After Words

It was a helluva ride and I can honestly say I know of no one who has ever done it before, certainly not alone, mostly, on a motorcycle.

I'm adjusting to the new/old life, my scale no longer hundreds of miles eating asphalt with broad expanses of land in front, great adventure ahead and behind.

I'm back to the mundane, the mean streets of San Jose, home, the adjustment to the frankly scary drivers. I've returned to my belligerent confidence and necessary defensive driving skills, every vehicle a missile, every driver a potential assassin. Life is fast in San Jose, indeed the whole Bay Area, and the timid die a nasty, horrible death - or worse.

An Asian woman tried to parallel park her oversized SUV into a space clearly too small for the black behemoth, no one on the sidewalk to help guide her, and I was behind her, on the motorcycle, a car behind me, close. I treated it as anyone would a natural disaster: I tried to plan an escape route, preferably to a different state, but the route was blocked with on-coming traffic; nothing left to do but hold on, pray to whatever gods might hold favor, hope I wouldn't be part of the collateral damage, wait for FEMA, collect government aide.

I was lucky, no damage.

When Dame Fortune smiles on you, you don't spit in her face. You wave politely, thank her, and move along. Your time will come. It always does. We can only hope we have a choice in the matter. That's the best we can do.

I'd like to thank everyone who followed the blog, the comments, the well-wishes. There were times I considered not continuing the entries; you helped me finish and it is much appreciated.

I'd also like to thank Rally Software, the company I work for, the company with the amazing benefit granting six weeks paid sabbatical after seven years of service. Rally is a much different company from when I joined as employee 40. It's greater than ten times the size, has IPO'd, expanded to different countries. The changes may not have been for the better but it is still an amazing company.

Thanks to all my friends, old and new, with your support and kindness, the couch, the bed, the food, the drink, the shelter and most especially the company and great memories.

I'd be remiss not to thank Victory Motorcycles for engineering such a great bike. I never had a problem, never a worry the bike wouldn't start, wouldn't get me to the next destination, in comfort and safety. It's an amazing motorcycle from an American company and if you're thinking of buying a motorcycle, you really need to look at them.

And to my family, especially my girls, I wanted to let you know that even though I'm at heart a selfish-bastard and the ride was primarily my conceit, in a very real way, you were my inspiration. I wanted to show you that you can do amazing things with your life; I did, even at my old age, that being anything older than 40.

Women, in particular, have pressures placed on them to always do the right things. My girls, I love you; please don't be afraid to make mistakes. Take risks. Enjoy the failures. Think big. Do big if you are able.

Finally, thanks to my Hurricane, for your patience, understanding, editing and love. You and I are we and I am not without you.

Hidden Costs

There are the costs that are known: the costs to prepare for the trip, new tires, service, packing, planning, new batteries for bluetooth helmets, etc.; then there are the costs for the trip itself, the fuel, the hotels, food, water, motorcycle service, blogging time, etc.; and finally the costs after, the time to put stuff away, motorcycle cleaning, final service, general wrap-up stuff.

What are the hidden costs? 

There were the costs you weren't expecting: a new rear tire, a new computer when the old one fails to boot, a replacement phone when you back over the fallen Samsung S3 with the motorcycle. Of course, these hidden costs are usually more expensive because, frankly, there isn't time to negotiate, investigate options, make the better choice. You're stuck and you make the best choice you can, look at the expense as a sunk cost, and move along to the next. Again, these are quantifiable costs, easy to track, easy or possibly difficult to justify.

Then there are the ones that aren't easy to quantify.

You've been gone for a month, missed important events, milestones in the lives of friends and family. People change. Will your relationships be stronger, weaker? How did your actions affect people?

Hugo and I hatched a plan to deceive Hurricane Melissa, never really a wise choice. She's a planner, a release manager, detail-oriented, a mom, a problem solver. We call her Hurricane because she's Hispanic, of a passionate people, easily stirred. You concern yourself when the winds are a blowin' - you can get along with minimal damage when Tropical Storm Melissa arrives but you don't want Melissa to spin up to full gail force. There will be damage, you know not where, but it will arrive, the consequences possibly deadly.

