A Trip Highlight!
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Anaconda to Lewiston. 330 miles (Hell’s Bend state park).
Finally my riding butt was coming back. It was getting easier and easier to put on the miles. The more I rode, the less frequently I looked down at the odometer. If my body was aching from riding I knew it because I'd constantly check the odometer to see if I’ve clocked the miles I needed before I let myself take a break. By the end of the trip I was riding 100-150 miles without stopping, and without even really looking to see how far I'd gone. I could focus on the journey.
That trophy yours?
The kid sat on his bicycle, looking up at me expectantly. He was referring to the motocross trophy in the room behind us, in the hotel’s breakfast area. That and the fact that I was loading up what looks like a big dirt bike. A logical enough conclusion if your world is as small as a child’s, or if your imagination is half as enterprising.
No, I smiled. Not me. Just riding through towards the Shalkaho pass.
Oh, he said. Watch out for the Georgetown area, lots of fires right now.
I nodded appreciatively at his solemn warning. I wouldn’t have given him much credit except that I had heard the same thing yesterday. The news was even less welcome now. Last thing I needed was to ride into the middle of a forest fire. I did that once already near the Andes in Argentina years ago. Knowing that you could be riding into a blaze big enough to kick across roadways and rivers and envelope everything in its way is more than a little nerve wracking.
The road towards the pass seemed fine and I saw no indications of fire over the hills so I decided to take the route, albeit cautiously. It was gorgeous. The ranges were gently graduated with small pine forests at their bases, like beards leading up to the balding peaks. A nice canyon opened up along the Pintler Scenic Route. Huge sheets of rock jutted at a 45 degree angle from the roadway, making striking geometrical images. At the end the stream that cut the canyon sprung from a cave through the rock, continuing it’s downward path.
I finally rounded the last of the paved road and hit the dirt pass. The way was nicely pressed and graded, wide enough for two cars at all points, and very well-maintained. Even the worst roads here are far better than most other places in the world. That’s the startling thing about the United States. We keep dirt roads around almost for nostalgic purposes. Because they’re not really dirt roads. They are too maintained, too tame, too… nice. It’s just a paved road without the asphalt. That’s why I was a bit shocked when I hit some small washboards. After everything bike has gone through in the 40,000+ miles I’ve ridden it, this was nothing. As I glided along over the slightly saw-toothed path I could imagine the bike saying don’t make me laugh.
A sign read: Shalkahoe Pass, elevation 7250 feet. The kid was right, there had been fire through here not too long ago as I saw some burned out patches in the treeline. I later learned that the whole valley on the Western side had been burned in the year 2000. This area was a literal (forgive me) hotbed of forest fires.
The desire to take these scenic roads may seem silly to some, especially since the way is so housebroken, as I just mentioned. After all, the back roads are slower, less comfortable, and if I should have a problem will result in much more inconvenient to get help or out get out. But somewhere down deep I was hoping to experience something different, something far out of my normal routine. The clichéd less-traveled road did not disappoint this day. I’d just finished taking a pit stop, and was coming around a corner when their appeared in my way what I’d hoped, but never thought I would see in the wild on this trip—a bear! He was a fat little juvenile, about as big as a St. Bernard, and he loped off the side of the road and scuttled down the edge of a steep hillside, his wide bottom bobbing ridiculously as he fumbled along. He stopped once or twice to look back at me with what I can only assume was curiousity, but kept moving so I had very little time. I rolled up in neutral and whipped out my camera, afraid to turn the bike off lest the little guy’s mother come charging from the tree line and catch me unaware. The camera was on full zoom and my hands were shaking in addition the motor’s vibration, but I managed to catch him. A pity that the autofocus picked a flower in the foreground as a target and he came out fuzzier than I’d hoped. But I got him, and I will never forget the excitement and wonder of that moment, seeing a wild bear live in front of me.
But what a thrill! I was shouting out loud in happiness on the bike. I couldn’t believe my luck. To get that kind of proximity to a creature like that, under those circumstance is next to impossible for many of us, as nature gets increasingly more corralled. Sure, there are tons of bears near human dwellings and in natural parks and you can see them, but this was on a mountain, and the dirt pass went through his turf. I caught him unaware, in his underpants walking through his living room, as it were. It was very special and unexpected. That’s why when I went around a corner soon after I nearly soiled myself when I thought I saw a grizzly. A huge-headed, enormous, and menacing grizzly reaching above himself to scratch at a tree trunk. I carefully slowed as I passed and then decided to risk riding back to look again, ready to blow past him if he started for me. Turned out to be a log fallen against a tree just so, to cast a perfect likeness of a grizzly scratching the bark near his head. What was I saying about an enterprising imagination?
The universe provides. That’s a saying I have been taking to lately and I really think it’s true. Sometimes just when you need it, the right thing comes along. I noticed the day before that my bike tire had a problem, and it needed to be addressed as soon as possible, but I didn’t really have the tools to do and needed a shop. So it was when I came over the pass and entered the little hamlet of Hamilton. I saw a place with a big Kawasaki sign and pulled in.
Kelly and Rich were the manager and mechanic, respectively. I couldn’t have encountered two nicer guys to help me with the issues I’d had. I’d also been looking out for a Kawasaki P15 model police bike to get some photos up close and maybe even ride it for the book I was researching. Not only did they fix my bike up, but Kelly let me check out a customer’s P15 they had in for service, by the strangest of coincidences. While I had to make a needed pit stop I was able to kill another bird with the same stone. The universe’s timing is impeccable. The bike’s owner was a former police officer. He had had such fond memories of his service motorcycle that he just had to buy one for himself after he retired. I couldn’t have been more pleased as Kelly rolled it into the sunlight for me to pore over and take the photos I needed. I’m also not supposed to tell but I even got to sit on it. You rock Kelly!
Rich and the boys corrected the problem I discovered, which I was annoyed to learn I’d had since I left New York, where my new back tire was put on with the bead improperly set. This was fixed with what he called “a satisfying pop.” Rich also performed some other needed maintenance. He was a neat guy, he’d led a pretty full life for just having 30 years of age. Rich was married with two kids, raced trucks off road for fun, and had some scars to show his driving experience. He was in the army in North Carolina and flipped a truck. He put his arm out the window when it rolled, instinctively, almost as if to stop the truck’s roll with his bare hand, and you can imagine the result. I certainly can’t blame anyone for their reactions, God knows some of the less than brilliant things I’ve done without thinking, but Rich judged himself harshly and felt it was a pretty dumb thing to do upon reflection. He ended up with a two plates and fourteen screws and counted himself lucky to still have an arm.
Devon and KC were the two teenager brothers helping out in the place, doing the brunt of the less sexy tasks around the shop. Nice guys both, Devon planned to join the Marines and be a diesel mechanic. KC said he didn’t quite have it all figured out just yet. I wanted to tell him that I didn’t either, but I didn’t know if it would make him feel worse or better about his situation.
I left the crew and continued, and along the way I saw a big rock being eroded, chewed out from underneath by a stream. The boulder was a big as a shed, probably several hundred tons, laid out flat and slowly being eroded by the water so that it stood on a stilt extending down from it’s underbelly. Very, very cool and a great example of all the amazingly interesting things to see that aren’t even in national parks or on maps. While everything else has been going on in human history over the last hundred millennia, that rock and stream have slowly been playing their game, waiting for travelers to come along and bear witness to see who wins.
