing them with the experts. There is a time to trust yourself and a time to trust the experts. Knowing the difference is how you BECOME an expert.

Anyway, so smokey bear cut me a break and wrote me for 60 in a 45 instead of the 66 he clocked me at. It’s 85 bucks and is just a regular speeding ticket, nothing too serious.

After that, I hauled ass through more incredible scenery. Mountains, curves, valleys, forests... it’s insane! I loved it! I rode past the Sawtooth mountains which are absolutely incredible! Jagged, sharp pointy peaks, one after the other in a long line.

I got to my hotel in Twin Falls relatively early and so decided to ride around an explore. For probably a hundred miles before I for to Twin Falls I’d been seeing thick, white clouds in the distance that appeared to be from a forest fire. Although they looked like clouds, clouds don’t originate from the ground up and only spread out to one side! By the time I got to Twin Falls it was clear that the white clouds were definitely coming from a forest fire.

I headed out of town towards Nevada to see how close I could get to the fire. The smoke was unbelievable. It filled the sky above the horizon for miles and miles and miles, so thick and white that it truly looked like a cloud-filled sky. But it also DIDN’T look like a cloud-filled sky because clouds don’t quite look that way. They don’t take up fully one-quarter of the sky for as far as the eye can see while the rest of the sky is brilliant clear blue.

I got pretty close and then decided to head back to town and get dinner. I’ve ridden past and directly through some huge forest fires in the past, and though it can be surreal when the smoke blocks the sunlight and turns everything a weird shade of tan, I saw a Mexican restaurant back in town that looked pretty good and THAT, my friends, is what traveling is all about.

I’m staying in Idaho for another day. And I have much more to write but I’m so tired I can hardly keep my fly open. Goodnight.

"Hello, I'm calling about the house for sale."

"Yes, what can I do for you?"

"Does it have central air?"

"No."

"Does it have a two-car detached garage?"

"No."

"Does it have a swimming pool?"

"No."

"How about one of those cool islands in the kitchen with a cooktop?"

"No."

"How much is it?"

"Eighty-five dollars."

"We'll take it."

Humps!

Fantastic Idaho mountains!

Smoke!

Dangerous, illegal, and fun!

Blog Nineteen Still in Idaho

Well, the plan for this trip was to spend as much time exploring Washington, Oregon and Idaho as the weather permitted. Those were the three states (not including Hawaii) with which I was the least familiar. Not anymore!

I left Twin Falls, Idaho, this morning after consuming as much of the free scrambled eggs in the hotel lobby as I could. I was warned that there was a salmonella threat and a massive recall of eggs. Recall eggs? What are they going to do with them? I remember the money I saved buying up all that E-coli meat... and guess what? I never got E-coli! (Of course, I only served the meat to my guests, I didn’t actually consume it myself.) So I loaded up on free eggs and once again looked directly in the face of death and laughed. Salmonella? BRING IT!

(Remember, though I consider myself a picky eater, all that goes out the window when I’m hungry and in the middle of nowhere. Remember the seafood I had at that Mexican restaurant in the middle of the Arizona desert a few years ago? I had to tow a porta-potty behind my bike for three days, but I survived. Chinese food in New Mexico? Yup. I’ve done it. The half-priced sausage I bought from a street vendor in West Texas? A few weeks of antibiotics and I was as good as new (although I did develop a lisp for an additional few weeks). I fear no food! Expiration dates are for fools and cowards. Even when I’m home... three-week left-over Chinese food, two-week left-over seafood... take out the words “left-over” and replace it with the word “free” and now you know what I’m talking about.)

I backtracked a bit this morning and then took some green-dot roads over to the Craters of The Moon National Monument. These are huge fields of dried and hardened lava that at one time was a massive, flowing sea of liquid lava. Or something like that. My eyes start to glaze over when I read about that stuff or when the ranger starts explaining it. I don’t know what’s going on there and I don’t really care that much. Can you just explain it in two sentences? They always want to tell me what happened during the cretaceous period, or show me a sample of an igneous rock. Please! Just tell me it was lava that was flowing and is now hardened and let me get to the gift shop.

Leaving the Craters of the Moon, I got back on the green-dot routes under beautiful blue skies. I booked a hotel that was only about two hundred miles away because I wanted plenty of time to stop and explore and take pics and I was in the mood for a slow, relaxing day of easy riding. What a blast!

Idaho is truly amazing. Massive brown hills (or humps, as I called them yesterday) which I realized today look very much like large potatoes, and long mountain ranges with jagged peaks. It’s real desert out here, with real desert towns, which is to say, total shit-holes.

I don’t mean that in a critical way, it’s just that these little desert towns are pretty run-down. Very, very basic stuff. Maybe a little gas station... maybe not. Maybe a little café, maybe a post office and a hardware store, maybe a little market. And a whole lot of empty old buildings. These towns are old and hanging on by a thread. There is nothing new about them and they exist only to service the few hundred or so locals who live in the vicinity and the occasional traveler. These are not tourist spots by any means, although I happen to LOVE these towns.

Although yesterday (along Route 21, I think it was) I rode through a town that can only be described (as I’ve described many other towns in my travels) as being a haven for rich dickheads. (Amongst the many postulates in which I behold, there is the one that states “rich people tend to be dicks”.) It reminded me of Telluride, Colorado. Everything in this town was shiny and new. Spectacular brick buildings with beautiful windows and doors. Neat, clean, well-manicured sidewalks and outdoor cafes. And there was beautiful signs for each of the business establishments... modern, artsy, fancy... total bullshit.

There was not a hint of history here, not an allusion of mystique or allure or of anything that might be ORIGINAL, and the place reeked of money. Big money. These people didn’t rent a motor home and load it up with cans of Spam and drive on out for a week of horseshoes and miniature golf, these folks flew in on private jets and had a car waiting at the airport (more on that in a few minutes).

There were eighteen restaurants, although you’d better not DARE call them restaurants. They’re bistros or cafes or brassieres, the types of places where the word “ragout” appears on the menu, and where you ask the server what “coralage” means and he confesses it means sauce, or where the patrons actually taste the wine before approving it. Just drink the fucking wine, you dick!

In addition to the eighteen self-important dining establishments, there were (and this ALWAYS kills me) at least a dozen “outfitters”. Stores that sell hiking and camping gear... except no one who shops there hikes or camps! Rich people don’t hike! They spend 450 dollars for hiking boots and another 200 for the insect-repelling, sun-blocking travel pants that are resistant to jungle rot, and the most hazardous things those pants ever encounter is the truffle infused ragout-of-Kobe-beef at the local brassiere.

The streets were lined with parked Beemers and Lexus’s and about seven hundred Range Rovers, and the sidewalks were filled with what appeared to be a convention of L.L. Bean catalog models getting out for a few minutes of fresh air. There were plenty of guys wearing Izod shirts and cowboy hats, and the women wore travel pants and vests like the real hikers wear, except the vests didn’t have dangling from them compasses and waterproof match cases, they had Breast Cancer Pink I-Phones and protective sunglass holders for the sunglasses that cost more than my laptop computer. God help us.

It’s hilarious to see rich people dressed up like outdoorsy, wilderness types, and I can’t help but wonder why they don’t feel like complete morons. Maybe I’ll ask them. This weekend they’re playing “wilderness guide in Idaho”; next weekend they’ll be on the boat wearing the white pants, Docksiders, and cashmere sweater; the following week they’ll be taking the Porsche out to play golf; and the weekend after that is dress up like a Hells Angel and take the Harley out. Maybe then we’ll cross paths and I’ll ask them how it feels to have all that money and no soul?

After riding as quickly as I could through make-believe land, I was barely a mile out of town when I passed the local airport, which to my astonishment must have had at LEAST 30 Learjet’s parked along it’s very nice and very long runway. What could possibly explain that many Learjet’s, I wondered, and I realized that that was how the town’s temporary Grizzly Adams’s commuted back and forth from the harsh wilderness of Idaho (really, the Cabernet was too warm) to their estates in L.A. Yup, rich people are dicks.

But that was yesterday. Today, it was nothing but small, run-down desert towns in the middle of nowhere. No Wal-Mart’s, no Applebee’s, barely any fast food joints, and even the Quick-mart gas stations were long overdue for a modernization. And I loved it!

The roads are great. Long, long stretches of empty two-lane surrounded by those massive brown hills and the jagged mountain ranges. Lots of farmland around here, fields that went on for miles and miles and miles. Plenty of old abandoned farm houses and tractors rusting in the sun.

I made it to Idaho Falls and fell deeply in love. My hotel is directly across from the falls and I walked along them tonight after my dinner at a Japanese steakhouse. I rode around town as the sun went down and was truly delighted to see how nice and clean and well-maintained Idaho Falls is. It had been updated, for sure, but not in a crass, commercial, corporate way. The town fathers planned out the modernization to retain the western-type feel and old history of the town. There are fountains and statues and plenty of places where trees are growing, and lots of great views of the river and the breathtaking falls.

The roads in town are quite curvy, not the rigid, right-angle grid work of most towns, and so as you ride you are constantly delighted to round a curve and instead of seeing a massive mall or tacky urban sprawl, you might see PART of a mall, but also a park and alongside that a long line of freight trains waiting to get rolling. It’s a cool mix.

I rode over to the next town west of here and that was a really cool old place, with a once-bustling Main Street that is now mainly empty storefronts. But as usual, there were enough locals wandering around to make it interesting. Something about huge, sloppy, fat broads holding hands with tall, unbelievably-skinny dudes that always makes my night. I love America.

Craters Of The Moon

Blog Twenty Wyoming

What an amazing day! Wyoming is insane. Crazy insane. If Wyoming was a daytime talk show host it’d be Oprah. If Wyoming was a guitar player it’d be Pete Townshend. (What? Did you think I was gonna say Clapton? Hello no! Pete is da man!) If Wyoming was a yuppie it’d ride a Harley. You get the idea. Wyoming kicks ass.

I had an excellent breakfast at the “Steak and Pancake” joint in Idaho Falls. GREAT food, great service, and only one two-year-old screaming and smacking things onto the table as the parents sat completely oblivious. I imagine if you don’t notice the crazy noise your kid is making, it kinda makes sense that you won’t notice the tables of people around you who keep turning their heads to stare. It’s quite amusing to watch people pissed off but reluctant to say anything. Trust me, folks, whether you stare or say something or THROW something, it will make no difference.

I rolled out of Idaho under beautiful skies and was delighted to be back on familiar ground that I love so much. This part is not new to me at all, and it’s one of my absolute favorite parts of the country. Routes 89, 189, and 26 in western Wyoming... Momma mia! That ride past the Grand Tetons is incredible. The whole landscape out here is fantastic. The roads are great, and the only part I despise (long-time blog readers might recall this!) is Jackson, Wyoming, that hideous Mecca of rich dicks and yuppie Harley riders.

Only in Jackson, Wyoming, can you pay a hundred dollars for sushi served by Japanese waiters wearing cowboy hats. Ok, I made that up. But it’s a pretty good image to describe Jackson. (And there is a western-themed sushi restaurant there---the waiters MIGHT wear cowboy hats.) I first rode through there in the mid-nineties when the yuppie Harley craze was at its height and I was sickened at the sight of gaudy designer Harleys and their “bad-ass” owners sipping lattés and smoking fat cigars as they sat along Main Street watching the Beemers and Range Rovers go by. If you think I’m critical of yuppie Harley riders now-a-days, back then I was worse. Way worse. I was about as tolerant of yuppie Harley riders as the KKK is of having RUN DMC perform at one of their Klan meetings.

But that was then. Now I’m far more mature and tolerant, and a kind and loving and gentle human being. So today as I rode through town and saw all the pussies sitting around by their Harleys, sipping lattes and smoking fat cigars, I just gave them dirty looks in response to their pathetic beauty queen waves rather than give them the finger.