The first deception was the lie that I would stay in Portland overnight, ten hours away, too exhausted from the previous days' journeys to invest more time towards heading home. Of course, I decided to split the time towards home and stayed overnight instead in Yreka, only five hours away and easily reachable a day ahead of the alleged schedule. I was on safe ground here. She wanted me home and even though she tried not to apply pressure on me to get home earlier, I could tell that our time apart had taken a toll on her, a hidden cost, and any time added would be a benefit.

The second deception started with Hugo. Both Hugo and I are not exactly known for our ability to communicate effectively with each other and our friends. Frankly, Hugo is better at this than I. Family and friends chastise me constantly for my inability to text or answer or return calls in a timely manner.

The plan was for Hugo and Christen to meet me halfway between Yreka and San Jose, in Cummins, California, and escort me home. But Hugo told Melissa that he was meeting me in Yreka, sans Christen, and that we'd stay overnight, have drinks, make it home the next day. I, of course, was already in Yreka, and late that night, I talked to Melissa and told her that Hugo and I would meet the next day in Yreka, instead, that we hadn't actually scheduled the overnight.

On the morning of the ruse, Christen and Melissa texted and Christen told her that Hugo was on the way to meet me in Yreka, a day ahead of schedule. Melissa called me. I had already started down I-5 towards Cummins and I answered the phone via Bluetooth.

"Hugo is headed up to meet you," she said, the alarm bells ringing, the winds, they had started a blowin'.

"What? I thought we agreed that he'd meet me tomorrow instead."

"That's what I thought, too, but Christen said he's on the road."

"Okay, I'll call him, see what's going on."

Melissa texted Hugo, alerted him there was a miscommunication. Hugo didn't respond.

Later, after Hugo, Christen and I had met in Cummins and had started heading towards home, Hugo texted Melissa and wrote, "I'm in Oregon. Where's Rich?"

Melissa called me, panicked. "Hugo's in Oregon."

"Hmmmm. No problem I'm almost in Yreka," I said. "It's only 20 miles south of the Oregon border. He can't be too far north by now. I'll text him because I haven't been able to get him on the phone. The only problem is that the Oregon mountains blocked my signal on the way down, so he might not get the text until he gets into a serviceable area."

"You didn't see him on the road as you passed?"

"Well, I might've been getting gas and we just missed each other. I'm sure I would've heard the Gay Disco as it passed."

Melissa, ever the problem solver, said, "I'll just send you both a text and send the map. I just can't believe Hugo can't communicate with you."

"Well, I'm sure you're tired of being in the middle of this," I said. "Don't worry about it. I'll text him again. You have work and I'm sure you don't need this."

She agreed, we talked a bit more, she returned to dealing with work stuff.

Hugo texted her a bit later, "WTF! I'm in Portland. Where's Rich?"

Panicked, Melissa called me again. At this point, I'm supposed to be in Yreka. Actually, I had arrived home, greeted warmly by our dachshund Zoey, enjoying a Diet Coke, legs crossed, perched atop our living room table.

"Wow! That sucks. I guess he's just going to have to come down to Yreka but that's quite aways."

"<Expletive> Hugo!" she said. She shot him a text back. "Hugo, you're in logistics. How do you leave on a long ride without a plan?!"

Hugo wrote back, "It's Rich's fault. Why doesn't he answer his phone?"

Melissa wrote me, "Hugo's blaming you!"

"Well, it is what it is. We'll figure it out but I appreciate you trying to help."

Melissa had reached her peak gail force. I knew that when she saw me home, the hurricane would direct the energy towards welcoming me home.

I'm not sure what will happen to Hugo. It's hard to say when the energy will gather again but there's always hidden costs to pay.

Army Escort

Three of our closest friends, Hugo, Christen and their white, toy poodle, Monty, met me at Cummins, California, both of the humans, Melissa and I are proud to say, having served active duty tours in Kuwait.

After such a long haul across this great country, I was both relieved and ecstatic to see my friends and it meant a lot to me that they'd driven so far north to escort me home on Hugo's red CVO Street Glide, a tricked-out, fully optioned, lowered, chrome bolt-on, ultra-loud piped, added speakers blasting at eleven and LED light show we affectionately termed the "Gay Disco", much to Hugo's dismay.

Monty rode on the bike, as per usual, in his carrier strapped to the back of the bike, dressed in a black Harley Davidson leather vest, white head imperiously jutting into the stiff California wind towards the forward progress of the bike.