I rode on along Route 12, following both part of the Lewis and Clark Trail and the trail that marked the flight of the Nez Perce led by Chief Joseph. The road wound along mile after mile of beside a gorgeous river cut through a lush valley that was perfect for motorcycling. If this route wasn’t on the top ten list of motorcycle roads in the US, it should be. What an amazing ride.
Smoky Anaconda
Silver Gate to Anaconda, Montana, 251 miles.
One of the (many) strange things about the way I travel is that I often don’t know where I will sleep, or exactly what route I will take, until I get to there. A lot of people don’t believe me when I tell them this but it’s true. I just kind of pick a general direction and start going. I am always fairly certain to encounter either a place to camp or perhaps a nice cheap hotel somewhere. This is a lot more potentially problematic in Latin America, or in other third world places where banditry, lack of infrastructure, or other obstacles abound. But more often that not it’s really pretty easy. Besides, in places like that it’s often impossible to call ahead for reservations, and what do you do if you encounter a problem on the road and can’t make it to the hotel as planned? Best to just wing it. Something always appears—the universe provides, as it were.
Sometimes I do have a friend house or some other destinations along the route as way points, but in fact I much more often find myself in situations that are unknown or unexpected. They are often routine or not worth mentioning, just another roadside hotel or typical camp site, but sometimes they are so interesting and unusual as to appear almost… providential. Which is how I made my way to Anaconda.
When I woke up I prepped my gear and was given a quick tour of the Ridge Riders Lodge by Julie Griffin, a Southern girl who’d come to work for the summer there. Rough-hewn and quaint, the old Lodge was built in the 30’s and supposedly a favorite of Hemingway, and may even have been where he wrote part of Old Man and the Sea. At the very least a flashback scene from the book "For Whom the Bell Tolls" takes place near there, where the main character, Robert Jordan, drops a pistol into the frigid mountain waters. Inside were a series of murals depicting native American life in various seasons. They were hung below the second floor railings, and were dated 1956. The story goes that the artist came and ran up a large bar tab and offered to pay it by making the paintings.
The lodge is nestled among the mountains next to several cabins that were built a few years later. The fire of 1988 nearly destroyed it all. The residents saw it coming and built firebreaks, incorrectly, and the fire jumped right over them. The old buildings appeared to be doomed, when suddenly the wind shifted and forced the fire up the hillside away from them. These historic cabins avoided destruction by just 100 feet! You can see the proximity of the fire by surviving tree line below.
The lodge has no heat, so it’s kept closed during the winter because it’s too cold. I was told the story of the time one of the employees arrived to open it up in the Spring, and his dog wandered off inside. A few moments later the dog reappeared, chasing a bear straight out the door.
Yellowstone park was stunning, but it had a certain sterile quality that’s difficult to describe. There were beautiful rock formations, tolkienesque craggy peaks and boulders strewn across the valleys (left there by passing glaciers no doubt). There were bison, deer, and bighorn sheep wandering freely. The animals had the run of the place, which is as always great in a park. As I rode along I noticed a ranger hauling a dead deer onto truck. I passed more gorgeous scenery. There were creeks with boulders the size of golf carts and SUVs inside. Every inch of the pristine cleanliness seemed too ordered to be real; like a Disneyland version of wilderness perfection, or a forest pretending to be a golf course. Bambi never had it so good. I mean even the dead are carried off so as not to spoil the view! (Or the bouquet.) Don’t get me wrong, the park is incredible and definitely worth the $20 entry fee just to ride through it, but it’s a bit strange that it should be so manicured and shellacked. Parks I saw in other places, such as the Teddy Roosevelt National Park, has similar attentions paid them by the rangers, but they somehow felt less artificial. I imagine that it must be incredibly difficult to keep a place that sees over three million visitors a year unspoiled, and for that I applaud them. Indeed, there is so much to see and do in the park that it’s impossible to see hardly any of it by driving through.
The fire of 88 hit Yellowstone as well, and there were hillsides with rows of burnt trunks still standing. Almost twenty years later and hardly a sapling has come up to replace the dead pines. Around the hills can be seen more of the semi-burned pine logs, strewn about like spilt pins. Strange that the part that was destroyed by fire and left to it’s own devices is also one of the park’s more natural looking places.
As I exited I passed a bridge over a the Gardner river, one more idyllic little gem in this over-precious park. Not far from there was a sign indicating I’d crossed the 45th parallel, the exact midway point between the Equator and North Pole. I wonder how many times in life we cross such places and never know it? How many times have I been higher than Everest in a plane, for example? Or for that matter, even more mundane things such as how many gallons of water have I ingested? It would be neat if when we die, we get to see a scorecard of all the strange trivia of our lives.
In Bozeman I finally picked up my cell phone, forwarded to the post office by my sister. I stopped along the road later and made a lot of phone calls, just because I could. Seventeen miles outside of Butte, along Interstate on 90, there were rocks that made strange shapes and bizarre images as I passed. Very cool! Faces, spines of dinosaurs, animals, bubbles, butt cheeks, bent knees, and odd art were all formed in the medium of fuchsia rocks.
Just past the continental divide I veered off 90 toward the mountains on smaller roads, hoping to cross over into Idaho and get that much closer to Seattle, my next planned stop. Along the way there were some signs. They read: Opportunity, 1mi, and Wisdom, 50mi. Feel free to insert an appropriate comparison here for yourself.
As the sun began to set I knew I’d have to stop soon. I was hoping to take the Shalkaho pass but I was advised not to go up there to camp because of the fires that had been blowing through. These same advisers also said it would be too cold to camp. On August 15th! How cold could it be? The latter reason didn’t bother me but the former did, so I took a room in a local motel for $50.
That was when I noticed the smelter. On the way into town the tremendous mountains of slag were readily visible from the road, but unless you’ve read about it, there’s precious little around to explain where they came from. And there’s even less to explain the absolutely monstrous towering chimney sticking up out of the hills. This was the former home of the Anaconda Copper Company, which is now shut down and is the assets and property are owned by BP Amoco. It is also currently the largest superfund cleanup site in the country. This whole situation may be best summed up with the back cover text of an interesting book called
Smoke Wars: Anaconda Copper, Montana Air Pollution, and the Courts, 1890-1924:
The copper mining and smelting communities of Butte and Anaconda, Montana, today host the largest Superfund cleanup site in the United States. Hazardous waste and companies that place profit before environmental concerns have long plagued Montana's mining and smelting industries, according to this provocative history of air pollution. Smoke Wars begins with the fight in Butte to abolish heap roasting -a process that created dense clouds of low-lying, noxious smoke and caused death rates in Butte to exceed those of New York City in the 1880s. While a hard-fought public victory forced smelters to end the practice, Butte's air pollution remained notorious until industry consolidation caused the transfer of most smelting operations to the great reduction works in Anaconda, twenty-six miles west of Butte. Smelting in Anaconda led to the second phase of the smoke wars -the opposition led, this time, by farmers in the Deer Lodge valley whose livestock and crops were dying from exposure to the arsenic and sulfur dioxide released from the tall stacks of the Anaconda Reduction Works. Finally, the federal government entered the fray -protesting damage to the national forest. Even the federal government was unable to force Amalgamated Copper—or the Company, as it was known throughout Montana—to control its toxic emissions. With lessons for the current environmental movement, this landmark study raises issues of corporate responsibility, the rights of citizens, the costs of industrialization, and the relative value of the environment, issues still hotly contested today.
Some quick questions resulted in being directed to a small park dedicated to the site. Apparently it’s not enough that the whole town is smothered in black hills leeching antimony, arsenic, mercury, and other nasties into the groundwater, but now the people can come and play right next to the poisons in a commemorative park to further celebrate the town’s glorious exploitation by the wealthy mining industry. Yay!