At the top of a mounain I pulled into a scenic overlook to get some pics and enjoy the incredible view. There was a highway patrol SUV sitting there watching the road, and I wasn’t parked for twenty seconds before he came over and rolled the window down. Wonderful, I thought. I can’t believe I’m getting popped for speeding while going UP a hill.

“Where in PA are ya from?” he asked. I told him Philly, and he told me he was from the Poconos. He’d come out here to Wyoming six years ago to work as a trooper and he loved it. He said that after six years, though, he still hadn’t lost that “back east” attitude and, for example, still hadn’t gotten used to going to a restaurant and waiting fifteen minutes for a glass of water. Like me, he was always in a hurry, even when he had nowhere to be. We were kindred sprits when it came to that!

I asked him if he worked a lot of bike crashes around here. There were dozens of sharp curves and switchbacks going up and down the mountain and I figured this was sport-bike heaven. “All the time,” he said. “Had a fatal last week, right where we’re standing. The bikes jump out over the double-yellow and pass the slow-movers coming up the hill here all the time. This guy last week, passed a car coming up the hill and then lost it going around the curve. He slid through the wide spot here and then slammed into a parked car,. He was killed on the spot.” Yikes!

I asked him if they had a lot of crashes this year during Sturgis Bike Week. “Oh, yea,” he said. “We get a ton of bikes through here. I think Sturgis had nine fatals during bike week this year.”

Double yikes!

Before he left, he handed me a Wyoming Highway Patrol sticker which I happily stuck on the inside of the lid of my tourpak. It was about freakin’ time a highway patrolman handed me something and didn’t ask me to sign it and then instruct me to mail in my check within 21 days.

I spent the rest of the day riding my butt off! Hauling ass though that incredible Wyoming scenery. I’ve written in my blog many times about how repulsive I find Yellowstone National Park, that slow-moving playground for the unimaginative. I often tell people to skip Yellowstone and just visit this part of Wyoming. It’s just as nice, and there’s not ten gazillion motor homes moving at the speed at which these mountains were formed. I love this part of Wyoming.

There are a few small towns here and there, and you ride through a massive Indian reservation. Throughout most of the afternoon, there was to the right of me a huge thunderstorm in progress. I could see the rain falling, and every so often I would get a few drops on my windshield. But I spent the whole time under bright blue skies and incredible puffy white clouds. At one point, I rode through a construction zone (dirt and soft gravel---may favorite type) and the black ominous clouds were so close I thought for sure I was gonna get hammered. But I got lucky and a few miles later I was beside them again and far enough away that I stayed dry. It is very cool to actually watch the heavy rain fall some miles off to your side while you’re sweating in the sun.

I took some pics of those homesteads I love so much. Those trailers and ramshackle places surrounded by junk that suddenly appear after miles and miles of nothingness. And I explored one small town (population ten) that had TWO bars, both total shit holes.

After an incredible day of riding I now sit in the courtyard of the Best Western in Douglas, Wyoming, typing my blog on my laptop and waiting for a thunderstorm to roll past. Tomorrow, I will head to Sturgis and stay there for the night. Now that bike week is over, I don’t have to avoid the place like a thirteen-year-old boy avoiding a priest.

Check out the thunderstorm to my right.

Nasty gravel and dirt construction zone. A few drops of rain... uh-oh... but it was a false alarm!

Blog Twenty-one Sturgis

What a fantastic day! I rolled out of Douglas, Wyoming, this morning and was greeted with another day of beautiful blue skies. The clouds stretched in a long, flat plane... bright white, puffy, spectacular to look at it. I love great clouds, and the west has ‘em. They don’t call it “Big Sky” country for nothin’. The clouds out here are truly amazing and the sky is indeed BIG! It seems as if you can see for hundred and hundreds of miles all around you. Maybe you can, for all I know.

I blasted down the highway and soon arrived at the excitingly-named town of Bill, Wyoming. I have a long-time brother named Mountain Bill (the guy who got me my first Harley when I was nineteen years-old, a 1973 XLCH... kick-start ONLY ---I’ve just about forgiven him) and I was determined to torment him as much as possible with pictures from Bill. Well, it takes longer to say the name Bill than it does to visit the town. There was the Bill Store, the Bill Post Office, and directly across the street was a hotel and Peggy’s Diner. That was Bill. All of Bill.

Well, why not stop at Peggy’s Diner in Bill and have breakfast?

What a miserable bunch of fucks. As soon as I walk in the rednecks hovering around the pretty little cashier give me some hard looks. That didn’t last long. I'm from Philly. We get hard looks from little old ladies, not to mention the occasional, "...the fuck you looking at?" from six-year-old girls. I guess they saw me as competition for her affections, what with my fancy motorcycle and all those teeth.

I interrupted them to ask her if I could sit anywhere, and she said yes. I took a seat at a booth and slowly the lazy-ass waitress made her way over and barked, "You wanna drink?".

As I'm asking for a coffee and orange juice, the hayseed who is walking by on the way to his table says to her, "coffee" and she yells, "Hold on now. I'm good, but I ain’t that good."

She brings me my orange juice... in a can, no glass, and no spoon for my coffee. I say thank you and she, of course, says nothing.

But... I realize that I’ve only gotten in a bad mood because the cowgirls up at the front of the diner were playing tough-guy. They didn’t mean anything by it, and there’s no need for me to be in a sour mood. I’m an upbeat, optimistic, friendly guy and I’m gonna humble myself for a moment and see if I can’t get this ignorant fuck of a waitress to come around. When she wanders her lazy-ass back over to take my order, I say to her, “Are you from Bill? What the hell kind of name is Bill, anyway? Have you ever been to Jim? Or Steve? They’re REALLY small towns!” I’m smiling as I say it and she laughs.

I’ve found when I travel that the best way to get people to be happy and friendly and to make the experience great for me AND them, is to ask them questions about their town. Don’t pry, don’t interrogate, just be genuinely curious (and I’m ALWAYS that) and they will talk and talk. In fact, people love to answer questions and share their knowledge and feel like they’re really helping you by filling you in on the stuff you’re too dumb to figure out on your on (and that is exactly what they’re doing!). Also, people LOVE to feel knowledgeable, even when it’s on something as pedestrian as their own small town.

I ask her if that’s coal in those hundreds of train cars I’ve been riding past, and where it comes from. She says that there’s two coal mines down the road, as if I’m supposed to know that. “Oh, sorry.” I say, “I’m from Philadelphia. They did tell us in fifth grade that Bill, Wyoming, has two coal mines, but I guess I forgot it after learning that Joe, Kansas, has two John Deere tractor dealers.”

Well, she laughs, and now she’s my best friend. She starts answering all my questions in a very helpful and friendly way. She tells me the diner has a contract with the mine and the railroad to feed their employees, and that’s how they stay afloat in the otherwise, shall we say, under-populated town of Bill.

She actually is very nice and friendly and I liked her very much. Like so many people I encounter, she just wasn’t raised to believe or somehow doesn’t know that greeting customers in a friendly and courteous manner is one of the keys to success. She wasn’t intentionally being rude to me, that’s just her manner. The guys that I pegged for rednecks who’d given me the hard looks are railroad employees and they get in on the act of teaching the moronic motorcyclist about the ways of Wyoming. I really am interested in hearing this stuff, and this is the type of interaction and conversation that I love, so we all have a great time as I ask them questions. They grandly answer me, enjoying the role of all-knowing sage, and I soak it up like a sponge, all the while making them laugh with my sarcastic remarks which are meant in fun and taken as such.

Back on the road, I’ve booked a room only about 200 miles away, in the town of Sturgis, South Dakota, and so I have a very easy day of riding. Some days I like to do that. It gives me time to stop and explore and take detours. Most days I prefer to just haul ass and ride all day long... but sometimes I like to take it easy.

I have no idea why I picked Sturgis... AGAIN! I’ve stayed here before and every time I’ve visited (including just last year with Poncho), I’ve been ready to leave after fifteen minutes. (Although I did want to visit Pee Wee’s bike shop in Sturgis today and get a t-shirt. My nickname used to be Pee Wee, and I thought about telling him that there’s only room for one biker named Pee Wee, but he’s the president of the local Hells Angels chapter, so I think I’ll just keep my mouth shut. His shop was closed today, so I’ll go visit tomorrow before I leave town.)

I’ve written about Sturgis many times in my blog. It’s a total bullshit town. It was a small, South Dakota town devoid of distinction but for their small, annual bike week... and then the yuppie Harley craze turned their small, annual bike week into a monster. Now the main street is lined with “biker” bars and “biker” restaurants and “biker” crap. Total bullshit. It’s all about t-shirts and accessories and being able to say you went to Sturgis for Bike Week.

Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of hardcore bikers who ride to Sturgis each year and have a blast, and the big clubs show up and do their thing, but sadly there are a gazillion yuppies that come as well... but of course they TRAILER their bikes here.

But I decided to spend the night here, and here I am. I got to my hotel early in the day, did a load of laundry, and headed down to Deadwood.

Deadwood. Should be called Deadbeat. I’ve written about this urinal cake before, too. Two city blocks of smoke-filled casinos and t-shirt & trinket stores. Like a combination of a Jersey Shore boardwalk-town and a block of Las Vegas that’s a good several blocks away from the strip. But there’s cool old buildings, and you can sit on a bench and people-watch. It’s a strange blend of white-trash, grungy skeezers, and innocent tourists totally excited to be in the original western town of Deadwood!, the town where Wild Bill Hikock was shot to death.

The skeezers are really interesting. I wish I knew from where they came. Grungy, long beards, mountain-men and biker types, but the real deal. These aren’t tourists, these are guys who’ve been around, but don’t get around much anymore. I don’t know where they live, but they have the look of guys who can been found anytime, day or night, and on any day of the week, sitting at the bar or at a small table in one of the smoky, dingy casinos.

They look worn out and run down. Most of them are drunks, but not sloppy drunks, and they fascinate me to no end. They look as if they just stepped out of a Bob Dylan song. I’ve met some of them over the years and gotten their stories and it’s usually the same. Drink was their downfall. They live in trailers or men’s shelters and they do a little work here and there when it comes their way. They’re always on the lookout for a hustle, but that’s not to say they’re thieves or criminals. However, should you leave a little something behind, like a purse or a jacket, well... who’s to say you didn’t abandon it on purpose?

I didn’t feel like chatting it up with any of them today and getting some new stories, but I might go back tomorrow and do just that. Or at least take some pics and put ‘em on my blog and let y’all decide for yourself if I’ve correctly pegged these folks.

I’ve been in the West JUST long enough... it’s time to head to Nebraska and Kansas. It’s that simple. I need a hundred miles of a single field. I need to see farm equipment taller than most buildings. I need to see long stretches of nothing but rows of corn or soybeans or who the hell knows what that stuff is... not me. I need little crossroads diners with migrant workers and good-old-boy farmers sitting cheek to cheek and having a great time. I need the one finger salute... (we have the one-finger salute back in Philly, but it’s a different finger).

And I need to start working my way back to the other side of the mighty Mississippi...

Deadwood video:

I was sitting on a bench people-watching when the loudest, most obnoxious gangsta-rap-ring-tone starts BLASTING from the pocket of the old geezer sitting next to me. He looks at me with the most disgusted look on his face; for one thing, the loud ring scared the hell out of him, and for another, he thinks it’s quite rude and intrusive of me to be blasting that crap on the street of Deadwood! “It’s your phone!” I tell him, as I get MY phone out of my pocket and try to capture this insane ring-tone on video. Sadly, by the time I got my video camera up and running, he’d opened the flip-front and stopped the ringing. I taped him anyway as he LOUDLY explained to the caller that he almost had a heart-attack when the phone rang. After he hung up, he told me that was the first time his phone had ever rang, and I told him Snoop Dog was an excellent choice AND that I dug his leather suspenders.

Blog Twenty-two Nebraska

Doesnt he look like a nice guy?

