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.

Head Winds

"Crap, I'm out of gas."

In optimal conditions, a single rider, no trunk, no luggage, my bike gets 220 miles on a full tank of gas, 5.6 gallons of premium unleaded. When fully loaded, single rider, trunk, in optimal conditions, I travel a maximum of 200 miles per tank.

Traveling between Medora, ND and Bozeman, MT, the conditions were not optimum. The head winds, though not fierce, were steady, occasionally gusty. Also the elevation varied, usually in the direction away from attaining the best gas mileage. I filled the tank when I left Medora and the next "major" city was 184 miles away, Forsyth, MT, a bit beyond my comfort level but certainly within range, typically. I passed through Miles City, MT, at 140 miles and my gas tank just hit the low fuel gauge, 1.5 gallons left, and 44 miles to Forsyth. It would be close given the conditions and I'd stop along the way, maybe 20 miles farther up the road.

If I had had the boss along, she would've insisted that we fill the bike at Miles City, the conservative, safe approach. Looking at the green travel signs along the highway, it looked like there were at least two cities along the way within range.

I arrived at the first "city" and there were no services. I'm twenty miles into it and bullishly optimistic, even though the grade was elevating, the winds only getting stronger. The next "city" was Rosebud, about 14 miles away.

There it was, that sinking feeling, range anxiety. I checked the instant fuel mileage gauge: 25 MPG. That put me right at 175 miles. Rosebud would be my last chance. As I started the last ascent towards Rosebud, 174 miles on the trip counter, the bike popped out of cruise control, not enough fuel.

I downshifted to fifth as the bike began to backfire, lurch. I crested the hill, shifted to neutral, and I hoped to see a gas station sign.

Nope. There was a steep descent, a sharp ascent and nothing on the horizon but trees and cows. Rosebud lay at the bottom of the hill and I coasted down, considering options. I saw a couple of farm houses to the north. I pulled off onto the Rosebud exit. The bike sputtered, surged, sputtered and I had just enough gas to pull into the driveway of the closest house, a white ranch with a motorhome, a tractor. As I made my way into the residence, I noticed an older gentlemen, in t-shirt and jeans. Looking at him, I could see that he had seen many long, hard days of manual labor in his day.

"Hi," I said.

"How's it going?"

"Well, my bike's out of gas," I shut the bike off, stepped off the machine, removed my helmet. "You wouldn't happen to have any would you?"

He looked at my bike, said, "That's a Victory. Nice bike. I've been looking at them, used to ride a Kawasaki 1300."

"This is an 1800," I said. "Over a 1,000 lbs. when I'm on it. I ran into some strong head winds on the way and miscalculated my range."

"I have a gallon around here that I use for mowers and such."

"That would be great," I said. "How much can I pay you?"

"Oh, maybe three, three-fifty."

"How about five?"

"That'll do. It may take a moment to fetch it. I hope you're not in a rush."

"All we really have is time and I'm glad to spend some of it with you."

He paused, nodded, then went to one of the open garage bays to find the gasoline. I wondered if gasoline had a shelf life then realized it didn't matter much. I needed the gas to get to Forsyth, ten miles away.

"I brought a funnel. I use it for all sorts of things but it should be clean enough."

I poured the gasoline into the tank and paid him the $5.

"Thank you, sir," I said and I went to shake his hand. I noticed that his hand had difficulty closing and when I shook it, it was as dry and rough as unformed concrete. I flipped the start button, hit the ignition and the bike kicked over as though it had never been starved.

I thanked him again, waved and headed west to Forsyth to fill the tank. As Napoleon Bonaparte said, it's better to be lucky than good.

By the time I passed through Billings, the landscape had shifted from the wonderful cumulative flow diagrams that describe the aging bluffs to the mountain ranges that poked from the green land like smoke-charred incisors. Montana is a beautiful land and each time I travel through it I find myself agreeing to its adage of big sky country. At times, on small rises, the sky appeared so large that even though I rode uphill, it felt as though I were actually riding down.

The Yellowstone River, pregnant with the season's run-off, threatened to flood the highways, and I nervously watched the occasionally stormy sky hoping not to be impeded by standing water. Fortunately, I didn't encounter any rain, just wind, a lot of it, and made decent time to my friend Kirsten's house.