It was great comfort to be on my way home with my friends, my Army escort.

Unlike the rest of the country, which had complained about the cold, wet winter, California suffers through one of the worst droughts in recorded history and earlier, when I had ridden through the Mount Shasta National Park, driven by Shasta Lake, I was saddened and a bit frightened at just how low the lake's level was.

Northern California, in fact, looked as though the whole state could catch on fire, a conflagration of Biblical proportions, the wrath of a mighty god thrust upon the heathens from upon high. Or a single cigarette.

The unirrigated fluara looked wilted, the grass white and tan, like uncut hay, not unusual for Northern California, really, but certainly much earlier and certainly drier than normal. Time to cut the entire state's sullen grass and weeds and turn it into hay bails, start over, sod the entire place.

My escort and I rolled down I-5 and took the 505 exit towards Vacaville. As we crushed through the stiff winds, I couldn't smell the citrus of the orange groves (too early?), but I did smell the sweet scent of hay, and Hugo's body wash, Axe.

We pulled off for lunch, pizza at Mary's Pizza Shack in Fairfield, discussed the trip. Christen wanted to know if the journey would've been better if I'd gone with a group or with Melissa or in a car.

Introducing any of those elements would've changed the dynamic, of course. But better? A group would've meant more camaraderie, possibly, and probably bickering, and the travel slower, maybe even defeating. If I'd finished the rest of the way with Melissa, it would've been amazing in that my best friend and I would have that shared memory together, the downside being that we'd create our own cocoon from the world. Being alone forced me to engage with people. If I'd been with her, we'd probably have opted for hotels instead of the AirBnBs, perhaps the greatest source of local lore I acquired. And certainly with Melissa, it would've cost more - a lot more - in time and financially. I say this in love, of course, and reality. Driving a car would've numbed the experience that I might as well have bought a load of oxycodone and alcohol and staggered through the month at home, incoherently blathering Where am I? There's a reason children hate long car rides with the family: mind numbingly dull, disengaging time, meant to remove one so far from the experience there's no wonder that minivans and SUVs now come entertainment systems in the back of the front seats' headrests. Are you going across country in a car? Bring your DVDs. You're missing everything good about it because you just aren't in it.

I returned home, a complete 360 degrees around the contiguous United States, at roughly 3 P.M., Melissa believing I'd be gone another day.

When Melissa walked through our condo door at 4:20 P.M., it took a moment to register that it was I sitting on the couch with Zoey, our pet dachshund. Melissa screamed, began crying and threw herself on me, laughing and kissing me.

My word, these Spanish women... and the best gift I could receive.

Stoopid Trees!

I'm so sick of trees. 

Two days into the Northwest corner of the U.S. and, frankly, I can't stand them, especially in Olympic National Park. These trees are ostentatious, egregious in their size and splendor, show-offs. And there are just so many of them.

I get it. I do.

They're big. Old. Majestic. There are a whole bunch of them, all together. 

They're also blocking my XM receiver from its signal and Jimmy Page was mid-riff on his solo in Heartbreaker.

Seriously? Down in front.

I sped on Highway 101. I was, as our friend Phil Switzer would say, hauling the mail. There's a mid section of 101 that was quite twisty, the yellow cautionary signs suggesting 20 MPH, 30 MPH, 40 MPH.

Thanks for the suggestions, I thought. 40 MPH? How about 65? 30 MPH? How about 60?

Twenty MPH? Forty sounded about right.

The Pacific Ocean murmured to the right, the waves breaking, many people strolling across the sandy beaches.

I slowed down long enough to take a video on the GoPro. Back to the road. Next corner, please.

I flew towards a sign that read, "World's Largest Spruce. Next Left."

Hmmmph. Compared to what?, I thought.

The other gi-normous trees out here? Do you really want to get my attention? Put a Panda Express on the other side of the road. That would get my attention.

"You rode through the Olympic National Forest? Did you see the world's largest spruce?"

"No but I had the orange chicken at Panda Express. Deeeee-lish!"

I made it through the magnificent rain forest without felling any trees and followed the road to Portland, one of my favorite cities. The original plan had a double day there, to relax, recuperate from three eight-hour rides in a row. I rode through downtown at three P.M., ate a late lunch. I traveled five hours to get there, yet surprisingly I felt ready for more riding.