This is what I did today:

A beautiful morning in Sturgis. Good thing it was beautiful, it lasted until after one o’clock (or three o’clock, East Coast time). I hung around Sturgis all morning waiting for Pee Wee’s bike shop to open so I could get a t-shirt. Of course I never made it back to Deadwood to take pictures of the malcontents, but I did have an excellent breakfast at a Mexican restaurant. Excellent because the food was great, the service wasn’t bad, and on the way in to the joint I saw a car with a giant crucifix strapped to is roof. Yup. I’m not sure WHY the owner of that car was traveling with a giant crucifix strapped to its roof---perhaps in case a sudden need for one arises---but I also don’t care. You wanna believe there’s an in visible man in the sky who knows everything we think and do, you go right ahead. Just don’t beat my ear about how Jesus saves... I spend. (Although sometimes Jesus saves... he shoots... HE SCORES!)

And because you thought I was making this up... here is a pic of a crucifix on top of his car. Goddamn!:

I sat in the sun, did a little writing, and amused myself with moronic thoughts, like thanking the hotel chains for putting hair dryers in the rooms... why give up a chance to remind a bald man of the life he once had? Thanks for that added humiliation. Why not install a treadmill also, to remind me I’m overweight? And the coffee makers in the rooms are cool, but not everyone drinks coffee. How about a blow-up doll instead?

I got into Pee Wee’s bike shop just as they opened. Pee Wee wasn’t there, but I had a good chat with the fella running the shop. In case the readers of my blog think I’m the only one who hates yuppie Harley-riders, think again. He told me that he had to stop going to Dayton Bike Week each year because of the “asshole wannabe’s who can’t ride”. He said that the Sturgis Bike Week gets its share of them, too, but at least at Sturgis there are plenty of real bikers and there is a lot of fun to be had.

Pee Wee is a long-time and very famous Nevada Hells Angel, and his shop sells 81 support gear. (81 is a nickname for the Hells Angels, H being the eighth letter of the alphabet and A being the first). I wanted a t-shirt because at one-time my nickname in Philly was Pee Wee. In addition to the name Pee Wee, the t-shirts also had on them the 81 logos and said things like “Support Your Local Red & White (Red & White is another nickname for the Hells Angels, a result of their colors being red and white), and I would have loved to have bought a bunch of “Pee Wee’s Cycles” t-shirts for the guys back home who used to call me Pee Wee (and they all still ride), but wearing 81 support gear in the city of Philadelphia is like playing Russian Roulette. There are some other big clubs there who... well, let’s just say they would prefer that you didn’t wear support gear from the 81s.

But I got my Pee Wee shirt and hit the road. I rode through the Badlands and then took green-dot roads down to Nebraska.

Nebraska. I'm deeply in love with Nebraska and have been for many years. There's nothing here. Literally. And yet there's nothing here not to love.

Just being in Nebraska makes me feel good.

This is Big Agriculture out here. Giant silos and feed houses, rail cars and tractor trailers lined up for miles. The massive fields are manicured to perfection. These farmers take pride in the way their fields are plowed and planted. The rows and rows are an intricate design that curves and follows the land in perfect uniformity. The edges of the field are trimmed razor sharp, no sloppy edges here, no weeds or crab grass or abandoned farm junk. Clean and crisp. A work of art.

You ride for fifty miles in pretty much a straight line past the beautifully maintained fields and then arrive at a small town with some HUGE grain silos at its edge. Just like the fields, the compound of buildings and sheds and the truck scale surrounding the huge silos are carefully and symmetrically designed. Everything is in its place. Very neat, very clean, very well-organized.

Occasionally you come to a bigger town. There'll be a Main Street with a few stores, a bar, a restaurant. And then just past Main Street, a gas station and a market. Then you're back riding next to a field... or fields, since there's one on each side of the road.

When it comes to riding, Nebraska is similar to the desert. Obviously they look nothing alike, but they each provide a minimum of distraction. There are no blind cross streets from which can suddenly rocket a minivan and end your life. No tree line or thick brush alongside the road from which can shoot a deer or an elk or an antelope. The animal assassins out here have no place to hide.

It's not fascinating or interesting or exciting---unless you love Nebraska, and then it's all of those things.

I like when people say, there's nothing there, why do you go? Well, there's nothing on the moon, is there? And we broke our balls getting there.

It's the sheer "nothingness" that is exciting. Back in Philly I can't ride more then twenty-five feet without almost getting killed. Here I can ride twenty-five miles without touching the handlebars.

Hours of high-speed riding with a minimum of risk. With less to worry about in terms of surprise-attacks on your life, and with the scenery kind of cool to look at but not terribly exciting, you are free to ride your bike and ponder. By ride your bike I mean that you really have only the weather, the bike, and your imagination to stimulate your senses. The rhythm of the tires, of the motor, mile after mile, works its way into your DNA. This happens even when you ride around your busy hometown (assuming you come from a bustling place like Philadelphia), but you don’t realize it because you’re paying so much attention to the threats on your life: the tailgaters, the potholes, the cars pulling out of side streets or turning left in front of you, and all the neon and HALF-OFF signs and traffic lights and little cuties in short-shorts. Yes, you’re riding your bike, but there’s so much else going on that’s distracting you that the process of getting to know the bike is happening just under your consciousness. In Nebraska, it IS your consciousness.

In Nebraska ("this land fed a nation, this land made me proud"), you are surrounded by nature; but it is with the machine beneath you that you bond. Motorcyclists are not hippies. We don’t kick off our shoes and let mother earth work her dirt between our toes. We sail over her with a twist of our wrist.

We don’t gaze into the distance from a high mountain-top, communing with nature and hoping to find ourselves. We tear down the mountain and through the curves, leaning the bike over as far we’ll dare until finally that floorboard or foot-peg scrapes and oh, don’t worry... we found ourselves, alright. We know EXACTLY where we are.

The motorcycle traveler does many things while on a trip: he learns, he visits, he relaxes, he dines---but don’t be fooled. All that stuff is secondary. The motorcycle traveler rides his bike. That’s really all he wants to do. And Nebraska is a place that encourages him to do just that. It stays out of his way, it makes it easy.

If you don’t love riding your bike but you love being a biker, avoid Nebraska. But if you LOVE riding your bike and don’t really care if you’re a biker or not, Nebraska has everything you need. Which is nothing.

. Some video (turn down your sound before viewing):

A BIG Nebraska town. (I know it looks like Michael J. Fox was working the camera there at the end! I didn't shut the camera off in time and I had to pull in the clutch! Sorry for the epileptic fit.)

The Badlands:

Are you kidding? Did you buy a patch that tells the world you rode your bike? Are you a moron? Do you have a patch that reads, "I FUCKED MY WIFE!"

You're SUPPOSED to ride your bike, you jackass!

Good lord! Just think, yuppie pussy Harley riders have so distored the reputation of bikers by TRAILERING their bikes everywhere that they've now inspired a patch that tells the world you've done WHAT YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO DO!

Blog Twenty-three Sweet Nebraska

Ah, sweet Nebraska. Kearney, Nebraska, to be exact. So many things to do (although each of them involves a giant field of hay).

What is hay, anyway? All day long I ride past fields that have in them those enormous rolls of hay... and then I get to some place that SELLS hay. I haven’t passed anyplace that doesn’t already HAVE those huge rolls of hay in the yard, who is buying the hay? Some years ago a farmer explained to me that those big round bales of hay are the way they transport them now-a-days, no more square bales of hay. I seem to recall he told me that the hay is used to feed horses and cows. Well then what is “feed”? I see feed houses all day long, too. Never mind, it’s been explained to me before and I always forget.

A fantastic day in Nebraska! I thought that riding through Nebraska meant, because I’d see so few other motorcyclists, that I was going to be able to give my left arm a rest from waving. No such luck. In Nebraska (and Kansas and Iowa and Texas), the drivers of oncoming cars and trucks give you the one-finger salute. They don’t appear to be looking at you or even aware you exist until just as you pass them... then they raise their index finger up into the air. Not their hand, and there is no other movement, just the single finger pointing up. It’s very nice and I don’t mind it... until the 875th time. And then it gets old. (Back in Philly I see the one-finger salute often also, but it’s a different finger.)

With other MOTORCYCLISTS, however, it’s done BEEN old!

What is going on with this idiotic waving at every motorcycle that passes you? Good lord! Enough! I hate it! They wave at me constantly! Why? Because we each ride bikes? WHO CARES? Should I wave at other bald guys, too? How about other fat guys? How about I start waving at guys who, as I do, wear cargo pants. (And then on the rare occasion when I’m wearing jeans, I can wave at a cargo-pants-guy out of habit and he can give me a smug and condescending look in return.)

I don’t get it. Why must they wave at every single other bike they see? They wave at me when I’m getting gas and they ride by. They wave at me when THEY’RE getting gas and I ride by. Then wave from the parking lots of food stands and from rest areas. Sometimes they’re so busy waving they’re hardly able to ride! (I wonder if they wave when they pass a mirror?)

Sometimes the passenger waves. Why are YOU waving at me? I’m not a passenger. When I ride on the back of somebody’s bike, THEN you can wave at me. Or how about these idiots who instead of waving, they point to the ground. Oh no! I’m not having any of that! I got news for ya, newbie, you’re too inexperienced to know this, but when you point to the ground as another motorcyclist is approaching you it’s SUPPOSED to be a warning to him that there’s something in the road ahead... gravel, a pothole, debris. It’s not a way of being cool, it’s way of looking out for other riders. The first few times someone pointed to the ground as they passed me, I thanked them and then slowed down to watch for a road hazard ahead of me.

Of course, I’m not surprised that today’s motorcyclists have no idea that pointing to the ground is supposed to be a warning and I don’t think they care. They never warn you when there’s a state trooper waiting just around the next curve either, and that is unforgivable.

But before we wave goodbye to the subject of waving, allow me to mention one other facet of this moronic and annoying habit. The wave from these douche bags on scooters. Are you fucking kidding me? You’re riding a scooter. Keep your hand on your purse, pal, and don’t wave it at me. It’s like a guy driving a Chevy Lumina waving at Corvettes... “What? They’re both Chevys!” Yea, good luck with that.

So despite the relentless onslaught of index fingers, I had a fantastic day lazily riding through Nebraska on Route 2. I’ve ridden it from end to end many times and I still love it. It’s a green-dot road, but only barely. The scenery is not spectacular, but as I wrote in yesterday’s blog, Nebraska is about minimal distraction, not about a joy for the senses.

I visited numerous small towns along the way, stopping for a delicious turkey sandwich and cup of coffee in one of them. The locals were having a detailed and insanely predictable conversation about how the kids now-a-days don’t know what things like records or cassettes are, and I imagine if we could go back to the time of the Romans we’d hear some old-timers saying, “these kids now-a-days don’t even know what’s like to live without aqueducts”.

One of the gaggle of ladies who were at the counter asked where I was from and I told them Philadelphia, but that I love coming to Nebraska. Well, did they ever delight in that! It’s like I held up a size-two dress and said, “Is this your size, dear? I think this will fit you just fine!” Where I come from the only local pride people have is in their sports teams, and I’m not so sure it’s actually PRIDE that motivates their devotion, I suspect that it’s actually HATRED for the other teams. In my hometown people become violent over which steak joint has the best cheese-steak, but also admit that they frequent both places.

In other parts of the country it’s very different. People have pride in their home state that is truly impressive, if not slightly wacky. Texas, as we all know, is an example of home-state pride taken to extraordinary heights, but plenty of other state’s populations are pretty devoted as well.

Today I passed hundreds and hundreds of train cars filled with coal, and dozens of BNF locomotives. What a massive operation our rail roads are, and I wish I knew more about them, like how much it costs to BNF to move all that coal and how much they charge for it.

Tomorrow, I’m headed to Kansas City and I already made a reservation for dinner at one of the best steakhouses in the country... The Plaza III.