Medora Bison

Even though she stood alone, the rest of the herd would be near and I approached her slowly, relatively quietly. She grazed by the roadside and when she heard the motorcycle, the music I had forgotten to turn down, she merely looked up from the ground, non-threatening, just curious. Obviously, she had become accustomed to cars, motorcycles, people, just another day. I kept the motorcycle in gear, ready to leap away, if she made any move towards me. Being a fully grown cow, she tipped the scales at 1,100 lbs., could hit nearly 40 MPH at a full charge. An even-toed ungulate, she could hit full charge faster than I could speed away, having the torque advantage from the start.

But she didn't charge and I felt comfortable enough to get within a few feet of her and then after a moment glided away, off again on the thirty mile loop of road, some rough, that meandered through Theodore Roosevelt National Park in Medora, North Dakota.

The wildlife was plentiful, bison, wild horses frollicking, groundhogs, snakes crossing the roads, various birds, mostly predatory, living their lives in the Badlands. The scenery reminded me of how a mite would see the human skin, a battery of magnificent undulations, angry blisters, warts, the crags of which would allow many hiding places, gullies to climb, layers of sloughing skin. It felt nearly extraterrestrial, the heat in the 90 F range, in the valleys, deciduous trees lined the sparse river, at elevation the conifers jutting almost by sheer force of will. The native Americans moved away from the Badlands during the summer for good reason, a beautiful, inhospitable land.

Nestled against the park is the town of Medora, mostly wood buildings dolled up to give an early Western cowboy feel. Not much goes on in Medora, tourism mostly, the locals preferring to live in the hills. It's shoulder season, still a week or two before Medora gets into full swing.

I eat at Little Missouri Dining Room & Saloon, a quiet place with a looping track of old Country songs. I order a burger and a Rusty Beaver wheat beer, mostly because it's called "rusty beaver", and it was hoppy with a bitter finish. I chose Glacier Ale next, not really happy with the wheat beer, and the ale was darker but not a stout, full-bodied and quite good. The waitress asked what sides I wanted with my burger.

"How's the potato salad?" I asked.

"It's fantastic, the best."

I asked her if she had seen Quentin Tarantino in  Once Upon a Time in Mexico. She hadn't and I encouraged her to watch it first before saying that anything was the best.

Across the street is another bar, Boots Bar & Grill, and after my meal at Little Mo's, I trundled into the place. Unlike Little Mo's, Boots was full tilt, plenty of locals and tourists, eating and imbibing. I sat at the bar, had another beer from the tap, something forgettable, watched the second period of the LA Kings versus the Blackhawks. The Kings had come back from a 3-0 disadvantage against the San Jose Sharks to win the playoff series and I figured they were the team to beat. When I left, tired from the day, the Kings had scored to move ahead in the game 4 to 3. The Blackhawks would come back to win 5 to 4 but by that time I had returned to the hotel to prepare for the next day's ride to Bozeman, Montana.

Carpenter's Dream

Eighty miles per hour is the optimum speed for the Victory Cross Country Tour; the RPMs hover right at 3,000; the gas mileage, no wind, bike fully loaded ranges between 42 and 45 MPG. Eighty miles per hour also happens to be five miles above the posted limit on I-94 West, leaving Fargo, ND, heading to Medora, ND, home of the North Dakota Badlands.

The 180 miles of pavement between Fargo and Bismarck, North Dakota's state capital, classifies as a carpenter's dream: flat-as-a-board and easy-to-nail. I'm not nailing it, no need, just tooling along at 80 MPH, not even bothering to slow down as I pass the troopers, just a nice, little wave. There are cars and pickups, though, that roar down the road, easily pushing triple digits, moving fast, clearly on important business.

If this portion of highway were set to music, it would be the last 42 seconds of the Beatles' Day in the Life, a single piano note, in this case held for 180 miles. It's the wet season here. The lakes are full, gullies turned to ponds. The smells as I roll along the long, flat, barely turning road are comprised of wet manure, diesel fumes, boredom. The red-wing blackbird flits from pond to pond, cheerfully tended to its business, whatever it may be.

I pass through Jamestown, ND, home of the world's largest buffalo. Do I want to go see it? I do... not, thank you, keep rolling, listening to XM's Classic Vinyl. It's during these long spells, that my mind gets bored and I feel pains, lower trapezius, knees, itches, insects. I know it's is just my mind at play, trying to get my attention. I focus on the pain. Is it real? What's the scale of one to ten, ten being something that needs attention. It's a three. I breathe, focus, it goes away. Then another and another. Silly mind.