The smelting tower is colossal. It used to be the tallest stack in the world, but now it’s the second or third. It’s nearly ¾ height of the Empire state building, probably just as tall if you were to remove the Empire State’s spires. The Washington monument could fit inside it the smelter with room to spare. It now looms unused on the black hills like some gothic tower of Mordor. They don’t know what to do with it. The locals complain; some want it torn down, but the old-timers want to keep it. They tried to get people to come and do base jumping off of it as a tourist attraction, but all the high power lines prevented it. The town isn’t ugly, but it’s about the farthest thing from a tourist hotspot as you can imagine--although I did manage to get some pretty pictures. If you go to visit, just make damn sure not to drink the water.
Forrest Gump Has Got Nothing On This Guy
Miles City to Silver Gate, Montana, 255 miles.
I woke up and hit the road, riding past Billings on the main highway (94). There were smooth rolling hills with scrub that turned into sparse trees over eroded badlands, finally becoming beautiful carved rock from the Yellowstone river’s windings, hinting at the delights ahead in the park. I saw abandoned cars, cattle trains, and huge stockpiles of round hay bails laying around.
Along the way I noticed a guy walking the opposite direction along the freeway. He was lugging a bedroll and backpack, and looked more than a little out of place. I felt an overwhelming urge to talk to him and cut across the median and rode back towards him. He was stopped on the side of the road, shirtless, straw hat tied up under his jaw, his bags beside him. His face was tanned and leathery and he sported a bushy beard. He said his name was Mike Curry, and he was 59 years old. He’d walked around the USA for almost twenty years, from one side to the other. He used to have a place to go for a while, and would crash in his mom’s basement , but she passed on about ten years before. He said he doesn’t like to work much, and when he realized that he just started roaming. By then he’d crossed the country maybe twelve times.
“I used to go end to end but not much anymore.” He told me. He spoke lucidly, and seemed to have his wits about him. He asked if I smoked, and when I said no he found a cigarette on himself and pulled the filter out of it and began to smoke it. I asked him a lot of questions and he answered them all in a friendly manner. He said if people showed interest in him and were nice to him, he was always polite and honest with them. He told me tennis shoes are the best for walking long distances-he’d used about 60 pairs of shoes doing his walks. He washes his face and keeps his socks clean, but he stopped brushing his teeth when he was thirty. “About three years later I started having real problems.” He confided. “I got an abscess and it hurt for a while but after three months it went away.” He’d lost all his molars. “I probably chew my food too much.” He told me. “When my tooth hurt real bad I found a dollar and bought some aspirin. I took ten and you know what? It really works!” These days when he’s in pain he takes about six aspirin every two hours. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that an abscess can lead to a much more serious infection, or even death. By that time he’d moved on to another subject anyway.
“Every three four years somebody slugs me. Probably started with my dad, he and my brother used to hit me, not closed fist, but you know. My brother hit me once didn’t even hurt.” The police of various towns have hassled him, especially when he drinks. That’s part of the reason why he doesn’t go from coast to coast anymore. There are towns where he’s had experiences that have soured him, and he won’t go back. He got quiet on that subject and so I asked him about animals he’s seen. He immediately perked up.
“I was on Cameron pass, about twelve thousand feet up, going from Denver to Salt Lake and I saw a moose. He was as black as this bag,” he said, pointing at my Givi case. “They don’t stay that way all year, get brown you know, but this one was big and black. ‘Bout as big as an elk I’d say.” He also once saw a black bear. “He just walked up to where we were, was with Jim, this buddy of mine, and was working for the forestry service. It was us and a bunch of Indians, trying to make some money—I was never too good at making money—and then this bear comes up and sat down, tame looking as can be.” He moved his hands animatedly as he told the story. “He was watching us to see if we’d feed him. I thought about it but he could’ve ate all our lunches and not even been full.”
“I saw a rattler once, not much anymore these days they pretty much killed ‘em all off. Anyway I saw him in the road and heard him rattle and I kind “whoop,” stepped to the side you know,” He smiled a brown-toothed grin as he mimicked his little evasive hop, “and I kicked some dirt on him. Then I just walked around him.”
Considering Mike’s situation, I offered him some money, which he seemed very happy to accept. I also offered him some first aid supplies.
“Don’t need it,” He told me. “Never get sick.” Apparently he’d forgotten our conversation five minutes ago where he told me about his life-threatening tooth infection. But he was adamant. He wouldn’t even take some non-aspirin pain killers. I also offered him a small can of pepper spray for defense from wild animals, or from people. He wouldn’t take it. He didn’t even carry a knife for defense. “But I can give as good as I get,” he assured me.
I could smell pine for miles before I entered the
Beartooth National Forest. I was riding down the Beartooth Highway, a winding, picturesque passage claimed to be the most beautiful in America by Charles Kuralt. I climbed up the mountainside, but there was a construction crew there halting traffic. I waited on line to take the Beartooth pass. A guide truck led us for safety past the construction workers, along a curving switchback laden road that transitions from a forest ecosystem to sparse alpine tundra in just a few miles. It was like the Scottish Highlands up there.
A sign read: “This is Bear Country!” I had to admit with all the bear hype I'd half expected that they be lying in wait, ready to come pouncing off the hillsides to sideswipe bikers clean off their motorcycles. But I never saw any bears in or near Yellowstone. There was flat open tundra and moss, freezing cold lakes, and glacial ice up in the 12,000 foot peaks. I entered and then left Wyoming in about 45 minutes. A breathtaking ride. They were perfect roads until the top where there was gravel as they did the roadwork. What views. Saw several “whistle pigs,” a.k.a. marmots; they like to sun on the road. They look like a beaver with a bushy tail. They loves the high plains, and they whistles and shriek when you go by, probably to warn you off.
In Silvergate, just outside Yellowstone, I rented a room for the night when I saw a biker roll up on his BMW in front of the hotel. His name was Bill, and we got to talking. He’d been riding since he was 15, had a daughter, and had been divorced twice. He was taking a tour around on his bike, and seemed like a pretty nice guy. He told me that if I was ever up around Aspen to look him up, he’d let me stay up there if I passed through. I felt bad that he was going to look for camping,
as it was pretty chilly up in the hills. There was an extra bed in the room and I invited him to use it. By way of thanks he bought me dinner up the road in Cooke City, where I’d passed earlier and gotten gas. We drank and ate and played pool. We talked about what had gone down in Cody, Wyoming, the Hells Angels rally that went through there. The buzz was that some bikers had accosted the sheriff’s daughter. It sounded like the plot for a bad A-team episode. [I have since researched this incident and have found no mention of it. Must have been hearsay. This link is to the
Wyoming Highway Patrol’s official report on the week’s events.]
How To Goof Off In Montana
Killdeer, ND to Miles City, Montana. 320 miles.
In the morning I met Kip, a farmer that came up in an RV with his family to help some more of their family with the harvest. They said they’d work for about a week and then go home. If needed they’d come back later as well. He advised me to ride up 20 or 22 to see the badlands, a rougher area than along the main route and very pretty. I thanked him and said I would.
Rode out from Killdeer. Saw more flatness, just some pretty normal eroded hills and odd slopes. Huge sky. You could see over the horizon and then if the road raised up a little, you could see another horizon behind it. The sky had a certain
flatness, below which there was nothing. Above the line were clouds like cotton batting, scattered across a pane of glass. I continued North and then BAM, came around a corner to the incredible badlands scenery you see in all the cowboy movies. Now that’s what I was looking forward to, thanks Kip! He was right as well, I never saw anything like this along the normal route I followed later.