The Weather Channel is predicting excellent weather for the next five or six days in the states between Kansas City and Philadelphia, so I guess I’ll use that window of sunshine to head home. By what route, I haven’t yet decided.

Yes, I’d like a perm, some blonde highlights, and a fake gash wound on my forehead that squirts blood. My cousin came here and was very impressed by how you trimmed her bangs and gave her a third eye.

Whoever it was who said that Nebraskans aren’t HILARIOUS... was right.

Riding at 80 MPH for two minutes past a single line of coal cars... and passed many more throught the day.

WEAVING VIDEO:

I'm practicing high-speed weaving and going from white line to white line. If you ride a motorcycle PLEASE practice this all the time. If you're afraid to weave the yellow dashed-lines at 80 MPH, what are you gonna do when that deer or car or truck or piece of debris suddenly appears when you're doing 60 MPH? I know what you're gonna do, you're gonna smash into it and get killed. PRACTICE YOUR SKILLS!

Start with every other dash, and then work up to weaving each dash. In the middle of this video, when the bike is pretty violently going from side to side, I'm weaving every one.(It takes a LOT of handlebar pressure to weave that quickly at 80 MPH. PUSH RIGHT GO RIGHT!)

It's easy as pie, anyone can do it, but you just have to practice a bit to get comfortable. Weaving is a skill all riders should master. (Oh, and it's a little sloppy because I only have one hand on the bars, the other is holding the camera-phone.) (YES, you can do this with one hand on the bars! I can damn near weave every other with NO hands on the bars!)

And going from white line to white line LOOKS easy, but it is NOT! You have to really begin leaning it back at the right time... that white line gets there QUICK, and the object is to ALMOST touch it with your front tire... and then go back and ALMOST touch the other one. Having this skill mastered is the ONLY way you will get around the car that pulls out in front of you... THEN sees you... panics, and stops dead in your path...

Riders either skid for a hundred feet and t-bone the car (practice your braking!!!) or they try to swerve and they lose control and die.

Of course they do! Why would you expect to do a good job the very first time you have to swerve if you've never practiced it before... and now you're in a PANIC situation?

When experienced riders who practice get into those situations, muscle memory takes over. They brake and swerve and react out of HABIT, before their brain has even registered what's happening.

PRACTICE!

Blog twenty-four Kansas City

Now, one might ask the question, why would the author of this blog go to a big city while on his cross-country motorcycle trip? Big cities have the two things that he despises most, traffic and people.

It’s a fair question. Well, for one thing, I just spent three weeks riding around places where traffic is nonexistent and where one can ALMOST say the same for people---I’m kinda ready to see some urban insanity. And for another thing, it’s KANSAS CITY, baby! How can you not love this town? It’s a great city! So many things to look at as you ride around town... the waterfront, the skyline, the hookers. Kansas City rocks!

I had a fantastic ride to get here from Nebraska. Back-roads most of the way, but I did hop on the interstate around Topeka for the last fifty miles or so.

Interstates. I could write about them all day. Charles Dickens said that if you want to know about a place, just look at its prisons. I say just look at its interstates and the drivers who drive them.

Interstates have changed over the years. Not only have they gotten far more crowded, they’ve gotten faster, and they’ve gotten more frustrating.

Even if you set the cruise and attempt to stay in the right lane just moving along with the flow of traffic and avoiding all the bullshit, it won’t work. When you inevitably have to move over to the next lane for a few moments to let a slow-moving truck merge onto the interstate, the morons in the left lane will either speed up to get you stuck there, or they’ll ride your ass like a hemorrhoid. Or you’ll have a knucklehead squeeze in front of you just as your passing his exit because he was in too much of a hurry to get in line behind you.

There also the left-laners, whom EVERYONE hates. These are the douche bags who stay in the left lane going the exact same speed as the car next to them in the right lane. Or they do one-tenth of a MPH faster than the guy next to them in the right lane and will eventually pass him and get out of your way... too bad you’ll be dead of natural causes by them. Either way it’s a rolling road-block. Can’t they step on the gas just to get ahead of the guy next to them, and then slow back down?

Everyone I’ve met in my entire life despises people who block the left lane, and yet I’ve never met someone who said, “Oh, I don’t mind that. In fact, I usually get in the left lane myself and carefully adjust my speed to stay perpetually in the blind spot of the tractor trailer next to me. I’ll never pass him, I’ll never drop back behind him, and the only time I exit the interstate is when I go to the supermarket and get in the Ten Items Or Less Lane with no less than 185 items.

And then there’s the truckers. They’re horrible. Worse than horrible. There was a time when a trucker wouldn’t even CONSIDER changing lanes without using his turn signal, even if there was no one around for a thousand miles. Now-a-days, the truckers routinely and suddenly change lanes without signaling, using pulling right in front of a faster moving vehicle, or pulling out the second a vehicle has passed and getting right on that vehicles bumper.

Many times over the years while having some traffic, uh, “discussion” with other motorists, I’ve explained that every single person who’s ever changed lanes without signaling and killed someone has said the same thing: I thought there was no one there.

Yes, we know that. Obviously, you thought no one was there. Had you known someone was there you wouldn’t have changed lanes and caused them or the passengers in your vehicle to DIE! THAT’S WHY YOU MUST USE YOUR TURN SIGNALS WHENEVER REQUIRED BY LAW! As they taught me in truck-driving school, turn signals don’t tell people what you’re doing, they tell people what you WANT TO DO! And the law doesn’t require you to signal “only if you know someone is there, but if no one is there, don’t bother”.

I’ve had people signal a lane change and then I’ve backed off and let them out, or honked my air horn to let them know I was passing them, and I could tell by their reaction that they hadn’t seen me. (Not that I ride in people’s blind spots, but sometimes it’s unavoidable.) I always give a friendly wave to people who signal properly.

Truckers are supposed to signal a hundred feet before changing lanes. The idea is that if someone is in their blind spot next to them, or in their blind spot behind them and JUST ABOUT to accelerate and pass, that person will have some warning. Again, no one has ever changed lanes and killed the guy next to him when he SAW the guy next to him! It’s ALWAYS when there was “no one there”. Signaling lane changes gives the other guy a chance to not die today.

But that’s not all the truckers do, even though that’s pretty bad. Truckers too stay in the left lane like it’s the only lane on the road. They get a little speed going down a hill and they jump out in the left lane to get past the truck in front of them. Then the road goes UP the hill... but now, they’ve lost all their speed and so they’re stuck next to the guy they were just trying to pass. Now the two of them are side by side, another rolling road-block, and you could miss your kid’s graduation from high school AND from college before that trucker gets back into the right lane.

And then there’s the tailgaters. Oh, yes. The one thing in life I hate more than ANYTHING is tailgaters. And that is NOT an exaggeration. Given the choice between world peace and the ability to shoot a rocket from my bike and into the grill of tailgating cars, I would choose the latter. Sorry!

If I could have one super-power it would be to snap my fingers and turn into a state trooper, just long enough to pull over the tailgater, write him a three-thousand-dollar ticket, impound his vehicle, and force him to walk home along the highway. And then I’d snap my fingers and be back on my bike!

Anyway, I could go on and on about tailgaters and drivers and actually... I have. So, long-time readers of the blog will be glad to know that I’m going to terminate my tirade here and go back to explaining why I would navigate anywhere NEAR a city let alone spend the night in one.

Does this explain it?:

Almost every city has that spot “by the water”. It’s where the really good restaurants are, and the good shopping, and it’s where the hip young crowd hangs out at night. There’s usually clubs and bars, and in most cities this whole section is what you’d describe as upscale, or close to it.

So usually two or three times during my trip I’ll spend the night in a city, walk or take a taxi to this particular spot, have a great dinner, and wander around. And cities are cool, too, in that they each have their own personality, which you can discern via the driving habits, the layout of the stores, the folks you see walking down the street. In Kansas City I saw a woman walking down the street reading a book.

See: (I don’t think she minded me taking her picture, probably because she didn’t know.)

Tonight I walked a few miles down to the “Plaza” and had a fantastic dinner at one of the best steakhouses in the country. Although I rarely like to admit this, I actually love walking, and spending the night in a big city gives me the chance to walk around and see things I just wouldn’t see from the seat of my bike. Of course, out of thirty days on the road, I might spend two or three in a city, and then I’ve had enough. And tomorrow night I’m gonna visit Saint Louis and spend the night there, also dining along their waterfront, so that should do it for visiting cities on this trip.

The last time I was in Saint Louis I proclaimed that they had the absolute worst, god-awful drivers in the country. That was before I’d ever been to San Francisco, who without question has the absolute worst, god-awful drivers in the country, every one of whom is Asian. Now that’s not me being racist, or if it is then so be it. I’d hate to condemn an entire race of people just because 99.9 percent of them can’t drive, but it is what it is. All I know is that when I was in San Francisco I almost got ran over six times, and each of the six times an Asian was driving the car. And it wasn’t the same Asian, mind you! Out of those six, I recall that TWO of them were the closest and most insane near-crashes I’ve ever had, and I’ve been riding for quite a while now. (I almost bought the farm on the Golden Gate Bridge as Asian fella missed my bike by inches at forty MPH.)

And anyway, it wouldn’t be MY blog if I didn’t condemn an entire race of people at SOME point! Since switching to Best Westerns, I can no longer complain endlessly about the hideous and repulsive smell of curry that pollutes and overwhelms hotels at numerous other chains. Curry that comes, I might add, from the kitchens and PORES of Pakistanis ands Indians. If I ever stay at a hotel owned and staffed by people from, say, Bulgaria or Texas and the joint reeks to high heaven from curry (which also means the place is FILTHY!), then I’ll apologize to the Pakistanis and Indians for maligning them so vehemently. But since every hotel in which I’ve ever stayed that reeked from curry (and each was filthy) was owned by dot-heads, I’m sticking to my guns.

Oh, and dot-head isn’t meant to be racist either. They have a dot... ON their head. If I wore a dot on my head I would expect to be called dot-head. I don’t get offended when someone calls me bald-head. Know why? Cause I have a bald head. I don’t get mad if someone calls me a Dead-head. Know why? Cause I like the Grateful Dead. If I wore a dot on my head... well, you get it.

Blog twenty-five Saint Louis

My headlight cuts a hole through the black night and within that space is where I prefer to exist.

Except that I haven’t ridden at night in weeks! Tonight, however, I rode though the black night of St. Louis and I loved it! What a day! What a night!

I rolled out of Kansas City braving life and limb for a few miles on the interstate before taking back roads over to Saint Louis. I rudely, dangerously and recklessly squeezed between a tractor trailer and car, while on the other side of the tractor trailer some guy in a pickup truck was doing the exact same thing. We would have met in the same lane at the same time, except I rode the zipper (dotted line) and squeezed between him and the car next to him (the guy I’d been trying to get around in the first place). I generally prefer to be the only rude and reckless asshole on the highway, and that’s exactly why.

A few miles later I exited the interstate and started twisting and turning my way through rural Missouri, headed to Bill Sharp’s Country Barbecue. Or you could just say I was headed to heaven. Oh, sweet mother of god! It ain’t no sin to get sauce on your chin! (And thank goodness for that or I’d be spending eternity---if not longer-- in hell!)

See? I told YA!

That's not a guy sitting in front of a mirror. That's TWO guys wearing coveralls.

Pulled pork, steak fries, and a side of coleslaw. Momma, if lovin’ those three things is wrong I don’t wanna be right. The food was superb, the service was fantastic, and although I wasn’t wearing a camouflage baseball cap and coveralls (or both), everyone was pretty friendly towards me. I made a point of thanking the waitress for her excellent service and told her that good service is rare. Well, that made her day, I assure you. She was as pleased as punch, and I ALWAYS tell people who give good service that I appreciate it.

Hello, you gorgeous thing...

And forty-eight seconds later...