Bismarck, a relative metropolis in North Dakota, has four exits, I believe. Annie told me during breakfast that Bismarck is the start of where North Dakota becomes beautiful. And, certainly, I can identify a distinction between I-94 east of Bismarck, and I-94 west of Bismarck; it's ten degrees cooler, the wind stronger, at least today, at my back, multiple elevation shifts, rolling grasslands. East of Bismarck contains virtually nothing of interest, just farmland, open. Pull over, let your dog off-leash, let him run in the fields - he can run forever, you'd be able to see him as far as he wants to run.

I can see Annie's point about I-94 west of Bismarck: it is pretty but it's pretty as an intellectual exercise, the way Beethoven's Pastoral Sonata, number 15 in D major, is pretty, lovely even. But it doesn't grab me as does the fifth or the ninth. I like my scenery the way I like my wines, bold up front, interesting middle, strong finish. I-94 west of Bismarck is an immature wine, long legs, but disengaging, the smell of clover, hay, mud.

And right smack in the middle of these pastoral hills glower cities brimming with Americana kitsch, New Salem with a gigantic cow overlooking the town, giant sculptures of pheasants, geese, on the Enchanted Highway, jarring and a bit disorienting, like dropping Little Richard in the middle of Beethoven.

It's not until I reach mile marker 32 that I begin to see the beauty of North Dakota, the emergence of the Badlands, painted blisters jutting from the earth, ravines filled with snakes and prairie dogs, fields of wild bison and horses.

The next ride will be through the Theodore Roosevelt National Park in Medora, North Dakota.

Sofa Surfing

Not a wood chipper to be found and the dialects weren't of the Yooper derivation.

And yet, Fargo, North Dakota's downtown area met, perhaps exceeded, my expectations - a very hometown feel, essentially two main cross streets, a signal light, shops that appear to come and go, with a staple of long-lived, established places, such as the Hotel Donaldson, or the Hodo for short, a hotel and restaurant, with sharp-witted servers and tasty burgers, mine being buffalo, a specialty.

Annie and Kevin were wonderful hosts, Annie being my buddy Hugo's friend, Kevin her boyfriend,and we walked the streets of downtown Fargo, discussing movies, Tom Cruise, Wolverine, Godzilla, and of course our common bond, Hugo Gonzales. There were many laughs, mostly at Hugo's expense, and I had my picture taken at the Hodo, next to the picture of the red snapper, a staple activity apparently within Hugo's entourage. The red snapper is an art piece of a naked woman holding a huge fish, ostensibly a snapper.

Annie had a test, statistics, in the morning and when we returned to her apartment, she wiled away the rest of the evening studying while Kevin and I bonded, watching the news - apparently there's a registered city, Vance, North Dakota, that has no residents, zero, and yet it's still a city here - and the History channel, part two of a World War II series. It was a low-key night and frankly a much needed return to normalcy, hanging out, relaxing, playing with Brutus and Eddie, the two pets, a dog and a chinchilla. A little Big Bang Theory and I curled up on the comfortable sofa, a pink quilt as a bed roll (that's okay - I'm comfortable with my masculinity) and slept well with the occasional interruption by the nocturnal Eddie who lived up to his namesake, Eddie Van, by partying most of the night.

Today will be a short trek over to Medora, North Dakota, yet another derivation from the original schedule. There's a loop through the Theodore Roosevelt National Park that is supposed to be a great motorcycle ride, roughly 30 miles in the badlands. It's not a technical ride, more gentle sweepers, with a decent road and I hope great views. The original plan had another eight hour day to Billings, Montana. At roughly 4.5 hours, this should be a nice, relatively short ride.

Sonny Barger

Deer carcasses exude an almost bovine smell, though muskier, almost a charred, burnt ash. I see the carcasses, usually, but not always. Sometimes the vehicles barreling across I-94 West hit them so hard they fly into the ditch. I smell them and I see the crows nearby. It's a bad day to be a deer near the highway here. Many have fallen, dozens, from the nearby Wisconsin woods. They are all fresh kills and this is a dangerous place for a motorcycle traveling at 75+ MPH, in the light, yet constant rain.