After tooling around the city I decided to invest another five hours through the Oregon mountains for an overnight at Yreka (pronounced "Why-reekah").

It was time to head home. The next five evening hours would split the time between Portland and San Jose.

I decided to surprise the boss and told her I planned to stay in Portland at least the night, maybe two, I was too tired, needed to rest. And yet I would be able to make it home the next day.

Corner Four: Neah Bay

Motorcycle nirvana.

Hugging the shores along the Strait of Juan de Fuca for nearly twenty miles from Clallam Bay to Neah Bay, the sea's briny smell could be a bit overwhelming but the views - they were spectacular. Not to take anything from Eastport, Maine, which is also quite stunning, but Neah Bay garnered my imaginary trophy - the highlight of the four corners. What really differentiates the corner is Washington State Route 112 - curvaceous as Monroe, although not hugely technical, various elevation changes, good pavement, and the last five miles to the Cape Flattery Trail, the end of the road, as lush as any flora anywhere due to the greater than 100 inches of rain it receives yearly.

I had taken the Bainbridge Ferry from Seattle and met two guys on their way to an auto show at the Clearwater Casino. Northwestern Washington had been generous doling out the sun the past few days and motorcycles were being ridden in droves, whole herds of them, running wild in the streets. I asked my new acquaintances on the ferry whether they liked Seattle.

"When it's like this," the younger one said, smiled. He was in his late twenties, had lived in Seattle all of his life. I could tell he wasn't able to get his Yamaha cruiser out of the garage often. Although an older model bike, it looked brand new.

The older guy owned a Road King, nice bike, fully loaded, and looking pristine. He had moved from southern California for work and though he didn't want to return to SoCal, he knew he wouldn't stay in the Northwest, either. When he retired in a few years he wanted the ability to ride year round. Maybe northern California.

I sauntered along the State Route 3 North, through Bainbridge Island, in no particular hurry, especially as the traffic was horrible. Clearly they were confused and randomly wandered in the streets; Northwest people don't really know what the sun is; they just stared blankly into the burning orb in the sky, slack-jawed, milky-white, unable to comprehend the warmth and the light.

I crossed into the mainland, again greeted by numerous motorcycle riders, all giving the universal hand wave as we passed, happy to be riding. When I hit 101, the traffic cleared and I hammered the throttle. I passed through Sequim, a larger town along the trek, and noticed the moose crossing signs posted along the road.

All of the signs had yellow lights on the top and the bottom and one in particular flashed its warning lights repeatedly. I stopped at a gas station, filled the bike, asked the clerk why only one of the signs flashed. Apparently, the moose are so plentiful in Sequim, they've collared them and when the herd moves into the area, the collars trigger the sign; it's not uncommon for the moose to stop highway traffic in order to cross into the higher elevations.

Will the terror never stop? I thought.

I returned to my bike, happy to leave mooseland, not having any practical way to defend against one or several of the large buggers on the road. If my ticket were up and I went by moose crash, there wasn't much I could do. I just hoped the one I hit actually noticed.

Washington State Route 113 branches off the 101 and that's where the motorcycle fun began. The rainforest created a stunning backdrop for the undulating road. All of the vegetation was familiar, only larger, giant versions of what we have down south. I hoped the bees hadn't grown outsized too to accommodate the pollination, as I winded around the twisties, amazed when the lush green would suddenly explode into yellows, pinks, blues and brilliant reds of blooming flowers.

The final twenty-five miles that lead to the Cape Flattery Trail, the end of the road, were quite simply stunning. Turn upon turn, I wanted to pull over, take pictures. The GoPro, helmet-mounted, worked overtime and ran out of battery, forcing me to reshoot large sections the next day after another full charge. I'll post all of the videos on my Youtube channel when I get home to a reliable network (the edges of the country, especially north, proved quite challenging in terms of consistent and reliable wireless access, mostly due to Canada, my phone either not being covered by AT&T or picking up a host Canadian service with subsequent roaming fees).

When I came to the end of the road, having ridden through Clallam, Sekiu, and finally Neah Bay, it really hit me that I had finished the fourth corner. I felt exhilarated, even after the day-long ride from Spokane, and frankly a bit sad, wanting another corner.