Back on the road after the best lunch of the trip (I think... I can’t really remember for sure), I stayed on Missouri back-roads and took my time, digging the hillbilly homesteads that I love so much. I had to wave at roughly two thousand other motorcyclists today, and at one point a senior citizen on a motorized scooter like you see in the commercials gave me the finger cause I didn’t wave back fast enough. I was going to go back and threaten to take her teeth out, but she would have just laughed and taken them out herself. (I also thought I saw a whole pack of senior citizens on scooters who would’ve had her back... and I think they were wearing colors. Does that bottom rocker say “NOMAD”?)

While traveling the country I get to hear things on the radio that I don’t hear at home, like country music and Christian radio. I don’t hear it because I don’t LISTEN to it, but since this bike has a radio (the first one I’ve ever had on a bike), I switch it on sometimes and see what’s out there.

As for country music, judging by the content of the lyrics it seems to me that these folks have a tendency to make some very poor relationship decisions. Or let me put it another way. ALRIGHT! SHE LEFT YOU! WE GET IT! IT BLOWS! But, dude, go find another girl. I listened to country music for fifteen minutes and I wanted to kill myself. Not because of the white-ass beat (but that would be a good enough reason), or the twang (that could make anyone pull the trigger), and not even because every guy singing a country tune has had his heartbroken... BUT BECAUSE OF THE RHYMING! Oh, wait... can you still call it rhyming if you have to stretch and bend and twist and beat the syllable into submission so that it sounds vaguely like the word you want it to sound like? Do the words “generation” and “agitated” rhyme? Although I’ll say one thing for the country cats, they’re the best players out there (I think so, anyway!). Lighting fast and clear as a bell.

And as for Christian Radio... well, let’s just say I thank god every day that I’m an atheist and leave it at that. Although I did learn from listening to one of those shows (assuming it’s true) that the Mormons consider Satan to be the brother of Jesus. I didn’t know that, but I think it’s an excellent premise for a hilarious sitcom!

Missouri has some great, twisty, curvy roads that run through woods and fields and even some areas of tall rock face. It’s an interesting state. Yesterday, I was whipping through the curves like I had a written guarantee from Willy G. Davidson that I’d have no problem... today I chickened out.

It’s an interesting thing about riding a motorcycle. Some people ALWAYS ride within their comfort zone, safe, slow, with a minimum of risk. Other folks like to ride at the EDGE of their comfort zone. They like to push themselves, and test their abilities with their machine. Each curve is a test, a challenge to see how fast you can go through it, how far you can lean the bike, how far ahead you can see and how fast you can react if you see something that requires an adjustment to your speed or your angle.

Some days, you’re right on the money. Hanging on for dear life, but nailing the perfect angle, the perfect speed, and rocketing out of that curve like it’s your job. Other days (like today was for me), you chicken out. You just ain’t on your game, as you sail into the curve you brake hard and straighten the bike up because you were afraid of losing it. Any other day, you might have taken that curve at the same speed and loved it. Today, something spooked you.

People are often amazed to find me on a picture perfect afternoon sitting home watching a movie instead of out riding my bike. “Why aren’t you out riding?” they exclaim. Well, for one thing, I don’t need nice weather to ride my bike. I ride my bike all the time, regardless of the weather. For another, perfect weather usually means every knucklehead and his brother is out riding and driving and doing who knows what. But also, I might be staying home that day because my head is just not into riding. I don’t feel sharp, alert, confidant. And if you don’t feel all of those things, you shouldn’t ride.

Maybe it was good I chickened out on a bunch of curves today. I HAD to wash my bike today because it was COVERED with dead bugs and really nasty, and as I was pulling out of the car wash, I looked left, looked right, looked left, looked... HOLY MOSES! There was a black car coming down the road and the first time I looked I didn’t see ANYTHING except a pickup truck half-a-mile away. I was JUST ready to pull out and that guy would have flattened me! It would have been totally my fault. I realized that I’d been looking PAST that car and at the pickup truck. It’s a weird phenomenon, but it’s pretty common, and it explains why people often pull directly out in front of someone who was plainly in view. The car actually blended in with the grill of the pickup truck, kind of like an optical illusion, and on my first look it just didn’t seem to be there at all.

I once saw an episode of COPS where I heard the cop in the passenger seat say, “Clear left, clear right” to the driver as they were hauling ass through an intersection, and I adopted that same technique. I say it to myself all the time, clear left, clear right, except I make sure I look in each direction TWICE and say it TWICE. Today, there is no doubt that it saved my butt.

I kill more bugs than Terminex!

Speaking of butt... I got to my hotel, unloaded my bike, and hit the road! I roared downtown and in yet another reminder of how wrong I was about the GPS, I entered into my Garmin the words, “Pappy’s Smokehouse” and the GPS led me directly to it!

Pappy’s Smokehouse. My god! Two fantastic meals in one day! Actually three! Lunch was great and I had TWO meals at Pappy’s! Maybe after all that country music I actually AM committing suicide... by diet! What a way to go!

I walked into the somewhat unimpressive-looking place and was shocked to see about, oh, a hundred people waiting in line. WHAT THE HELL!!! But it smelled fantastic, and I’d had this place on my mind for days, and so I stood in line. It moved pretty fast, and before long I was ordering half a slab of ribs, a pork sandwich, corn on the cob, coleslaw, baked beans, and sweet potato fries. And yes, I was by myself. A few minutes later a waitress wandered out of the kitchen and screamed my name. I held up my hand and she brought me two trays of food. Since I was certain I’d already clogged an artery after that lunch I had, I told her that should I keel over dead of a cardiac arrest before I finished eating, I would appreciate if she would cryogenically freeze what was left of my food in case that whole reincarnation-thing was the real deal.

After dinner I stopped at the hospital for a quick cardiogram and was ruled clinically dead but very happy. Then I had a blast riding around downtown Saint Louis. Traffic was light, the huge buildings looked really cool in the dying light of the sun, and I got some great pics of the arch. The last time I was here, I rode down to a parking lot right by the river that was under the arch, but this time I couldn’t find it. Instead I just rode around and looked at the arch from many different perspectives. I did NOT, however, go and look at the arch from East Saint Louis (which is across the river in Illinois) because I will never go back to East Saint Louis without wearing a bullet-proof vest and having an armed escort. That is a ROUGH town, and I find East Saint Louis beautiful in the same way a proctologist finds a healthy colon beautiful.

As for the arch, for those who aren’t familiar with this famous landmark and haven’t had the pleasure of seeing it in person, let my try my best to give you some sense of what you’re missing. It’s a big metal arch.

The other cool thing about Saint Louis is that the traffic lights were timed to be green when you do 35 MPH, but as I always say, that also means they’ll be green when you do 70.

So I rode around Saint Louis as the sun went down, had a blast, and rode back to my hotel in the dark. Very cool. (Another great thing about the GPS, I can wander and wander and get lost and have NO idea where I’m at... and then with a push of a button I’m on the way back to my hotel by a route I NEVER could have found on my own, even by looking at a map. The GPS is da bomb, yo.)

I dug spending the last two nights in big cities, seeing things I haven’t seen in three weeks... traffic, beggars, black people. It was cool. But now I’m ready to ride home via the back roads of Kentucky and West Virginia.

This is an interesting phase of the trip, and I’ve written about this before... those last few days. They can really mess you up. You're getting kinda homesick, and you’re close enough to your house that you can haul ass and be home in two days if you stick to the interstates. DON’T DO IT! Take your time! Take back-roads! Those last two days on the interstate are a nightmare! You’re hauling ass, pushing yourself harder than you should, and you’re not really enjoying the ride anymore, your just counting down miles.

It blows and it’s dangerous. Despite that no matter what route you take to get home at this point you’re going to be riding over ground that’s quite familiar to you, take back-roads. Go slow. Relax. People start thinking about showering in their own shower, sleeping in the own bed, opening their mail, home-cooking, doing laundry... they can’t wait to get home!

And then, about three hours after they get home they wonder what the rush was! I usually get a free hotel night or two by now, and I use that free stay wisely. I book a room about three hundred miles from where I live so that I have no choice but to have an easy ride home on that last day. Even if it pours, three hundred miles in the rain is nothing when you’re headed to the house.

So tonight I sit in my hotel, a mere two days ride away from my estate in Bucks County, PA, and I’m planning a meandering route atop obscure, inefficient back roads, and I hope to take my time and relax. I’m also watching the local news. When did newscasters all over the country start STANDING up during the newscast? You’re just reading the news from a teleprompter, sit your dumb-ass down, will ya? And while we’re on that subject, why do they give you the traffic report on the five o-clock news? If you’re watching the five o’clock news, aren’t you already home?

It's a six gallon tank... that was cutting it close!

Missouri back roads.

Blog Twenty-six Illinois

The Mighty Mississippi

I left the lovely Mizz Ory, headed to Ella Noys, blew a kiss at Miss Asipi, and I’m currently having a drink with Ken Tucky. Another (ALMOST) perfect day. (Except the spectacular barbecue is behind me... I'd step on a baby for some of them there ribs right 'bout now!)

Saint Louis is only about 900 miles from my estate in Bucks County, PA, so I booked a room in Kentucky for tonight (Sat.), and two rooms in West Virginia (for Sun. and Mon.). Each room is roughly 250 miles from each other, and that leaves me an easy 200 mile ride home on Tuesday. These short distances allows me to take nothing but back roads and stop and relax and take my time for the next three days.

250 miles a day is NOTHING, and even though I twist and turn my way down this side-road and that, I’ll still only end up with around 300 miles or so---a VERY easy day. And the pressure is off! No need to take the interstates, no need to speed and haul ass and pass everyone and get home at midnight exhausted and sore. Nope, I get to play geriatric motor home driver for the next three days and relax.

I rolled south on Route 3, a green-dot road in the state of Illinois (one of the very few), that is quite nice if not terribly exciting. (At some point I passed through a town proclaiming itself to be the "Goose Capital of The World" and I wondered if they're using the word goose as a noun or a verb.)

If you think Illinois is defined by Chicago you are mistaken. Chicago is a very big city in a very small part of Illinois. Just about every place in the state of Illinois outside of Chicago is farmland. I love farmland! And I love taking two-lane back-roads through Illinois (and Indiana and Ohio, for that matter, also states that are mostly farmland).

It’s not great scenery, but there’s not much traffic, lots of passing zones, lots of cool little towns, huge fields, and I just love it. And it’s ten times better than the interstates for one reason and one reason only: the Highway Patrol.

The scenery on the interstates around here is the same as the back-roads. I don’t mind taking the interstates in Illinois, Indiana or Ohio at all... but I can tell you one thing about the interstates in Illinois, Indiana or Ohio... the Highway Patrol has them covered like the hair on Robin Williams.

They’re always there. They have radar, laser, bears in the air, and unmarked cars that you’ll never spot. The Highway Patrol in these parts never takes a break. The speed limit is usually 65 and they’ll let you run 72 or so, but watch those construction zones and if you run at 75 or higher, expect to get stopped.

Now, as readers of my blog know, I can’t stand the stupidity of my fellow Americans. Never mind that I’m often as dumb if not dumber than those I ridicule, it’s MY blog! I can leave out the dumb stuff I do and instead complain about the dumb stuff other people do!

Except when I do something so freakin’ stupid that there’s no way of hiding it.

I hopped on the interstate for TEN MILES, just to get to the next back-road, and entered a 55 MPH construction zone doing 70. I hadn’t really entered it... it was still two lanes and was just starting to merge into one lane... there was no other traffic around me... NONE... and there were no workers present at all... no workers, no trucks, no nothing. It’s Saturday and they aren’t working. But by the time I slowed to 55, Mr. Smokey Bear already gotten me.