What if one of these kamikaze wood-rats decides to lunge in front of the speeding black bike? I need to be aware, both hands on the grips, hit the animal hard, try to run through it, like an NFL lineman chasing down a tailback. Head down, full bore. Hang on for the ride, hope that the bike stays upright and that I don't land on the road shoulder or ditch. If I'm not lucky, it would be a bad day for me as well. I wonder, briefly, what odor would be my decay? Adrenaline-infused, flop-sweat, the excrement from Noodles and Co.'s Wisconsin Mac and Cheese, the cheap smell of Travelodge soap-cake.

I'm heading towards Fargo, North Dakota, staying with the good friend of a great friend of mine, and I'm sofa surfing for the evening. When I think of Fargo, I think of the Coen brother's movie and I think of wood-chippers.

How deer carcasses and wood-chippers lead me to Sonny Barger, the famous - or infamous, depending on your point of view - founding member of the Oakland Hells Angels, I can't really say. But there it is: my mind wanders when I'm riding.

I've talked to Sonny three times, all inadvertently, twice at Arlen Ness's Victory/Indian dealership in Dublin, California, and once at the Corbin July 4th celebration in lieu of the original Hollister motorcycle rally. He's an old man now, has an entourage of Hells Angels protectors whenever he travels. He rides a Victory Cross Country, the same as mine. He said once that the fastest way to get killed on a motorcycle is to ride a black one. Mine's black. So is his.

He wouldn't remember me, of course, just another biker in the long list of bikers he's met over the years. The first time we talked he had just finished filming a season of Sons of Anarchy and he proceeded to tell me what happened in the coming season, not that I wanted to know. But I wasn't going to stop him. He went into details about a movie he made and was trying to get a distributor, Dead in 5 Heartbeats. The second time, he had ridden from Arizona where he now lives and decided to stop at Arlen's on the way to a rally somewhere. He had an iPod, one of the monster ones that holds entire catalogs of music; some musician, I can't remember who, had given him the entire collection of Hank Williams Sr.'s recordings mastered from the originals, the perks of being notorious, I guess.

July 2013, Sonny glad-handed at Corbin's, the motorcycle seat/parts dealer, to help with the signing of Phil Cross's book, and to meet with his admirers. I went up to him to shake his hand with my right and with my left hand, as I'm wont to do, I unconsciously grabbed his right tricep with my left hand. The reaction from his crew was swift and menacing. It could have been a bad day for me that day but I realized my mistake quickly and withdrew my left hand. Sonny didn't seem to even know that they were ready to do to me what the trailer-tractors do to the wayward deer along the highway. He just kept talking.

Later, Melissa had her picture taken with Sonny and he had one of his paws on her breast the whole time.

I didn't say a word.

Da Ohio Po Po

Death never enters my mind. Neither does severe injury.

My response is always anger, my go-to emotion.

As the crappy, white pickup truck began merging into the physical space that I and the motorcycle occupied, I honked the bike's horn - it's loud, an aftermarket horn that scares me everytime I inadvertently hit the button with my left thumb - and sped up to avoid the collision. He swerved back into the right lane, clearly unaware that he had nearly veered into me. No harm, no foul. Of course, when Bruce Banner turns into the Hulk... So, there I was, slowing down, yelling at the driver, flipping him off, generally acting the ass.

Hurricane, my wife, is always concerned when she finds that I've been riding... precipitously. But when I am riding fast, it isn't reckless; I know my limitations, the bike's limitations, and I'm not a half-bad rider. So when I'm traveling along at speeds that would land me in the pokey, I won't say that it's not dangerous, but compared to the travel from Cleveland to Madison today, it's downright Kindergarten.

Today was all heat and boredom, a plodding tour of all-too familiar farmhouses and trees along the I-90 West corridor between Cleveland and South Bend, Indiana. Cars, trucks, minivans, the drivers of which yawned tiredly, the passengers sleeping, the only interesting aspect being the Ohio state troopers actively pulling over speeders, fishing from an overstocked lake, making their quotas, funneling the state funds.

Our dirty little secret, we motorcycle riders, is that the police mostly leave us alone, unless we're just acting downright stupid. Most cops ride motorcycles or know other police who do and they know that the safest mode of travel for a motorcycle is to be slightly faster than the flow of traffic. You want to concern yourself mostly with what's in front of you or to the side, not behind. Also, it's devilishly hard to get a good read on a motorcycle with radar as radar picks up the largest object so experienced riders stay in a slower lane, still moving along at a generous speed of course, and pull into and out of the faster lanes as needed. Also, I use rabbits extensively; rabbits being other speeding cars, the ones doing greater than 15 MPH over the posted and give them a long lead time, about a quarter of a mile. I can still see them, note if they slow down suddenly but quite probably they'll get the ticket long before I would.