I parked the bike and walked the final half-mile trail, well maintained by the Makah Tribe, and captured video and pics at the very end of the Northwest corner.

Nearly finished with the journey, I would need to head south on 112 to 113 and 101, through Olympic National Park, to Portland and then, finally, a mad rush down I-5. I missed my friends, family and most especially my wife and yet I didn't want the adventure to end. How often do we get to do big things in our lives? Not many, at least for me. And while I desperately missed them all, the allure of the next day, the next people I'd meet, the last minute planning, the adjustments, the fatigue, the next-day push...

Well, I'll let that last sentence dangle, inappropriately. There's not a career in long-distance riding.

Montvale

"Oh, so you're only a couple years older than me," the concierge said, looking at my driver's license. She was an attractive middle-aged woman at the Montvale Hotel, downtown Spokane. It's funny how a single word can throw a completely different meaning to a sentence. If she had omitted the "only" and said, "Oh, you're a couple years older than I (I've corrected her grammar, of course)", then there's no problem. Put in "only" and suddenly I look much older than the two. This isn't surprising. It's a hard time on the road, this rock-and-roll lifestyle. Ask Iggy Pop or Keith Richards, ancient even when they were young: partying all night the night before, riding hard all day the next, your eyes sunken, skin mottled, the toxic smell of charred caramel oozing from every pore. You lead this life, lady, and let's see what you look like..

The good news is that I am now back to "ripped" status, the layer of subcutaneous fat burned, although I'm not "shredded" or "yoked" as the kids would say, and my six-pack abs have returned. 

The bad news is that while wearing my kevlar riding pants, the ones I bought when I weighed 175 lbs., I now look like a little boy swimming in his older brother's hand-me-down britches. Also, my belt, that I previously wore on the third notch, is now at the fifth hole, the last one available, and I could go one more.

Motorcycle riding burns serious calories, surprising as you're sitting and don't appear to be that active. But riding works your core, everything moves from the waist, and the mental concentration, those who've ridden long-distances know, can be fatiguing.

Spokane, home of the Montvale Hotel, was a rather happening town, filled with young hipsters and, surprisingly, punk rockers - complete with mohawks, piercings, tattoos, strutting the hard downtown streets, causing trouble, making noise, having fun.

I wanted to join them but sadly my rock-and-roll lifestyle had caught up with me and after a quick dinner at the Brooklyn Deli and a discussion with the restaurant manager, John, who was intrigued by my ride and offered to buy me a beer, no thank you, I limped to the hotel, sullen and tired, asleep by 9:30. 

The sleep rejuvenated me and I awoke at 5:30 A.M. I reviewed Yelp, found a local restaurant, four stars, Molly's Family Restaurant, that opened at six. I quickly prepped and packed, filled the bike with gas and I was the first customer to walk through the doors. I was on the road by 6:20.

My ride coordinator, aka my editor, aka Hurricane, aka "the Boss", and I had discussed my modified route to the north, avoiding Seattle. The Montvale's wifi refused to load web pages in a timely manner, which meant Google Maps was nigh unusable. Melissa reviewed the route suggested by Tom and it would be 10.5 hours without breaks, 2.5 hours longer than going through Seattle.

Going through Seattle meant less compelling scenery due to the rather monotonous stretch of I-90 West between Spokane and Ellensburg and more traffic certainly. The positives would be that I'd cross Snoqualmie Pass, a mountainous ascent full of Brobdingnagian spruce and firs and a descent into Mercer Island surrounded by the sapphire-blue of Lake Washington. I'd cut time by taking the Bainbridge Island ferry, instead of having to either route south through Olympia or north, taking highway 20, nearly crossing the Canadian border before having to take a different ferry that would land in Port Townsend.

The I-90W route disappointed me and, frankly, I regretted the decision not to invest in the extra couple of hours; that is, until I started ascending the Snoqualmie Pass, which is beautiful. Washington was resplendent, unusual that, and invited me on my last corner journey with a beautiful day, in the 60s and 70s. I never realized what gorgeous cities Bellevue and Seattle are - because I'd never really seen them without the marr of rain and clouds.

I'm staying at the Neah Bay Inn tonight. I'll blog about the trip up and the final corner tomorrow but what I will say is that in terms of just pure beauty and being fun-to-drive, Highway 112, the Strait of Juan de Fuca Highway, may very well be one of the best motorcycle rides in the United States.