I stopped for gas and saw a nice new pair of deerskin ropers (gloves) to replace my worn-out pair and tried them on. They make an excellent warning to any deer with bright (or dull) ideas on the road. It's kind of the equivalent to a skull and crossbones in deer speak. "Oh my God," one can imagine the deer saying, "is that guy on the motorcycle wearing uncle Larry? Let's get out of here!" I also bought electrical tape to tape across the top of my face shield to act as a sun visor and also to finally fix the throttle lock, which had been causing me a lot of problems because of the fact that my throttle hand was getting more and more aggravated since my injury in Chicago.
I also noticed something odd… near the back of the store past the truck headlights and winch hooks and baling wire was a cooler, with Coca Cola or some other name brand on it. However, inside there was nothing edible for sale—quite the opposite. These were items that you would never want to ingest, but unfortunately most of us ingest them every time we eat any kind of farm raised meat. The cooler held antibiotics and vaccines for various cow maladies, for sale to anyone who wanted to inject them into their stock (or anything else for that matter) at any time. Most of us have to get a doctors prescription before we can take them ourselves, but any farmer with a third grade education can handle them at will, administering them to his property. And then that property can be sold to the general public for our consumption, with no warning or indication of just how much the food we are about to eat has been medicated. I have a new health care solution for anyone that may be interested! Yes, it sucks to have to go the doctor for your problems and co-pay $20 each time you get a cold (or worse, pay the whole bill if you lack insurance), but it’s cheap and easy to go to McDonald’s three times a day for some bovine antibiotics if you catch a sniffle.
I left the store with my new gloves and began working on the throttle lock. A cowpoke with his dog in the back of the pickup pulled up. He walked past and greeted me, and looked past me at a guy filling a souped-up, off-road 4x4, with rusted out wheel wells and a cracked windshield. It was leaking profusely underneath as he filled it.
“What arya leakin?” the dog owner said, one hand holding the door open as he looked back.
“Just gas.” The man said, and then fired up his truck and tore off down the road.
After passing some oil derricks I swung through the
Theodore Roosevelt National Park. I passed the North unit, but actually rode through South unit. The park was fairly deserted and I had the curvy roads to myself. The detour was a nice break from straight boring plains. I saw prairie dogs, wild horses. No bison. So far the only place I'd only seen bison had been outside the
Lake Ilo National Wildlife Refuge, near killdeer.
I entered the state of Montana and the scenery seemed to change the second I crossed the border. There were more hills and rolling plains, and less flatness. Montana is called the “big sky country” and it doesn’t disappoint. It has a really, really, HUGE sky. Just went on forever. The sky looked even bigger because the cloud layer seemed to sit higher up. The speed limit was 75, but I could barely maintain it comfortably. And on hills or with a strong headwind I was sometimes going less. In case you were wondering what it feels like to ride a bike like mine around the highways at these speeds, you can try this: go to your local Laundromat with about $10 in quarters and a box full of hammers. Put the hammers in the dryer and pay for 6-8 hours with a one-hour break for lunch. Set the machine on “tumble dry” and have a seat on top of the dryer. Let me know how it works out for you. It’s actually not that bad, and the tingling and numbness will progressively lessen as your body gets used to it. But I was beginning to realize that although my bike was an ideal choice for riding to South America, where many of the roads were so rough that it the KLR’s big suspension and other qualities made it ideal, here on the pristine, level asphalt the US there were few things more annoying to be found on the road than the constant vibration of the motorcycle itself at the higher engine rpms over many hours.
I stopped for more gas at a little station with a very old set of pumps. I didn’t walk right in to pay, and the guy inside came rushing out at me. I think he thought I was going to run off and ran outside to stop me. I looked up at him from my camera—he saw I was just snapping a photo of the pump, and he walked back inside. When I got inside I asked him about it, but he denied it, kind of sheepishly. “We need to go and check the pumps ourselves sometimes, to make sure the numbers are right.”Yeah sure.
I rode along further and passed a sign: “Home on the Range, Exit 7.” So that’s where that is.
Saw a guy riding up and over an eroding badlands hill on an old Honda 500 two stroke. A beast of a bike. For those who don’t know, two strokes are not legal for street riding, because of they have more unclean emissions in their exhaust. Four strokes, which use the same four-step combustion process as cars, are much cleaner, but historically nowhere nearly as powerful. These days the four strokes have come a long way, but until recently a 500cc two stroke could be compared in terms of power to a 900cc four stroke, the 500 came in a much lighter package. Suffice to say this guy was throwing a monster around on the hills.
I turned around to get a better look and take a picture, and the rider came up to meet me. His name was Jim, and he showed me his left arm. His hand was wrapped up with stitches, and the elbow was swollen and messed up from hitting his funny bone. Both injuries were work related; he puts tires on cars. He lamented his financial state. He traded a car for the bike and his wife was mad about it.
“It’s hard to pay the bills around here.” He told me. “You make eight dollars an hour and you’re doing good.” His wife worked as well, they had two kids they supported between them. He blamed his current situation on his past. “I goofed off too much as a kid. Nothing to show for it now.” If he did most of his goofing off by riding around on bikes, seems like time well spent if you ask me.
A Short Lesson On What Not To Do If You Are In The Witness Protection Program
Hillsboro, ND to Killdeer, ND, 310 Mi.
Dead and dying trees tracked along an old dried out creekbed through a farm. I saw big blonde girl mowing lawn on riding mower with earphones on. I later noted another big blonde later riding a horse with her dog trailing behind. The Nordic peoples were in full effect up there. And clearly they were expanding.
A Northerly wind blew most of the way. I leaned into the ride and passed an all-white cow herd. Only a small calf was brown. Everything else white. Huge irrigation sprinklers covered the open fields, looking like suspension bridges across the plains. Haystacks dotted the farmlands like giant rabbit-food pellets.
I crossed Missouri river. I stopped to work on the throttle lock, which had been giving me a hard time. A couple on a pair of matching bikes kindly stopped to check on me. They told me about the shootings outside Sturgis. Apparently some six people had been shot. But they didn’t know any more details. Note that there’s no helmet law in ND.
On the outskirts of Killdeer I saw an RV park. In a nearby gas station they said it was ok to camp there. I met a guy I’ll call “Bill,” a chubby, friendly sort who greeted me inside, and then when he saw my New York plates outside he started talking and I could hardly shut him up. As he talked he ate a big bowl of chocolate soft-serve ice cream, while his huge-headed Akita watched him from his Suburban. He asked me if I liked North Dakota, and if so, if I wanted to buy his house. “It was selling if for 62 but the Realtor said I should go for 64.” He levied all his complaints against his neighbors for me. Everyone in town was so backwater, except the local restaurant owner, a European. He said the cops hassled him mercilessly since he’d arrived. Particularly one peace officer who felt he’d come to town for nefarious reasons.
“Twelve years later he believes me.” He said. I asked for clarification of this cryptic statement. “Why else would I come here, they said? You must be in the witness protection program, they said.” It sounded like his accusers had a point. After all, who else would willingly move there?
“I first showed up in a big Cadillac,” Bill said. “Everyone respected me. Things were different back then. I got rid of that car and things changed.” People here were so rural, he lamented, they didn’t appreciate art or culture. There was nobody to talk to. He seemed really pleased to have someone he felt he could relate to, if only for a minute or two.