Today I rode with my GoPro attached to my helmet, looking for anything interesting, anything at all, to capture on the monotonous trip.

Two co-eds in a silver car, possibly an older Camry, Phish stickers plastered to the bumper, to the rear window, passed me, saw the GoPro. They slowed down, matched my speed, and the passenger flashed me.

Nice.

I waved.

They sped off. I didn't even get a picture.

Anyway, in retrospect, it was no wonder the truck pulled into my lane. The driver never looked, never even registered in his mind that someone else would be on the road to his left, until he heard the horn and was confronted by an angry motorcyclist cussing and screaming at him. He just mouthed, I'm sorry. I flipped him off one last time, just because.

But that's the reason a day like today is so dangerous. Ennui.

Madison, Wisconsin is my home-away tonight and I don't plan on doing much exciting this evening. This will be a touch-and-go. Madison is the state capitol and a university town. There's trouble somewhere here; I'm just not in the mood tonight to find it.

House Rules

Casinos and I don't get along.

I don't gamble.

But I do find casinos fascinating if only for the habitat, the wild gaming species that roam the halls, mostly bleary eyed from sitting too long, popping coins into brightly lit, flashing arcade machines, loud ringing noises chiming, binging, attempting to attract the ardour of new suitors. Then there is the species of gambler locked into a life-and-death struggle at a card table or craps, oxygen bottles strapped to little carts by their sides; they long to beat the house, tell grand tales of their successes. While they are clearly in their element, enjoying their time in this artificial daylight, I feel the desperation too. There's always the next game, the next push of the button. I keep hearing stories of how someone spent an inordinate amount of time pumping coins into a slot machine, only to leave in frustration, and watch in anguish as a new gambler sits at the same machine and on the very next turn wins big. If only they had stuck with it one more time, one more roll, held instead of folded. The story is always the same. It's the house rules and the house always win in the end.

Cleveland opened Horseshoe Casino in 2012 and by all accounts it has been a huge success, not only for the casino but the surrounding area, as well. It's brought in new life and unlike the tired old ones in Vegas, it is clean, doesn't smell of musty years of smoking, the perfumey scents pumped through the air ducts to cover the smoky stench. It is bright, clean and loud, a gambler's paradise.

I walked through the area, Cleveland Warehouse District, adjacent to the Flats, the Warehouse District being the happening area, the threat of the Flats nearby, just blocks away, pulling the young and hip towards the Cuyahoga River. That night, Memorial Day, the Warehouse District bustled, wedding parties, bridal showers, groups of young men and women moving from place to place. I holed up in the D'Vine Wine Bar, cherished a Zinfandel with so many spices at the finish, I thought it was hot - too much alcohol - but came to savor it. I moved to a Paso Robles' Cabernet, that I didn't really enjoy, too many tannins, very dry. It would've been a decent steak wine but I wasn't eating.

Cleveland has treated me well and I've learned to appreciate the city. I'm sorry to leave but Madison, Wisconsin and Fargo, North Dakota - and ultimately home and my lady - are calling. It's time to pack the motorcycle, shift into gear, hit the pavement again.

Memorial Ride

T.J. Dillashaw captured the UFC's bantamweight championship last night in a masterful display of mixed martial arts prowess against an opponent who was on a win streak of 33 fights, Renan Barao, an 825 spread favorite. I sat drinking Blue Moons, four of them in all, at Cleveland's City Tap bar, a bowling alley-type space, that was broadcasting UFC's fights for free.

I stayed at the Hyatt Regency downtown, situated across from the heavy nightlife of East 4th Street, a one-block area of dining and bars, overflowing with drunken 20 and 30 year olds, all pretty, dressed to impressed. It's wedding season, one reception was in full blast at the hotel when I went to find Cleveland's nightlife around 10 P.M., another had finished early and many young women and men in their finest livery prowled the light-hearted scene. I started my night as I usually do when I go to a town I don't really know and find the Irish Pub, in this case Flannery's, guaranteed to have many inebriated or in-process people. I sat at the bar, watching some softball game when I struck up a conversation with two gentlemen who complained that the bar wasn't showing the UFC prelims. Usually, I would've known that the fights were on and could recite the card. But this trip has shifted my sense of time; I know the day of the week and roughly the date but not much else. I hadn't even known that it was Memorial Day Weekend when I arrived in Cleveland.