I HATE when people speed through a construction zone and I never do it! Well, rarely do it. And I swear, I was gonna slow down in two seconds... I just didn’t slow to 55 MPH at the exact start of the zone. No excuse, I know. I just wasn’t thinking and I pretty much said nothing to the trooper, just handed him my license and insurance and signed the citation. Oh, and it’s a whopper. Three-hundred and fifty bucks... but guess what else? I HAVE to appear in court in Southern Illinois in October. Now I don’t mind riding back to Illinois and appearing in court and paying the 350 in person, in fact, I’d love a quick road trip like that (and I have enough free hotel nights coming that I probably won’t have to pay for any hotels). But October? The weather in October is too unpredictable for a four-day motorcycle trip to Illinois and back and I might have to drive my car! I hate cars! (Perhaps I'll do another Iron Butt in October... )

My philosophy on speeding is this. Within the states who do not exchange traffic violation information with my home state of Pennsylvania, I speed my ass off! If I get caught, it’ll cost me money... not points on my license. I consider the speeding tickets I get on each trip to simply be part of the cost of going on vacation. I’ve ridden ten thousand miles so far on this trip, and for probably nine thousand of them I was riding at 15 MPH over the speed limit. It’s worth it to me to have that much fun and get caught once or twice. (Although the prospect of having to return to Illinois taught me enough of a lesson that I kept the speed down... until I got to the Kentucky border, and then I hauled ass! Fuck ‘em! I don’t ride a motorcycle because I like abiding by the traffic laws. I ride a motorcycle because I like going fast!)

Oh, and now that the subject of money has reared its ugly head, every year people email me to ask how much the trip costs. Basically, for a month on the road, nice hotels each night and good restaurants (when I can find them), and the cost of gas (which has obviously sky-rocketed in recent years), and a new tire or two, (and a few speeding tickets) the trip usually costs me close to five grand. (And now that I’m a Platinum Member of the Best Western Club, it looks like I’ll have a about four or five free hotel nights as a result of this trip, and probably a hundred-dollar gift card to Amazon.com as well.)

Let’s see, while I’m confessing to an act of stupidity that in my mind rivals any committed by my fellow moronic citizens, to what else can I confess while I’m in the mood? I put sunscreen on my face each morning and let it soak in for a few minutes before I rub it in. Sometimes I forget to rub it in and walk down to the lobby for breakfast with my face covered with white lotion looking like a maniac. Last week I washed a pair of pants and still had my cash AND my credit card in the pocket. Fortunately both cash and credit card survived.

One morning, at breakfast, I was looking at the waffle maker, curious about how it worked... so I opened it up. Some poor bastard had his waffle in there and I felt terrible. Fortunately it was almost done and I didn’t ruin it, and he was a good sport about it. I would have said, “What kind of freakin’ moron opens a hot waffle maker when it’s closed and the timer is counting down?”

I also tend to not be sure what time zone I’m in and I’ll ask someone, “What time is it here?”... as if they’d give me the time for somewhere else had I not specified HERE!

Also, twenty years ago, while on one of my very first long motorcycle trips, I met a farmer in Virginia who looked up at the sky and then correctly predicted the weather for the next three days. For some reason, this stuck will me all these years and every where I go I ask any local resident, farmer or not, what the weather will be, expecting them to look at the sky and tell me. Usually they have no idea (unless they’ve seen a weather report), and occasionally they look at me like I’m an idiot. A fair reaction. Why the hell would the locals here be any better at predicting the weather than the locals back where I live? I never ask anyone at home to do that! That damn farmer in Virginia somehow made me think that all locals are able to predict the weather for their area and I never forgot it!

I bought a can of ice cold Mike’s Harder Lemonade in a liquor store in Oregon, and as I was paying for it, popped the top and started to drink it. The two girls behind the counter looked at me like I had three heads. “YOU CAN’T DRINK THAT IN HERE! IT’S A LIQUOR STORE!” Oh. Sorry. But clearly I CAN drink it in here... because I just did.

Ok, that’s enough for now.

I’m in the bustling metropolis of Central City, Kentucky. A dizzying, extravagantly over-the-top conglomeration of culture, science, art and music it is not.

Tomorrow I’ll take all sorts of Kentucky back-roads over to West Virginia, where I may attend the opera or the ballet or do shots in a local bar. The smart money ain’t on me doing the first two.

Oh, good! I was worried about where I might store my fur overnight while staying in Central City, Kentucky! That's a relief.

A little warm today.

Cool junkyard of old construction machine parts.

A little taste of Illinois.

Blog Twenty-seven Kentucky

Kentucky. If you think I’m gonna write the same old predictable commentary about the hillbillies and rednecks and hayseeds and toothless, inbred, mountain people that I usually write, you are correct. Except I will write it tomorrow after I ride through West Virginia. Kentucky is hillbilly country—no doubt about that. But West Virginia makes Kentucky look like Santa Monica.

I don’t know what happened to my good intentions of only riding 250 miles today... I rode over 400 and I’ll be darned if I know how! I took a detour to visit Fort Knox. I love it there. Just seeing the Gold Depository from afar (you can’t get very close) is thrilling. You’re forbidden to take photographs of the place, so the photograph you see below is a result of a hallucination you’re experiencing. Walk it off... walk it off...

I took green-dots roads for MOST of the day but not all... there ain’t that many green-dot roads in Kentucky. Truth be known, Kentucky ain’t that great-looking of a state. It’s alright, but it’s not quite spectacular. There are plenty of rolling hills dotted with trees or cows, and there are small hillbilly towns which are really cool, and there are plenty of ramshackle hillbilly homesteads that I love, and there are thick forests and rivers and even some rock... but it still isn’t quite AMAZING, and you can see most if not all that stuff all over Ohio and Pennsylvania and upstate New York and, of course, West Virginia. That’s not to say I don’t love Kentucky, I do. But it’s just not mind-blowing scenery.

But I had a blast today! It was my 27th day of PERFECT weather, and after visiting Fort Knox. I took any old Kentucky back-road that looked interesting. One plan I had in mind at the start of the day was to take Route 169 (Tates Creek Rd.) down to the Kentucky River. I saw on the map that there was no bridge there, and I thought it’d be cool to ride to the river, take a look, and then ride back and make my way to a bridge somewhere so I can get across the Kentucky River and over to West Virginia. Imagine my surprise when I reached the end of the road right at the water’s edge and discovered a paddle-wheel ferry! Sweet!

I like that the little office-type booth comes with us!

I had a great and brief ferry ride and continued on Kentucky back-roads. Riding through one Podunk town I spotted an old geezer standing on the lawn in front of a house. I made a u-turn, pulled up in the driveway, and made a new friend, Edgar. Edgar, who is 72 years-old and was born in Harrodsburg, Kentucky (right down the road from where we were), lives in the house across from where he was standing. A house with no water and no electricity because, as he explained to me, his social security check wouldn’t cover that expense. He was never married, no kids, and worked odd jobs all of his life. Edgar is a true Kentucky hillbilly, and I’m glad I got some video of him and some pictures. He is the type of guy I seek out on my trips, and now blog-readers can see some video for themselves.

There’s much more to write, but I’m tired as hell and I plan on doing a lot of exploring in West Virginia tomorrow, which will be my last full day on the road. But as always, I took notes and when I return home and get some rest I will expand and expound upon the blog and hopefully share some interesting, humorous, and utterly useless drivel, the type of which you folks seem to enjoy. Simpletons.

While waiting for the ferry I made friends with this little fella. Here he is smiling for the camera! What a sweetie pie!

Do you ride a Harley Davidson? Are you kidding? They cost like twenty grand! The tattoo was only a hundred and fifty bucks!

Kentucky Roads

Kentucky Roads

At the end of the video you’ll notice I was steering and working the throttle with my LEFT hand, which was on the RIGHT handlebar. (My right hand was holding the camera.) MOTORCYCLISTS BEWARE! You can crash in ONE second trying to learn to do that! It’s INSANE! My friend crashed his bike, and I almost crashed many times before I got the hang of it. It’s AMAZING how freakin’ weird that feels the first time you try it, and you can EASILY crash!

My new friend Edgar! (At the end he reaches to shoo a bug off my sleeve. He's not attacking me!)

Really cool ferry ride across the Kentucky River. Note the paddle wheel. I also like that the little office comes with us.

Blog Twenty-eight West Virginny

Time to head home.

West Virginia, I am completely in love with you. I've said it before and I’ll say it again. West Virginia is one the absolute best states through which to ride a motorcycle.

Today I rode hundreds of miles of twisty, curvy, two-lane back-roads up and down mountains, through forests, through valleys and high above valleys, and across mountain tops as I looked down on towns and lumber mills and rivers and fields filled with corn or cows. And I rode past every conceivable type of Hillbilly shack and trailer and homestead and cabin and rural, rustic, homemade, handmade, scavenged, what-the-hell-is-that type of structure known to man.

The only thing I didn't see was wildlife, for as we shall soon see in vivid detail, the locals have INDEED eaten whatever they could catch, which is apparently anything edible... which around these parts can simply be known as anything. That is to say that “edible” seems to be in the eye of the beholder.

It was a fantastic morning of riding stellar green-dots roads when sometime after noon I came to a stop sign and saw in front of me the word “diner”, a word which my eyes are trained to spot under any circumstances amidst any distractions. Like a laser, I guided the bike towards the building while at the same time a good ole boy was walking across the parking lot.

I pulled up next to him and asked him if the food was any good. I was quite sure the food was garbage, but I wanted to break the ice and chat with him a bit. I asked him what he did for work around there and he said he’d worked in the coal mines for ten years before getting a brain tumor. He told me around those parts, you either work in the coal mines, in the forest, or you don’t work. (Every time I ask someone what they do for work I think about John Steinbeck saying that in America you ask a man who is and he tells you what he does.)

He told me he was there (in that parking lot) to pick up his wife from work, but for some reason he was quite determined to show me what type of repair work was going on under that bridge. I thought his wife must be working down there. I switched on the video camera on my phone and followed him down the path and under the bridge where he indeed showed me some of the repairs they were making. Not that he had anything to do with it! Or his wife! His wife worked in the diner and he was retired (due to the brain tumor), but he sure was keen to explain the cement repairs being done to that bridge! To be honest, I think he was just shy.

I wandered into the diner and stuck up a conversation with the four lovely ladies who were enjoying pie and coffee. They tried to play it cool, but they were loving the attention of the inquisitive stranger with the motorbike. I ordered a cheeseburger (which was garbage, despite that she told me people come “even from other counties to have their burgers because they’re the best burgers around”, which you’ll see in the video prompted me to say, “Where else can one get a burger? I haven’t seen a business let alone a restaurant for an hour!”

Well, we had some delightful conversation about all sorts of things and I finally switched on the video cam and thank goodness I did because without my even asking THEY brought up the subject of eating coon and possum and squirrel! I know the sound on the video isn’t great, but the one woman explains that they use their dogs to “tree” a possum and then they shoot the possum out of the tree, Her husband butchers it and she cooks it. She also confess she likes squirrel gravy but isn’t that fond of squirrel meat.

I explained to them that where I come from the word “tree” is not a verb, and we don’t use our dogs to chase our dinner up a tree from where we’d then shoot it down. Our food comes on a big truck to the restaurant or the store and is unloaded and put into freezers.

My favorite part was when she helpfully informed me that “coon tastes just like bear”. I told her that I don’t eat bear either!

The other woman explained that as a kid she used to eat possum all the time, but not so much anymore.

Good god! What an afternoon! Thank goodness I finally got some of this hilarity on video. I’ve been traveling and meeting people and doing this stuff for twenty years and only in the last six or seven years have I begun writing about it and taking pictures and now video. I swear, I wish I had a camera crew with me when I get these people talking. It is a riot! I really should shoot some video and send it to the travel channel. I meet the most interesting people and I somehow get them talking up a storm! It would be a great show!

Spent the rest of the day riding and taking pictures and having a fantastic time. If you ride a bike, go get a Rand McNally map and then ride the green-dots of West Virginia. You’ll love it.