I asked how he makes his living and he got a pained look on his face. Finally he said “disability.”
“But I tell people that and they roll their eyes. They think I’m just bucking the system or they go back to the witness protection thing.” Bill told me he’d gotten hepatitis c from living a wild life in the sixties. Hippie? I asked. “No, just a partier.” Finally, after all that convincing that he wasn’t a former Mafioso turned witness, I asked for a picture of him next to his dog.
This is where things got interesting. His face was the the kind that divulges its secrets, such that after thirty seconds even an obtuse child can read the inner workings of his soul. His face screamed: I don’t want to do this. But the internal conflict was evident—he’d just spent ten minutes claiming that he wasn’t in witness protection, so why should he refuse? I watched him waver for a moment and against his better judgment he began walking to his car. Clearly he felt this was a bad idea, but he was stuck in the awkward position of needing to prove himself to a complete stranger. His resignation was admirable, like one walking to the gallows while trying to keep a straight face. Inside, I imagined him thinking "I never thought when I woke that today was the day I’d risk my life." This was a private little study in a most bizarre and fascinating kind of psychology. He stood for my portrait. I wish I could post the photo here to show the conflict in his face. But I can’t. Just in case he is, in fact, a memebr of the witness protection program I must refrain from showing him as to expose him could lead to his death. However, taken in the above context the photo is really an arresting character sketch. The conflict on his face, the need for acceptance, the firing-squad defiance. It’s really something.
Lest you think I’m some kind of butterfly-wing-pulling bastard who delights in the suffering of others, let it be known I also have an active imagination and this guy was probably just some lonely nobody, and the story is all in my head. That’s the most likely scenario. But on the other hand....
I made camp, did some work, and after it got dark I went to bed just as it started to rain. I fell asleep to the patter on my tent canopy. As I drifted off I wondered if, upon reconsideration of his actions, Bill might try to steal into the campsite later to retrieve the evidence on my camera. But I slept easy. I keep pepper spray in the tent.
Beware of Evil Hitch Hikers
Duluth, MN to Hillsboro ND, 260 miles.
I spent the day doing another more detailed tour of the factory with Kim, another of the top dogs, and then Andy invited me to dinner with them. When I was finally ready to go Nick, another employee/biker guided me out of town on his new dual sport, and I took the route Andy recommended: “200 goes all the way across the US to Idaho from here. It’s a neat route I’ve done it 4 times.” I Left with my liner and long sleeves on. It was cold at first, and then after dark further west it warmed up significantly.
I rode on and as it got dark I’d only traveled about 60 miles or so. I saw signs for a vacancy at a motel. I blew it off—60 miles was not enough for the amount of time I needed to put in. Part of me was kicking myself for not leaving sooner, but I was having fun and didn’t want to leave so I had nobody to blame. I rode past the motel without another thought. I started seeing a lot of “no vacancy” signs after that. As it had gotten very dark and most camp sites are not well-lit, I didn’t want to pull in and wake people up as it got later and later. It was now almost 10:30, but I wasn’t sure because I don’t wear a watch and no longer had my cell phone.
Went through Walker, a bigger town along the road. Checked all three hotels. All full. I passed over Lake George, and saw the bright moon reflected and thought how beautiful it must be in the daytime. I looked back and saw the moon and it was beautiful just as it was. Passed Itasca state park, and the source of the mighty Mississippi river.
Saw stretches of highway where the sign said “Do NOT pick up hitchhikers.” That seemed like a bad sign. If the bike broke down I’d be in trouble because nobody would pick me up. And as I had no way to call for help (no cell phone) all I could do was hitchhike. Worse still, it was obviously a place frequented by evil hitchhikers, hence the warning. So if I broke down I would have to deal with a broken bike, and them. Evil hitchhikers suck.
Passed a horrific smelling turkey farm, with lighted row houses on several acres of land. Passed lots of churches and thought about setting up the tent in one of their parking lots. It would be un-Christian of them to kick me out in the middle of the night, right? I also considered Andy’s previous recommendation of camping in a ditch on the side of the road. But there was really no place for that.
I saw a guy in Ada walking his puppies in the backyard around midnight. You’re best bet’s to go back to Mahnomen, about 37 miles, he told me. “There’s a casino hotel there if the hotel in town is closed. Kind of spendy but should have more options than here.” He spoke with that North Dakota twang everyone knows from the movie Fargo. I decided Mahnomen was too far to backtrack. Always keep moving forward I say. Just on principle.
Rode into Halstad, population 600. Stopped into the swinging hot spot (it was Friday night, after all). There were about fifteen people inside. One-fortieth of the population of Halstad actually. They all knew each other very well, and they stared at the spectacle I made walking in. Reggaeton was playing inside. Of all the things to hear in a town of 600 in Minnesota at midnight it had to be reggaeton. For those who don’t know, this “music” combines all the worst of Latin rhythms such as Cumbia, with the most foul-mouthed drivel of hardcore rap. In Spanglish. All the hours I’ve suffered bartending with “Gasolina” blaring simultaneously on the dance floor and on the Mexican cook’s 15 year old ghetto blaster in the kitchen in NYC only to find it here at midnight in Coyote’s Ass, Minnesota, Population 600 with bad taste. I really hate reggaeton.
But in a way it all makes sense of course. Small, remote towns crave the big-town stuff even more than people in the cities. City folk are constantly exposed to the marketing machinery of every industry. They hear all kinds of music and see all the latest fashions first because it’s more profitable to market the largest demographics of course. So the people in the small towns see it on TV, but the hippest stuff is never so accessible to them. So crap like reggaeton is more appealing to them than catnip to a three-nosed tabby.
Otherwise, the people inside were very friendly and polite, and advised me to ride to Hillsboro where they said I’d find a motel.
I crossed the North Dakota border after the witching hour. Spooky. It was as dark as it looks in the photo below. No streetlamps, no stars, and the moon had disappeared. Just the lone light of my high beam and the distant second-story bedrooms of the infrequently passed house. An utterly black night:
I found a room at the Hillsboro Inn for 38 bucks. Great price, smelly room. Had to put the AC on full blast to try to kill the smoke/funk/old-feet bouquet. Woke up the poor little woman who was napping behind the desk. I felt like an idiot blithely rolling in around 1am, but then I noticed a couple even more idiotic than me, across the street at the 24-hour gas station. They were together on a big v-twin and seemed to be having a tiff. I didn’t want to interrupt but I did say hello, just in case they were having bike problems or something and I could help. They said hi but seemed annoyed at having to get back on the road together. Maybe they were lost or looking for another place. They rumbled off and I went to bed.
My Dinner With Andy (The Aerostich Diaries)
Cedar Falls, Iowa to Duluth, Minnesota. 380 miles.
I woke up and Tyler told me a terror plot for flights from England to the USA was stopped. I had a little flashback to the day my brother woke me and told me the WTC was in flames, and we watched the news and maybe 10 miles away it was all going down, visible from the rooftop of our apartment.
I was packed and ready to leave the house before eleven am. But as John Lennon said “life is what happens when you’re making other plans.” I sat on the bike and the starter just wouldn’t fire. So I got off, took out my tools, and lubed the contacts in the starter button. No problem there. When I pushed the ignition button I could hear a clicking sound, but the starter motor wouldn’t turn over. Finally I exhausted my limited mechanical knowledge of the motorcycle and called my personal KLR guru
Mark Van Horn. Mark suggested checking the connections of the two relays under the housing cover above the side stand. Sure enough that was it, with a cleaning and a little dielectric grease the beast was running again. I was talking to him via cell phone and when we finished talking I put the phone down on the roof of the family car next to my helmet and went back to work.