Was Flannery's going to show the fights? No. One of the gentlemen mentioned City Tap, I finished the Old Speckled Hen and my salad, and ventured into the night, not really knowing where I was heading, just somewhere "over there..."

Eventually I found the bar and the fights had started. My main interest wasn't the headliner, we all knew the Dillashaw wasn't going to win, rather Daniel Cormier versus Dan Henderson.  There was also Jake Ellenberger versus "Ruthless" Robbie Lawler, a devastating southpaw striking machine. All great fights. But T.J. Dillashaw stole the show and the championship by technical knockout in the fifth round.

I sat next to a young Cleveland guy (let's face it, they're all young to me now) who asked if I trained MMA and said I didn't any longer, my knees no longer functioning well, and I showed him Duane Ludwig, one of T.J. Dillashaw's coaches, and pointed out that I had trained with Ludwig for several years. The guy asked what brought me to Cleveland and I gave my pat answer, "To talk to you, of course", which was funny. And true. He was a Clevelander, born and raised, thought he might want to move to New York City someday, but he liked Cleveland, figured he'd stay for awhile, at least.

I staggered home; it's hard to believe that four beers can get me drunk these days, because I'm out of practice, not having had much to drink in the past couple of weeks.

I awoke to the sound of motorcycles, 9 A.M. Fortunately, I had drunk a lot of water so I wasn't hungover. As I dressed, got ready for the day, I kept hearing motorcycles roaring down the street. I had a chore to complete, get my iPhone working, and I didn't want to become distracted in my goal. My will power gave out, however, as I kept hearing more bikes screaming through downtown.

Gabbing a quick coffee and scone from Starbucks in the lobby I raced to my bike, hopped on, and followed the next wave of riders, who were heading towards the FirstEnergy Stadium, home of the Cleveland Browns. They congregated there for the Tenth Annual Cleveland Firefighters Memorial Ride. They stopped us on the way towards the memorial sculpture, asked to see our bands to prove we had paid the requisite fee. There were over 1,000 motorcycles registered for the event. I, of course, didn't have a wristband and I explained that I had driven from California just to be at the event, which in a way was true. They let me pass and parked among the throng, lined up, ready to go. I walked among riders, talked to many, listened somberly as they made speeches regarding the lives lost, presented several scholarships funded by the group to students, reviewed the names of the fallen in the last calendar year, played taps, flags raised at half mast, finished with Amazing Grace, bagpipes, really the only appropriate use of bagpipes.

Directions given we mounted our bikes and in a steady stream, two rows at a time, we moved the greater than a thousand motorcycles onto the streets of Cleveland, a thunderous herd on a 43 mile run. I wouldn't run with them, of course; I still had much to do. And I pulled off after a few miles. It wasn't my ride, after all, and it felt wrong not to have paid my way into it. I had donated money and bought food and drink, all going to the charity. I felt privileged to have spent time remembering our fallen heroes with them.

Double Day

I purposely avoided scheduling double days, staying two days in one city; when I built the plan spreadsheet, I added optional days to the timeline in certain cities due mainly to the number of back-to-back travel days and/or whether I thought the city would be fun or interesting and I might want an extra day to explore. Bear in mind, any point along the way could be a double day due to unforeseen issues, such as a flat tire but mostly double days were there as a means to recuperate especially if my back were too sore or I became simply too road weary.

Cleveland has become a double day, not because I feel the need to explore another day or that I'm fatigued. No, sadly I've ruined yet another electronic device in this quest. When I went to get on my bike last night, my Samsung S3, a company phone, slipped from my coat pocket. I still had my full-face shield on my modular helmet and didn't hear it hit the concrete. I could've salvaged it if I'd heard it drop. I'm sure it wasn't broken as it had taken worse falls over the past couple of years. As I rolled the motorcycle out of the parking space, easily over 1,000 lbs. with my bodyweight added to the other things I deem necessary to have, I heard the sickening shattering of Gorilla Glass and plastic under the front wheel's weight. I hopped off the bike, picked up the phone and my first thought was, "It's dead Jim." Surprisingly, the phone's computer still worked, still wanted to give me directions, but sadly the display was black as obsidian, a black hole of non-luminescence.