I could write quite a bit more about West Virginny, but not tonight. I’m tired and I gotta go to sleep. Tomorrow I have an easy two-hundred mile ride home and my heart is already soaring with excitement and anticipation... my head swirls with fantasies of passion and romance... a joyous reunion awaits me... for by this time tomorrow I shall have had my lips upon the one I love... a Piper Burger... medium.

A very small church. Barely big enough for a priest and a thirteen year-old boy.

This fella told me he worked in the mines until he got a brain tumor. He was determined to show me what was being done to the underside of that bridge.

The Hometown Diner

Hello ladies!

THANK GOD I switched on the video when I did!

Home safe and sound! (Well, safe, anyway.)

This top pink line is the most recent trip. The other lines are trips beginning in 2005. Prior to 2005... who the hell knows!

It's good to return from a long journey and sleep in your own bed, shower in your own shower, eat in your own kitchen, and have sex with your neighbor's wife.

Ride safe!

Dep

Some pictures from August 2010

2010-09-01T23:06:00.001-04:00

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Uh, yes, but the METH is a pretty important part, too. It's not the stupidity that lets you clean the house, the car, the pool, the neighbor's pool, and braid the dog's hair in one 28 hour marathon session.

For the parents who REALLY don't want their kids to get laid... ever. (Also, that guy doesn't have a forehead, he has a FIVEhead.)

Were the Vikings big fans of Don Knotts?

And I can even teach your children to spell!

That ain't no oasis.... that's a freakin' paradise!

How exactly does one celebrate three years of garbage service?

Jerryfest; Bluesfest; Folkfest; and now Pondfest. Come celebrate 30,000 gallons of stagnate, algae-ridden, murky water. First twenty-five thousand visitors get free containers of pond scum (containers not provided, must have wrist band). Swimming NOT encouraged.

What do you sell, Dave?
Hay.
Just hay?
Just hay.
How about wheat?
Nope. Just hay.
How about grass?
Just hay.
Isn't hay made from grass?
Sort of.
So you also sell grass, sort of?
Nope. Just hay.

You raise them? What does that mean? People raise varmints and then they have to hire other people to kill the varmints? What varmints are people raising? What the fuck is a varmint, anyway?

I would call you, Morgan, but what is this "machine" you reference? Is it a time machine that's powered by squirrels and gophers? Is that why I should call YOU? Does it run on varmints, by any chance?

New owners! I love what you've done with the place!

Are they kidding? Personally, I wouldn't even CONSIDER going swimming without my crockpot. And at the very least, I ALWAYS bring a casserole when I swim just in case a potluck breaks out. I won't be staying at THIS Best Western again. Believe that

Everyone is welcome at the Featherbed Inn (except people allergic to featherbeds. We recommend they stay down the road at the HypoAllergenicBed Inn)

I know these Yuppie Harley riders now-a-days think they look like Hells Angels, but this is what they look like to me:

Get yourself a cup of authentic Native American expresso, served in a real teepee (with a second floor, no less).

When choosing someone to watch your kids, you want to spend as LITTLE money as possible. "Honey, I think I found someone even cheaper than that sex-offender!!!" (Also, is saying your willing to BEAT anything a great idea when you're looking for a job watching kids?)

Glad I got rid of that Kawasaki.

Just another bad-ass biker enjoying his bowl of Fruit Loops. Not a 1%er, but I DO use 2% milk.

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Facebook Groups That Might Not Be So Popular

2010-09-01T23:00:00.000-04:00

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I Eat Cat (and I'm not Asian).

People Who Wear Hair Pieces.

Spouses Who Cheat.

Boys Who Like Watching Mom Undress.

Single Guys Looking For Women With Cute Cat Pictures.

Closet Anti-Semites.

It Was Me Who Killed Your Parent's Dog.

I Love A Dutch Oven... and I'm single!

I Banged Your Sister That Time At Camp... and Your Brother The Year After.

Andy Reid Is A Great Coach.

Men Who can Last More Than Three Minutes But Less Than Five.

People Who Dig Armpits, and The People Who Love Them.

Let's Make Fun Of The Handicapped.

I Should Have Been A Moyle Cause I Hate Men (for women only. Or I guess bitter gay guys).

I Find Midgets Hilarious.

Your Mom Once Cupped My Balls.

Mel Gibson Was Right. The Jews Really Do Start All The Wars.

Restaurant Workers Who Spit In Your Food.

Be Honest, Black People Smell Funny.

It's Like A Penis, Only Smaller.

Hell Yea I Cheat On My Taxes! How's The IRS Gonna Know?

Hitler Was Ok, Just Misunderstood. Cool 'stache, too.

People Who Committed Serious Crimes And Were Never Caught.

Honestly, Manilow Songs Make Me Cry.

My Fetish Would Make You Vomit… Which IS my Fetish!

I Have No Idea If It’s Two, Too, or To.

I AM The Man From Nantucket.

People Who Get Frustrated Easily When Typing Out The Name Of A... FUCK IT!

I Work For Comcast or Verizon as a Customer Service Rep. Want My Home Address?

If You Think I’m Ugly Now, You Should Have Seen Me Before The Rhinoplasty.

Let's Hide Things In The Dog.

Senior Citizens Can Be Hott, If You Don’t Mind A Little Dust.

People Who Are Incapable of Saying Something Quickly And To The Point And Will Instead Take A Whole Paragraph Instead Of A Simple Sentence.

PEOPLE WHO TYPE IN ALL CAPS.

I Once Accidentally Sat on A Shoe Horn... Actually Twice.

My House Reeks And Yet Somehow I Don't Know This.

I Have The Greatest Plumber In The World.

I'm Addicted To Prescription Medication But Do a Good Job of Hiding It.

Sometimes I Accidentally Get Pee On My Hand.

That’s Not Mayonnaise.

I Grew Up In The 80’s and now I Date Women In Their 80’s.

Any Toy Can Be An Adult Toy.

I Tired It Once, When I Was Drunk

I’m Not Paranoid… Why? Did Someone Tell You I Was Paranoid?

I’d Rather Have Sex With Brad Than Have Sex Angelina

If I Had Known Throwing My Shoe Was An Insult I Would Have Done It Sooner

I Can’t Believe How Smart George Bush Is

My Washing Machine Broke and It Was Either Wear My Girlfriend’s Panties or Nothing At All

Think I Can Have My Shoe Back?

There Are Different Meanings of The Word Delusional

Remember That Night You Were Really Drunk and I Blindfolded You… and my Friend From College Was Staying With Us…

Bald Guys With Pony Tails... Must I say it? They Look FABULOUS!

Hell Yea I Look Good, Thank You Rogaine!

People Who’s Illness Is Lying About Having An Illness To Get Attention

Viagara Didn’t Work For Me, Not That The Hooker Cared… She Still Got Paid

People Who Pose For Pictures Holding Musical Instruments But Can’t Actually Play

My Friend is Kinda Racist But It’s Understandable Cause Her Aunt Once Got Mugged

Remember That Time? You Were Right To Be Suspicious

Exactly What Do You Mean By “Contagious”?

I’m Just Kidding About All That Jesus Stuff

It’s Only Disgusting Till You Try It And Then It’s Addicting

What The Hell Do You Mean You Have Pictures?

People Who Shave Things That Would Surprise You

I Used To Be Amish

It’s Not The Dress That Makes You Look Fat, It’s The Fat

Once, In Chinatown, I Had A Really Weird Thing Happen To Me During A Massage

Yes, It’s Revolting, But It’s Also My Fetish

There Is No Way OJ Was Guilty! The Glove Didn’t Fit!

Sometimes When We Do It I Imagine You’re Your Mom

Alright, Maybe I DO Know What Happened To Your Cat

Actually, My Ex Had One That Was Probably Twice As Big

People Who Have Had Plastic Surgery And You Would Not Believe What They Had Removed

I Gave The Bus Boy Ten Bucks To Pretend We Were Having a Conversation in Spanish Just To Impress You. I Can’t Believe YOU Speak Spanish

I Sure As Hell Don’t Feel Bad For Homeless People In The Spring

You Showered With My Dad?

Actually, That IS A Banana In My Pocket.

Don’t Be Rash, It’s Just A Rash

I Don’t Have Call Waiting And People Hate Me For That

Personal Hygiene Is SO Overrated

That Wasn’t My Finger

White Guys With Corn Rows

I Married a Moron

I Tried That Thing With The Warm Apple Pie Once.

I Don’t Really Care About The Homeless. At All.

I Whack Off To Animal Planet.

Honestly, I Don’t Even Know Where The Fuck Sarevjo Is.

Asian People Can’t Drive. That’s Not Racist, That’s The Truth.

When I Say Crisco, YOU Think Foreplay

I Can’t Believe How Good Your Grandmother Kisses

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We Own Our Government

2010-09-01T17:32:00.000-04:00

I wish that high school students graduated from high school with the firm understanding that they, as citizens, own our government. They own it. They must understand that we are a government of laws, not of men, and we, the citizens, decide which laws shall govern us and which shall not. We are governed by consent. OUR consent.

For example, there is nothing to stop the citizens of the United States from passing a law that says the government shall buy us all ice cream on Sundays. Or a law abolishing the use of the word dolphin. Or a law that says only people who make more than 250 grand a year shall pay taxes.

When three-quarters of the state legislatures vote in the affirmative they can add a constitutional amendment saying anything at all! They can ban the wearing of sweaters. They can ban prayer in schools… or they can require it. As long as a constitutional amendment doesn’t violate a previous part of the constitution, it can say anything that the citizens of the United States want it to say. And if it does violate a previous part of the constitution, well, we can just as easily amend that previous part of the constitution to remove the conflict.

We make our laws! We can change them at any time—if enough people want them changed. The constitution was changed when three-quarters of the states voted to let women vote (this was in 1920, I might add), and when the states voted to lower the voting age to eighteen (in 1971). And in 1992, the constitution was changed to say that if congress votes to give itself a pay raise, the raise will not take effect until AFTER the next election. This way, if congress gives itself a raise that we don’t want them to have, we can vote them out of office before the raise takes effect and the NEXT congress will get their raise! How sweet is that?

If you go to your friends and neighbors and find that enough of them want the same change in the law, you can let your state representatives know to propose the amendment. If enough of your fellow citizens from the other states want the same change, then it shall become law. If no one else agrees, if no one cares, if no one is willing to support your change, well, then your fellow citizens have spoken and the law shall remain as it is.

The Supreme Court, so revered one day and vilified the next, serves only to guide us in understanding what is prohibited by the laws we create and what is allowed. The Supreme Court does not make law. And what so many citizens don’t realize is that the Supreme Court is actually powerless. Powerless, I say! They are the LEAST powerful court in the land.

Why are they powerless? Because if we, the citizens, don’t like how they interpret our laws, we can make new laws that are clearer and more specific, and in doing so we can remove the Supreme Court from the entire process. It’s entirely our call, not theirs.

We can pass a constitutional amendment, for example, allowing abortion under any circumstance, thereby forever removing the Supreme Court from the abortion argument. Or we can pass a constitutional amendment making abortion a states-rights issue, meaning each state is free to choose it’s own laws regarding abortion. Again, the Supreme Court will no longer have a role in the abortion issue (although people will continue to try and get the court to intervene on various constitutional grounds.)

If we can get three-quarters of the state legislatures to agree, we can pass a constitutional amendment saying anything we like.

It amazes me when people complain about the government. There is no GOVERNMENT. There are only the people WE elect and the laws that WE create, and if we don’t like them, if we want to improve them, it is entirely within our power to do so. We OWN our government! And if we don’t like what they’re doing we should not look to them to take responsibility, we should look to each other. For it is WE who give THEM permission to govern US.

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The Age Of Stupid

2010-08-24T12:29:00.004-04:00

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Humanity doesn’t seem to be working very well. You can’t possibly call this grand experiment a success, can you? By what measure? If we could start all over again with a population of two, is this where you would want us to end up? Would this be YOUR ultimate goal for our species?