I Rode north and realized about 100 miles away that I didn’t have my phone. It was exactly where I left it, on the roof of the car. Damn. Freaked out and called to my sister to let them know not to drive off with it. They found the phone, thankfully, and said they’d ship it ahead for me to Bozeman Montana.
Rode on the highway with the limit of 70mph. Never saw that before. Of course everyone was doing around 80. I was too, and passing people even, until I saw Bambi charging alongside the road while I was in the passing lane with nowhere to go if he decided to jump into my path. Massive adrenaline rush. Slowed down to 75 or whatever the hell the others were doing and got behind them. Let them run interference. I often do that when I am not sure what’s up ahead, especially if riding at night, in the rare cases when that happens. Let a car hit it first and give me time to brake.
The ride got very cold. A front came South off the waters of Lake Superior and onto the highway at nearly 40mph. I was topped out at 70mph with the throttle wide open and the bike couldn’t push anymore against it.
Duluth is a neat little city. I was driving there for one reason really, to finally meet a loyal sponsor and all around cool motorcycling guy, Andy Goldfine, and the crew at
Aerostich Riderwearhouse. Duluth has a lots of amenities, cool people, and nice streets and restaurants. And of course the arresting view of the water. Blues fest was going on while I was there, something like 10,000 extra people in town for the shows. I didn’t have a phone but I called Andy from a borrowed cell and thank God he called ahead to arrange a hotel or I would’ve been camping in the back of the Aerostich parking lot. There was nothing else in town.
I’d finally arrived! I was so excited to be there, in the Mecca of motorcycle riderwear and accessories. These are the people that started it all. The fabric motosuit revolution. They were the first to say “leather is not the ideal for daily motorcycling, and we’re going to do something about it.” And they still make the best motorcycle suits in the world. If James Bond was a motorcyclist, Andy would be his Q, making gadgets like heated grips, specialty ventilated waterproof suits, and the ingeniously simple “
Evap-O-Danna”, a water-retaining neckerchief that uses the wind stream to cool you off like a personal air conditioner. Just soak it and go. It even has a pocket to stuff it with ice cubes for an even greater cooling effect. Brilliant, simple, and effective. Like most everything they make. And like most everything in motorcycling that is truly useful, it has to serve more than just a single function. That’s why the evap-o-danna can also double as a cold weather scarf when it’s dry.
The factory is an impressive, yet unassuming old building, charming and stoic in it’s utilitarian simplicity. It was built in the early 1900s and used to be a candy factory. The elevator is a crotchety little monster, prone to temperamental stops and fits. Sherry, who’s in charge of the call center and acted as tour guide and all-around helpful sweetheart of a gal, refused to use the old thing and instead walked me up and down the worn steps of the building’s three spiraling flights.
The three floors have a very lived-in quality, looking well-worn and loved. There’s an ordered chaos, like the toys neatly put away on the living room shelves of a family home, that at any minute can all be scattered across the floor by squealing children.
I found Andy upstairs in his office, behind stacks of papers and notes on his desk, and, overwhelmed with emotion cried out “Dad!” I hoped to instill some sense of instant paternal affection so he would adopt me and outfit me for all time with all the amazingly cool stuff he had lying around. He just looked at me funny for a second then smiled and stuck out his hand.
Andy is not at all what one might expect after years of talking to him on the phone and reading his catalogue, which is more like a motorcycling how-to with useful outfitting ideas thrown in, rather than a marketing tool for the impressive inventory of anything and everything that could be ever be useful on a bike.
He looks a bit like a slim version of Henry Winkler (the actor that played the Fonz on Happy Days). Atypical of the hardcore biker, he’s slight of build and has small hands and a somewhat disheveled appearance, kind of like the absent-minded professor after a day hiking. His long hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and he had a couple day’s growth on his face. Andy has an easy, deliberate way of talking. He weighs his words before he speaks, and intermittently sprinkled into his everyday casual banter will be the most profound and interesting thoughts. He is humble to a fault, and shuns any and all attention or lauds, deferring instead to the group. He continually reminded me that the Aerostich we know today couldn’t have been possible without the amazing people he works with. To hear his version you’d think he had very little to do with it all, which of course couldn’t be further from the truth. He’s the kind of guy that can teach you a lot, and you will never realize you were learning the whole time.
The building is basically broken down by the three floors. The cutting room, design stations, and head offices were on the top floor. Suit construction began there. The suits are made from patterns copied off of a cutout master sheet. (They are in the process of switching to computerized patterns). The cut materials for each suit are added together with all the ballistic pieces needed and then sent to the second floor for sewing.
The second floor has sewing machine work stations, maybe twenty or so, some making small accessories, others making suits. Every single suit is hand built, each one sewn together in it’s entirety by just one person. This is the hardest part of getting employees, as it takes nearly 6 months to train people in the art of sewing, which seems to be lost in this country. (However it must be a great place to work as there are employees there who’ve been sewing together suits for over 20 years.) When nearly done the suit is handed to another worker who seals the seams from the inside with a waterproof seam tape, applied with great care and remarkable speed. This step can’t be messed up because the tape is applied with heat and is extremely adhesive once it’s put on. After that the seamed jacket goes back to the original builder for more details and finish work, and then it goes downstairs for inspection and approval. Each custom suit is marked inside with the date, size, builder, and future owner (below).
The first floor holds the showroom, shipping, cafeteria, inspection area, servers, and call center and it positively bustles. There are bikers from all over walking in off the street to admire the wares (I met four Australians, two Canadians, and a Londoner in an hour). The phones rang constantly while employees stuffed boxes and inspected suits across the tables.
Aerostich currently employs 99 people, and has a serious commitment to them. They used to offer free aerobics classes in the meeting room on the first floor, until it expanded so much they converted it into a receiving room. They also have a smoking cessation program, which will pay for any treatment that can help an employee quit (aside from hypnotherapy), and actually gives cash bonus for those that can stays off cigarettes!
Andy feels he can be a distraction in his own place because he talks to visitors in the showroom so much that the employees want to tell him to “go away and let me get these people into new suits.”
One of Andy’s greatest passions is his “
Ride to Work” program. He’s been involved with the project for 14 years and feels very strongly about it. If it were up to Andy everyone would take motorcycles to work. More efficiency, less congestion and consumption, and just better all the way around.
But Andy didn’t always have so much free time for side projects. In the beginning it was a huge hassle just getting his business started. At first none of the wholesalers and retailers got it. He was repeatedly told “Nobody is going to pay $300 for a rain suit.” He realized he needed to market directly to the people, to make them understand what he was selling was a personal survival pod, water- and wind-proof, built for comfort and repeated steady abuse over miles and miles of wear. And, above all, there was the security in knowing that your bare skin was protected from the road by armored pads and ballistic-grade nylon. Eventually the idea caught on, and in no time the wolves of imitation were howling in the distance, making cheaper, inferior suits with none of the thought and care that went into every suit Aerostich sells. And even today there is no equal to an Aerostich riding suit. To roll up into anyplace where bikers gather wearing a Darien jacket or Roadcrafter is to silently inform them that a serious motorcyclist has arrived.
And the suits are constantly evolving. New designs, additions and revisions happen with each generation. And each new idea is personally tested by Andy and his staff for fit, utility, and effectiveness.
My stop at Aerostich was easily one of the highlights of this trip, and I recommend anyone who likes to see cool things being made, in action, stop by and check it out. My most sincere thanks to Lynn, Kim, Dennis, Shane, Jim, Sherry, Nick, Elina, Debi, Andy, and all the others that made me feel so welcome while I was there. You guys rock!