Testicle Festival

Six A.M. and I felt better than I had a right to feel.

The three of us, Kirsten, Chuck and I are sales professionals, folks known for their hard partying, and the evening went late, even though it was a school night, 12:30 A.M., several bottles of beer and three bottles of red wine later, a mad mixture of the grain and the grape.

We drank the night away, chitter-chatting about work, Bozeman, the ridiculous amounts of money that the celebrities pay for their second (or third, or fourth, etc.) home in order to ski on a private mountain, that includes the ability to build your own private lift. Chuck sells windows, large, very expensive ones, to the celebrities and to the various companies needing them. We regaled ourselves with sales war stories while Izzy, their rescue dog, a five-year-old bitch with the energy of a puppy, the power of a pitbull, all sinew, muscle and bone, slept fitfully on the couch, obviously annoyed that she was the only one with the good sense to go to sleep at a reasonable time.

It was a great night until it was morning and I awoke early to write the blog. Chuck had left already for work by the time Kirsten and I made our way to historic downtown Bozeman for breakfast. I scratched Izzy, gave Kirsten a hug, thanked her again, and sauntered away on the bike, feeling too blah to make an exit statement, instead slinking away, mildly alcohol concussed.

It wasn't until I hit Butte, 85 miles outside Bozeman, that it hit and hit hard. It was too early to take a break but I needed it, the bathroom at Wendy's, a diet Coke. I was on my way to Spokane, Washington and my travel had started inauspiciously.

And, gentle reader, I must confess that as I sat at Wendy's I contemplated cancelling my reservation for the Hotel Montvale, an historic Spokane hotel in the heart of downtown, and instead crossing the street to the Butte Holiday Inn Express - just give me a room! - where I could curl into the pillows, childlike, sleep the day away. I had made progress, after all, 85 miles, and that should count for something.

But very good sales person knows that no matter what toxic damage you did to yourself the night before, you persevere, you show.

It matters not that your angry liver kicks you so hard during the morning that you alternately flop sweat and urine shiver every fifteen minutes or so.

It matters not that your eyes feel as though they are bleeding. Internally. And that the tears produced from the ducts are hot, thick, and coagulating.

You're a professional, damn it.

Back on the bike.

By the time I hit Missoula, I felt better but not great. Kirsten had told me that Missoula was hosting its annual "Testicle Festival" and I pulled into the city to get gasoline, check as to where this spectacle might be. I talked to the hipster behind the store counter, asked where I could find the festival and, obviously, I wanted to ascertain whether the testicles in question were bovine or human, the latter of which I'd frankly not much desire.

"We're not Bohemians," he said, meaning I take it that the testicles belonged, in fact, to the bovines, Montana being beef country. "You go west on the highway. There'll be signs. You can't miss it."

I headed west, never saw the signs and, frankly, I wasn't sure my stomach could handle the sight or the smell of Rocky Mountain Oysters and so I sauntered along instead, wondering but not really caring who participated in a "Testicle Festival".

I stopped for gas earlier than usual, again, about 100 miles, needing another break and the restroom. Another motorcycle pulled in next to mine at the pumps, a Honda ST1300, a V-4 touring bike, and a darling among the long-distance riding crowd. We introduced ourselves, his name being Tom, and we agreed to ride together, at least to Coeur D'Alene. Tom hailed from Vancouver and had ridden all over the northwest region for years. He pulled out his maps (physical maps!) and he recommended an alternate route to Neah Bay, one more scenic, that would avoid the Seattle traffic that he assured me would be terrible, especially on a Saturday. His suggestion was to take Highway 2, to 174, to 97, to Highway 20, all the way to the Port Townsend ferry. I'd take the ferry across, continue on 20 to 101 and travel to Neah Bay, the fourth corner.

We enjoyed a brisk ride to the lovely city of Coeur D'Alene, I-90 having incredible views of the Lake Coeur D'Alene, alternatively leading across the rather interesting, downhill, and rather sharp corners that run across the pass connecting Idaho to Washington.

We pulled over at an exit, said our farewells. I toured through Coeur D'Alene then headed to Spokane, back in the Pacific time zone, just a few days from home.