There are those fleeting moments when I wonder how I can make things harder on myself but as a rule I take the prudent path and look to make my life simpler, easier. Clearly that wasn't what I had in mind. Not only was the phone my primary means of familial communication, it also served as my GPS, not really a luxury these days, more a necessity. I pair my phone to my helmet via Bluetooth and get turn-by-turn directions, which generally works well, although lately my phone had had trouble keeping the GPS signal, very annoying.

Fortunately, I have a spare phone, an Apple iPhone 4S (I believe - it might just be an iPhone 4), that I use as a music player. With XM radio, I haven't used the phone on this trip but I'm glad I have it now. It is the holiday weekend and I'm hoping I can find a Best Buy to initialize month-to-month service, enough to get me home.

That gives me a double day in Cleveland, not really planned, but necessary.

Cleveland Rock

The teacher from Pink Floyd's The Wall, nearly 20' tall straddled one side of the brick facade, his enormous buttocks on one side, his immense head on the other, fourth floor, Cleveland's Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Above us was a video tribute to live concerts, Janis Joplin, U2, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, below us three other floors of dense, incredibly interesting rock and roll paraphernalia, from Johnny Cash, Elvis, Elmore James, Professor Longhair, Woody Guthrie, to Blondie, even Grandmaster Funk and the Furious Five, Nirvana, Stone Temple Pilots, the touring bus, a rusted panel van, from Rage Against the Machine, all housed within the narrowing structure created by world-renowned architect, I.M. Pei. This was Cleveland, no longer just a joke about its professional teams, but a thriving area, one of the fastest-growing, newly gentrified areas in the country, including a new theatre district unlike anything to be seen in the central U.S. I was privy to this from Glenn Knific, my city host, who showed me around from east side with the burgeoning river constructs of the Flats to west side, with its culinary market, and we shared in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and later a couple of pints and a downright tasty burger at the local brewery, seventy degrees of sun shine and fresh air, and welcome respite from the previous two days of rain.

Cleveland, who knew?

Those who know us know that music is central to who Melissa and I are, our house filled with paintings of music from the San Jose Jazzfest, three guitars, black-and-white, oils on canvas on our main living room wall, my electric guitar and stand in the corner of my office. This was the reason I decided to spend a couple of days in Cleveland and as I walked towards the front doors and the music of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers flowed across the front courtyard, I had goosebumps, very cool indeed.

Tomorrow, maybe the day after, I'm not sure yet as it is the holiday weekend, I'll trundle over to Madison, Wisconsin but today, today was a wonderful day to be on the shores of Lake Erie, enjoying the sights, tastes and smells of Cleveland.

Full Frog

I went full frog today.

Normally, when there's a possibility of rain, I'll hold out, wait to see if I can make it through the storm, tough it out, and enjoy the ride with an open faced helmet and without the Frog Toggs, generally accepted as some of the best wet weather riding gear by motorcycle aficionados. But when I left Troy, New York this morning, home of the original Uncle Sam, statue above, there was no doubt that I'd have to go full frog, closed helmet, full wet gear.

This was disconcerting as my motorcycle generally elicits comments of "Hey is that the bat cycle?" The black Victory Cross Country, almost 1800 CCs of raw V-Twin muscle, exudes the vibe of "Hey, I'm Batman."

My Frog Togg gear, especially with the lime-green protective vest for high visibility, exudes more of a "Hi ho! Kermit the frog here..." vibe. Uncool. But it is what it is, as they say, and to follow another cliche, you don't need to be a weatherman to know which way the wind blows. It was going to rain and it would be cold.

It was time to hunker down, pay the price for all the relatively nice weather I'd had up to that point, minus the generally horrid day before. Today would be different, nasty, even worse than the day before, wet and worst of all, cold. The Frog Toggs would add yet another layer, and as it turned out, they helped but not too much. If I had had my actual cold riding gear, the heated top plugged into the bike's 12 volt charge, I would've been much more agreeable to the weather, comfortable even. But as I rode through Buffalo, New York, with signs everywhere to go see Niagara Falls, instead of making the turn to see the majestic views, taking the detour, I huddled into the Toggs and counted the number of miles it would take to get to the Knific's, my next stay.