Whether you believe that we are put here by a divine creator or you believe that we spontaneously arose from the primordial ooze and by virtue of random genetic mutation developed an intellect capable of self-awareness, you can’t possibly think this is a satisfying place to be. Can you? This place? This is the best we can do?

And where might we be headed?

For one thing, this is the age of stupid, my friends. There is no longer an evolutionary pressure that requires or rewards intelligence (at least at the individual or family level). As a result, idiocy has been allowed to thrive and multiply amongst our species. And idiocy, I might add, will increase exponentially, for a variety of reasons, one being that stupid people will have more children than intelligent people, again for a variety of reasons, including accidental pregnancy as well as the inability to recognize that the amount of their offspring should voluntarily be limited to a manageable number. In short, dumb people have more kids than smart people. Many more.

In addition, the effects of this growing sector of our population will be more powerfully felt and have more influence than their numbers would imply. Stated simply, stupidity has far more influence than intelligence. Intelligent people tend to make less mistakes and they tend to be better planners, requiring less assistance; and they also tend to be more self-sufficient. Thus, even if the majority of the population is intelligent, the minority will attract more attention (in the way that the special-needs child requires more assistance than his average-intelligence siblings).

It’s also harder to fool or entice intelligent people and so markets naturally tend to target dumb people. Stupidity is the new gold, and when you strike it a profit is sure to follow.

Also, unable to comprehend the paradox of mankind’s need to understand our own existence (the paradox being that the answer is outside of our intellectual grasp), and not being satisfied with that result, we’ve invented religion (which has of course led to extremism). But long before we reach the outer limits of religious extremism, in even moderate religious views we will find isolation and terror and a warped set of values, values that are almost entirely devoid of guidance except for where it provides the wrong guidance. Religion offers short term and artificial relief to many, but as a whole, religion is a disaster. No offense is meant when I say I believe there is an intellectual component to the proliferation of religion.

And so the question arises, have intelligent people enabled stupid people to thrive? I say yes. When a species devours nearly all its food supply, starvation thins the population to a survivable number. The delicate balance is maintained only when the species limits its reduction of the very thing that sustains it. Indeed, some species have gone extinct by consuming their food supply faster than it can be replenished. No more food, no more species. But in humans, when the population explodes, a minority of intelligent people devise a way to increase the food supply! Without that small minority, the majority would starve. We are self-managing our food supply to sustain the entire species. (With the exception, of course, of Africa. Without guilt, we dispose daily of more uneaten and wasted food than Africans would require to simply survive.)

In the United States, we’ve managed to efficiently provide sustenance to 330 million people, not a single one of whom is required to hunt, fish, or in any other way scheme in order to be fed. The dumbest or most evil or least deserving soul on American soil need not know anything other than how to awaken from sleep and he will not starve. Food is plentiful, and there is no thanks due to you or I. Some small minority has found a profit in feeding the majority and so the majority has become dependant upon them for their survival—dependant in the extreme. A population that has no need to feed itself soon has no ability.

And now it seems our species has so managed (or mismanaged) our food supply that we’ve invented the problem of obesity. We’ve actually manufactured a means to kill ourselves as a byproduct of a means to survive. Hilarious. Fucking hilarious.

I also wonder who was the first person to discover you could light a fart. I’ll bet there’s a good story there.

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The final blog of Poncho & The Love Machine... finally!

2010-08-15T00:51:00.005-04:00

My sincere apologies to those who I left hanging, especially after the cruel teaser that I would reveal in the final blog of Poncho and the Love Machine what it was I said that made Poncho spit out his water! Thanks to Philip on the Kawasaki Forum for not letting me off the hook!

Ah, another beautiful day! A quick rear-tire-install at the local Harley dealer and we were on our way!

Poncho and the Love Machine headed out of Loosiana and into Mississippi. Mississippi, for those of you who don’t know, is a fascinating state. I can describe it in two words: dirt feakin’ poor.

I love Mississippi, mind you, and so I don’t mean my description as a slight on that great state. But it’s truly astonishing how poor this state it. There are many, and I do mean MANY, places that can easily be described as a step above a slum—and many can described as a slum. Again, not meant to be an insult. But you can encounter just about anywhere in Mississippi a town that appears to be hanging on by a thread, and even in the towns that are doing okay can one find neighborhoods that are not doing so well, and by that I mean they are total disasters.

And just like in many other places in the south, the neighborhoods that are utter disasters are RIGHT NEXT to the neighborhoods that seem to be ok. At local gas stations and restaurants one can find people that are raggedy and broke down intermingling with people that seem to be doing ok. There is no real and total separation in these parts between black and white or rich and poor. They all rub elbows regularly.

Somewhere along a two-lane road we came to the town of Onward, Mississippi. Twenty-seven feet later we left the town of Onward, Mississippi. I wanted a pic of the town sign, so we made a u-turn and decided to stop at the Onward Store.

I think Teddy Roosevlet was here on a bear hunt. Hence the name, Teddy Bear.

What a place. It was little more than a ramshackle wooden structure built about a hundred years ago. There have been no improvements since. Or maintenance. There was a funky old wooden porch where no-doubt many a tall tale has been told, and the place was just great. Inside was a trip. The shelves were mostly bare, just a scattering of basic goods. The ice cream freezer had 175 bars of the same ice cream... and nothing else. There was a little deli, and a bunch of bear-related stuff, and the owner was making a valiant attempt at increasing sales... the food was probably pretty good. But it just had that vibe of a place of business whose peak was many years behind us.

We continued down that lonely stretch of Mississippi back road and eventually got to a small town. We stopped at a gas station and, well... we were pretty much glued to the bench in front of the place for about an hour.

Holy Moses. What a sight. It was the strangest mix of gangsta-rap wannabes (none of whom had ever been more than ten miles away from the center of town), pimp-type playas, middle-class, middle-aged white broads, and a mix of people who appeared either dirt poor or filthy rich. It was hilarious to watch a giant Cadillac Escalade with GOLD SPINNING RIMS pull up to the pump in front of us, the owner step out looking like he was a millionaire... and he’d put five dollars of gas into the thing! What the hell!

This sign on the door of the gas station pretty much explains the place better than I can.

At one point, a clearly homeless fella walked up and started to shoot the breeze with us. He was wearing filthy jeans, a filthy ripped t-shirt, and his boots were tattered and just about worn off his feet, but he was an awfully nice guy and quite likable. (When we’d pulled into the station I’d noticed him out back, helping a dump truck driver do something under the hood of his dump truck.)

At some point, a car pulls up and a 20-something young lady, with SKIN TIGHT spandex and a BIG ASS gets out and comes walking into the station. Me, Poncho, and the homeless guy stop speaking to watch every step of that jelly move. It must have been jelly, cause jam don’t shake like that. Her ass moved like two pit bulls fighting under a blanket. It was a little BIG for my taste (it should’ve had its own license plate), but the homeless guy was in love.

When she came out and went over to her car to put the gas in, he was biting his lip and tapping his foot like a man waiting for the jury to come back. He said, “I gotta go talk to her. I gotta.”

Well, she was a fine young thing, and she had a nice car and she was well-dressed, and this poor guy wasn’t just aiming a little high, he was aiming straight up into the air. There was no way.

Sure enough, we can tell just by the look on her face that she is thoroughly not interested in this broke-down, Sanford and Son, homeless dude, and after thirty seconds he comes back over to us, not embarrassed in the least.

“I had to try!” he said.

Poncho then says, “Of course! You wouldn’t have been able to sleep tonight if you didn’t try!”

I then added, just under my breath and with perfect timing, “Well, that and because he’s homeless.”

It doesn’t seem that funny when you read it, but the delivery was so perfect that Poncho, who just then had taken a mouthful of water, couldn’t contain it and was forced to spit it out! Finally! After three weeks on the road I made him laugh so hard he spit his drink out! My trip was complete!

But wait. Homeless guy said it was time for him to hit the road and wished us a safe trip. As he was leaving he says, “I’m gonna get in my vette and get outta here.”

His vette. Oh, ok. Poncho and I exchange a look that says, what a nut. About 30 seconds after he leaves, a horn honks, and homeless guy drives by us in a bran new, shiny, bright red Corvette with beautiful rims and a license tag that reads: NO MONEY.

Good lord! We were stunned! I wish to hell I knew what that guy’s story was.

The following morning when I wake up I find that as usual Poncho has opened up all the little bars of soap (he must think they’re Christmas gifts—he does this in every hotel room), left the soap and the wrapper in little piles around the room, and has hit the road to head home alone. He was homesick and ready to get back to his wife and his dogs, and since we were only about 600 miles away, we decided before bed that he would fire up his GPS and take the interstates home early the next morning while I slept late and then stayed out for another two days and took back roads home.

And so the saga of Poncho and the Love Machine has come to an end. Twenty-one days straight of perfect weather. A fantastic trip in every sense. And though I have been traveling alone for the last twelve years, I would gladly go on a road trip again with my good brother Poncho... maybe in another twelve years. Or fifteen. Why rush it?

................................Poncho & The Love Machine 2009

................................Ride safe, y'all!

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Thanks for the advice, Dick.

2010-08-03T14:54:00.001-04:00

Why do people, upon learning that I ride a motorcycle, immediately feel the need to tell me about someone they know whose face was torn off in a motorcycle crash, or who ruptured a spleen in a motorcycle crash, or who was ran over by a tractor-trailer while riding a motorcycle and is now just a head and torso—no arms, no legs, and no funny-stick (if you know what I mean by funny-stick).

It’s not like I say to them, “I ride a motorcycle. Do you think anything bad could happen to me?”

Imagine if I had the same attitude when meeting people. Oh, you just got married! My friend was married. His wife was banging every guy on the block. Ever see a fella with genital herpes?

Or, Oh, you have two kids? That’s nice. I sure hope they don’t grow up to hate your guts and blame you for everything wrong in their lives. Might even sue ya, like those kids in Nebraska.

Or, Disneyland! Sounds like fun! You flying or driving? Well, what’s the difference? Ya drive and you got a chance of getting rear-ended like my friend Melnick—ruptured his spleen. Ya fly, and heck, if you’re lucky the burning jet-fuel will vaporize your nervous system and save you from the excruciating pain you’ll feel just before the plane impacts the earth.

And what’s with the all the unsolicited advice on how not to crash? Everyone has to first tell me how dangerous it is and then remind me to be careful. People who’ve never ridden a motorcycle in their life and who can barely drive a car somehow think they are letting me in some Zen-like secret to safe motorcycling with one ridiculous comment or another. “It’s not YOU I worry about, it’s the other guy not seeing you.”

Do you think I don’t know about the other guy? I’ve been watching out for the other guy my entire life! The other guy NEVER sees me. In fact, YOU’RE probably the other guy!

Another one I like is. “I’m sure motorcycling is fun, but you hit one rock and you’re dead.”

One rock? One rock will kill me? Uh, yea, if it’s the size of a water-buffalo, maybe. But don’t you think I’d SEE a rock the size of a water buffalo and ride around it or STOP before hitting it?

I’ve hit PLENTY of rocks and they haven’t killed me. What I’d like to do is hit some of these people with a rock and then say, See! You didn’t die!

And don’t get me started on the helmet debate. People who don’t know ANYTHING about motorcycling (except that their friend’s uncle’s neighbor hit a rock and lost his entire spine and now lives in a drawer in his mother’s house) seem to be CONVINCED that anyone who doesn’t wear a helmet while riding a motorcycle is insane. I, of course, pretty much agree, but most people seem to be really passionate about making their point and will do anything to get me to agree that helmet-wearing is the most important thing in the entire word.

Yea, yea, I get it, the helmet protects the brain, etc., etc., etc.. But so does safe riding. And so does educating other drivers to be safe. And so does vigorous law enforcement. There are a lot of things that will make riding a bike safer, but these people only seem to know about the helmet.

Hey, folks, when YOU ride a bike, YOU wear a freakin’ helmet! Until then, leave me alone. (Oh, and watch out for the other guy!)

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