Monster With Sharp Teeth
Chicago, Illinois to Cedar Falls, Iowa. 380 miles.
In the morning I was set to go and called Soneca. He’d mentioned that he would be training
Forrest Griffin for his
UFC fight at 10am and wanted me to come and work with them, because he needed guys his size to roll with. Luckily for me I called to confirm and saved myself a 90 minute traffic hassle, because Forrest was actually sick and could not train that morning. Oh yeah, Soneca said when I called. “I was going to call you to tell you not to come.”
I knew I was in the heartland because they advertised it a lot. I haven’t been in a state yet that didn’t have corn being grown somewhere. The road was mostly flat and straight, but there were a few pretty winding curves. In an out-of-the-way town somewhere I overheard a girl talking to her high school boyfriend at a gas station. “Little Anna got run over by a four wheeler yesterday!” How much ATV traffic can there be that someone would get hit by a four wheeler?
A sample of the beautiful wide cloud formations in Iowa:
Then I lost my way because of another dual-named highway! Actually took me into Wisconsin for a moment. Drove an extra 50 miles or so… and of course there was traffic on the road back so had to improvise and take a little side route back through.
Sure enough, my neck and shoulders were ACHING after the previous day’s injury. It’s the same side I had to turn the throttle with, so it got bad for a while.
Near my destination I stopped by the house of the former President and Civil War General Ulysses S. Grant. It looks very small relative to modern homes but it was probably quite large by 1860’s standards.
Got into Cedar Falls and my sister and brother-in-law greeted me with the kids. Nice house, very homey. There are useful conveniences nearby; it’s a very clean orderly college town. All of Iowa is clean. The whole country actually has a fantastically neat and organized highway system. And compared to almost every other country I’ve ridden (besides Europe), the roads are flawless, and where not so, are being repaired.
My 4-year-old niece gave me grief from the moment I came. “You’re bad! And you are not allowed to stay here and sleep in my bedroom and you should go back to your own bed in your own house and not come here any more! And you’re a monster with sharp teeth!” All this was much more entertaining because she only spoke in Spanish, as Ingrid and Tyler speak both languages to the kids. Her parents did little to discourage this behavior—apparently it was acceptable and normal for me to be treated this way. We went shopping the next day, finally got a digital camera so I could start getting documenting done. I also took a bath in Epsom salts for my neck and shoulder. More cold treatment all day long from my niece, with moments of warming up and showing sweetness. As my brother says, there’s a very prophylactic effect in hanging around with someone else’s kids. Also watched them playing in the kiddie pool out back. My nephew, who is two, unceremoniously crapped on the deck in the backyard while running around naked. I must remember these things to embarrass them when older.
How to Screw Up Your Neck for the Next Two Months of Riding
I decided to stay a day in Chicago to check things out and train at the Gracie Academy. I set to work on the bike and checked the main fuse and it was good, so that meant that the headlight was bad. Took it out and sure enough it was. Saved a huge chunk of time by finding an
Advance Auto Parts that had a new headlight bulb for me. I was going to go almost 30 miles out of the way to get to a
Kawasaki dealer. It was nine dollars for the light, a cheap and easy fix. I later realized the first one went out because of a bad connection, so I crimped the connector a bit with my multi-tool and dropped some dielectric grease in there and the headlight worked like new.
When I finished I rode into Gold Coast and Old Town area, south of Lincoln Park. The Sears tower was visible from over 10 miles away. Came in along 290 past the ghettos and projects areas east to the center of the city. Chicago has a lot of elevated trains, like New York. The CTA trains are all throughout downtown, sprawling out like spider legs for miles in all in directions.
I trained Brazilian Jiu Jitsu with
Helio “Soneca” Moriera, the substitute teacher while Carlson Gracie Jr. was out of town for the World Championships. I actually knew Soneca because he’d grown up, and was best friends, with my teacher Marcos Santos. He’d done several seminars at the school in New York, and was well remembered for affectionately referring to one of his favorite students as “bicha loca,” or “crazy bitch.” In Portuguese this is an even more derogatory term than it sounds in English, especially when applied to a man. But Soneca treated it like a term of endearment. Suffice to say he is a colorful personality. I trained with the crew there and had a fantastic time. Soneca (a nickname he got as a kid that stuck, and which translates to “sleepy”), was kind enough to loan me a gi, and let me train for free. Great people, great class, and the only downside was that I strained my neck pretty badly while training with one of the black belts. The camera was a crummy disposable so the pictures suck, but here are some of the nice people you can meet in Chicago that would be happy to choke you unconscious when you stop by the school:
Pictured above is the
Chicago Carlson Gracie Chicago crew. Interesting thing about Soneca (pictured to the left of me), as I mentioned above he’s a very funny guy with a huge personality and a big heart. But what you’d never know just by looking at him is that he’s an extremely talented and accomplished martial artist. A killer really. He’s been training since he was a boy (there’s a picture on the wall of my school in NYC with Soneca at about 8 years old wearing a yellow belt), he’s won the World Championships several times, and has fought NHB (no holds barred or ultimate fighting) in Japan for years. He’s also an excellent instructor.
Here I am with Soneca and Tony, the guy that knows exactly where not to be at any given time in Chicago.
How I Almost Get Killed in Chicago
Cleveland to Chicago, Illinois. 345 miles.
Started the ride and saw the beautiful white herons with their spindly legs and necks like bent paperclips as I passed the water route from Cleveland through the Sandusky Bay along Route 6. There I met Tom, a biker with a flat. He told me only two other bikers stopped to help, of the dozens that drove by. His buddy had gone for help so he said he was ok and I left him.
Met Chris on Route 2, riding a
Kawasaki 750 sport tourer. Nice guy. We ate lunch and talked bikes and biking at a big boy outside Toledo.
At this gas station we met a guy that had just sold his Harley, and he kept trying to convince me I should buy a Harley. Why do they all want me to buy a Harley? Most Harley riders that are actually riding on their bikes don’t say anything. But the ones not on the bikes tell me to buy them. Curious.
Hit Rt. 20 through lots and lots of corn fields and pretty scenery. Ran out of time for the back roads and had to get back on the interstate for hours of boring riding. Sucks to ride at 80 for hours on any bike, but it can be particularly unpleasant on a thumper. The vibration is brutal. Imagine riding a dryer full of hammers, set on tumble, for eight hours a day. The bike is great at 55-65. Hit eighty for any stretch of time and it’s monkey butt waiting to happen.
I was still acclimating. Everything was sore, particularly my knees from being bent for hours. I rode on the interstate and had the embarrassing experience of almost running out of gas. Experienced moto travelers, world riders, if you will, do NOT run out of gas. They know exactly how much the tank holds and has at all times. If anything, we get “low on fuel.” Clearly something else was wrong. I was supposed to get nearly 300 miles from my tank when driven conservatively. I had ridden only 200 or so when my fuel cut out. I switched to reserve and kept going, thinking my reserve was supposed to be good for about another 30 miles. A couple miles down the road it cut out again. Now I was worried. I pulled over, took off the bags, and laid the bike on it’s side to try to drain some fuel in the direction of the petcock. Picked it up again and rode. Cut out after 1 mile. Now I stopped again and noticed the petcock was back on regular fuel. Odd. Must have switched it back when trying to get more gas and not realized it. I put it back on reserve and thought I must have enough to get to the next exit. I rode in 5th at 55mph exactly 4 miles, as trucks and cars sailed past me at well over 80. I looked like the genuine freak puttering along the freeway while people blew past me. Better than having to walk. The exit appeared. I turned into the on ramp as the engine cut out again, and had enough momentum to coast right into the gas pump area. As far as I was concerned this was great. I hadn’t dropped or had to push the bike on this trip so far, so I could still maintain my world-riding dignity.
Refueled, I continued burning down Interstate 80/90 (why can’t they just call it 80 or 90? Why both?) I was doing about 70/80. Probably how I ran out of gas in the first place, but as they say, hindsight is 20/20. How do I feel about all the fractions in this paragraph? Like I want to punch myself in the face every time I read it. Yet I can’t bring myself to erase it. Masochist I guess.
Somewhere along the line I rummaged in my mapcase to move a map around, and the force of the wind blew out a slip of paper, which fluttered away gracefully at 75mph. Normally I don’t worry too much about loss. As the Buddhists profess all things are transitory. However, that particular paper was kind of important, as it held the detailed directions to my hotel. But I couldn’t have gone back to find the paper if I wanted to. There was too much traffic to pull over and it was all going too fast to hunt for paper by the roadside. I hoped I would remember the directions, more or less, to get there.
The sun was very bright and right in my eyes. This becomes apparent as one drives straight West into the sun every afternoon for days. After my final rest stop I put a receipt from a
Starbucks coffee under the visor, wedged between the rubber and the Plexiglas so that it would block the sun in my eyes. Not a fool-proof plan, but good enough as a short term solution. I just had to keep the visor down at all costs or my receipt would disappear like my directions did earlier. Not that I needed the receipt. But I did need the protection from the sun.
It turned out to be rather overcast all of a sudden. And when a bumblebee suddenly smacked into my neck and, in a most unlikely turn of events, bounced up inside my helmet and flapped it’s death throes on my cheek, I didn’t think twice before opening the lid to get it out. And there went my sun visor.
Got into Chicago after dark and took a wrong turn into what, I later learned, was one of the worst part of town. Chicago is ten miles wide or so, and I didn’t realize how far outside the city my hotel was. Then my headlight went out. So now I was driving in the worst ghetto in Chicago with no headlight. Did I mention that experienced world travelers also never get lost?
So I pulled over on a street corner near Division and LaSalle. I was supposed to be meeting a friend in the city the next morning so I called him for assistance.
“Hey Tony, what’s going on?”
“Hey Andres! What’s up? Where are you?” I told him. “Oh man, you should get out of there.” Tony’s voice had genuine alarm. “That place can be pretty bad.”
“Yeah, I got that impression.” This was a good sign though, because it meant he knew the city well enough to guide me out. I asked him where I should go.
“I don’t know but you should definitely leave.”
“I’m all for it.” I said impatiently, as a group of menacing toughs eyed me up across the street. “I’m open to suggestions. Where do I go?”
“I can’t say for sure, but you should definitely leave there as soon as possible.” This conversation had begun to get a circular feel to it. I didn’t really know how to adequately express that I had no idea where I was and needed him to give me more precise indications that “leave.” Tony paused thoughtfully for a second before adding. “You know some people were shot where you are a few days ago.” This was not what I wanted to hear right at that particular moment.
“Tony, I’m going to go back the way I came and see if I can find the highway again.”
“Yeah, you should do that. I think you think you need to go about 8 more miles west. But definitely get out of there.”
After Tony’s extremely helpful and detailed directions, I started to work my way back. I tried to “ride casual.” As though maybe if I looked calm and natural like I belonged here, the locals wouldn’t notice me—the freak dressed like a spaceman on a dual sport that was geared up like a Gold wing, riding blind down the road. Great plan. Maybe if I acted weird, well, weirder, I would be shunned and left alone. At a stop sign some helpful people called out to inform me that my headlight wasn’t working. They seemed friendly enough, all mirthfully laughing. They addressed me in their parlance, as if I could’ve been one of their own, and I felt welcomed. They used words like “foo,” as in, “Yo, headlights out Foo!”
Scent of a Roadway
Binghamton, New York to Cleveland, Illinois. 337 miles.
Spent Friday with family. Ran errands, did more work on the bike (including cutting off the clutch and brake lever knobs after a scary moment on the highway when my glove got caught in-between the clutch lever knob and my brush guard). I completed a finalized packing, not to fit everything, but to organize stuff for convenience of use. All camping gear went into one bag with toiletries and uncommonly used tools and spare parts (common tools are on the bike’s tool box I made), the other bag held clothing, important documents, and my laptop. The top case functioned as a daily storage device/day bag. It held a bike cover, spare cable lock, chain lube, water, and other sundries. I liked to keep extra room there to lock up the riding suit at rest stops. Saturday morning I left at around 10am. Took back roads, 17 to 417 to 346 to scenic route 59 to 6 and 6N. Ended up on 90 again for the last 70 miles to Cleveland. Great trip through beautiful scenery, not at all hot and oppressive. Just nice easy miles on winding roads, averaging about 55-60mph. Great small towns, lots of garage sales in all the little burgs. Saturday must be garage sale day; I saw at least 10-15 of them.
Road smells: manure, mown grass, compost, diesel exhaust, barbecue, bovine body odor.
What's The Name of That Willie Nelson Song? Wait, Don't Tell Me...
New York City to Binghamton, NY. 190 miles.
Finally on the road! My back quickly started getting sore as I tried to maintain correct posture. My body had clearly weakened since my steady 500 mile days 6 years ago, when I could ride all day and still have energy to go out after and wake up at 8am and do it all over again. I felt old. But it’s not just me that needs to adapt. My seat, riding pants, and helmet all had to be broken in as well. I was still feeling stressed for being behind schedule and rushing up here. Nice ride otherwise, except that I knew the route so well. I’d be more alert in new territory. Started to feel excited, still too many last minute details to be really psyched but getting there.
Making Repairs In The Sauna
Parts arrived after 1pm and I rushed into the city to get the bike, which was getting new tires, inspection, and fork skins at
Cycle Therapy. Everything was delayed. The traffic was slow, the train was delayed an hour. Finally I rode it back to the New Jersey school and began working at 6pm. I installed the new saddlebag mounts and 12v outlet, built a new toolbox from scratch and installed it, and gave the bike the final once over. There were some snags, such as a
Givi mount tab broke and the rear brake wasn’t seated properly by the last mechanic that checked it. Nothing too hard to get around, just took more time. It didn’t help that the temperature inside the room was about 98 degrees. I was working in just a pair of shorts and literally dripping sweat the entire time I worked, a total of eleven hours with a 45 minute dinner break. I finally finished and closed up the school at 5am. The befores:
And the after:
Why Did I Make This Pointless Blog Post? Oh Yeah, Foreshadowing
Over the weekend I picked up the bike and brought it to the
Blitz Center Brazilian Jiu Jitsu School in New Jersey, where my instructor was kind enoughThere I installed the new plastics, tank, windscreen, and saddle with the help of Jeff Lande. Jeff is a buddy who also trains Jiu Jitsu and, I later learned, was interested in doing a motorcycle trip over the summer as well. We’ll be hearing a lot from Jeff because he’s already shipped his bike to California and is scheduled to meet me there.
Tuesday in the afternoon I finally loaded up all the stuff from my apartment and drove three hours upstate to leave it in storage. Drove back again the same day. Heat was at 100+ degrees for the entire move. Not fun. August 1st was the official departure date but I still hadn’t received some parts yet, so I had no choice but to wait.