Glenn and Mary Ellen Knific were my hosts for the evening and we had a great time in their beautiful house in Chagrin Falls, Ohio. They fed me well, steak - medium rare, thank you - and we imbibed in libations, a BV, Rutherford, and then a wonderful Napa Cabernet for me. The perfect way to warm the blood after a cold, brutal ride from New York through Pennsylvania and finally into Ohio.

I'm lying low in Cleveland for a couple of days looking to take in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame tomorrow. The weather should be grand and I'm hoping to recuperate in time for my next push into Wisconsin.

from away, Third Corner

In the vernacular of Eastport, Maine, I'm from away, as opposed to from here. Everyone I interacted with from Eastport was quite friendly but I would not be mistaken as someone from here, and even if I were to move my whole family and live there a few years, I'm pretty sure I'd still be considered from away. To be from here would be a big investment of time, which I did not have, the third corner being an hour away in Lubec, Maine, and after a nice chat and breakfast with my gracious hosts, Pierre and Kendall, I pointed Google Maps to Sail Rock, Lubec, Maine and shifted into gear to finish the third corner.

Lubec, Maine would not be considered a beautiful place, not in the same sense as Eastport, which is postcard pretty. Lubec is spread out, the homes far apart, and while everything is well manicured and still lovely, it just didn't have the "Wow!" factor that I experienced upon reaching the island that is Eastport. If I could have taken a ferry from Eastport to Lubec, it would have been a fifteen minute trip, as opposed to the hour, as I had to circumvent the four bays between the two cities. When I arrived at Lubec, a sign had been posted proclaiming that Lubec is indeed the furthest east United States' town and to get to Sail Rock I had to go south aways to get to Quoddy Head State Park. Unlike Eastport, there was a real briny smell to the ocean and in the distance, perhaps a couple hundred yards, is a large buoy that designates the separation of the US and Canada. I traveled down a rough road to get to the Quoddy Head State Park and when I crested the last hill, that's when I had my "Wow!" moment of Lubec.

The view of the ocean behind the lighthouse was amazing.

I spent a considerable amount of time walking about, taking pictures, recording a narrative on the GoPro. The bike had 6,159 miles on the trip odometer and while I knew there was still a long way to go, I felt fortunate to experience it.

As I've talked to people about this trip, other than the initial disbelief that inevitably shows on their faces at first, they'll usually ask why I'm doing it and whether the trip is a bucket list item. The sad truth is that the farther I travel, the further it feels that I have to go, which is to say that I don't have a good answer. I could be glib and simply say that I had the time and the wherewithal to do it but that would be disingenuous and frankly insulting, especially after I heard from one woman who told me how she's raising her two children without a spouse while also caring for her father who is suffering from Alzheimers. She sat at the bar next to me at Leslie's Retreat the last night I was in Salem. I had stopped for food based on a Yelp review and I enjoyed sitting at the bar so I could hear the locals talking.

I asked her if the wine was any good and, no, it was house wine, not very good, so I had had a beer, Yuengling, a popular beer on the east coast apparently, steak tips and scallops. We started talking and I told her about the four corners, she asked if my wife was okay with the trip, and I said she worries but that she had traveled the first two corners with me before returning home for work. Then she told me how she would love to be able to do what I'm doing and explained her situation. She had one night a week to herself to go to Leslie's when she returned from the doctor and while we were talking her daughter, eight-years-old, called her, and she told her daughter she was leaving right away, she'd be home in a couple of minutes. She paid her tab, wished me well and she was gone.

And right then I knew the answer as to why I'm doing this crazy trip - because I'm lucky and I can and not many people I've met have the time or ability to do it. You will never be any younger than you are right now and if I didn't do this thing now I never would.

Today was a long ride, from Eastport, to Sail Rock, Lubec back down the eastern coast of Maine into Massachusetts back into New Hampshire, Vermont and finally to Troy, New York. Massachusetts and New Hampshire were sad to see me go, at least the constant rain and coastal fog felt like big, soggy tears, and Vermont welcomed me with a blanket of low-lying clouds and more rain. Only New York was happy to see me and greeted me with sunshine.

First Witch

She gestured, her left index and middle finger pointed to her eyes, then pointed to me.

My bike and I rested, stopped, on the Bridge Street overpass, waiting at the yield sign for the flow of traffic that merged onto First Street (not Essex!) on my way out of Salem to continue the journey northward.

Clearly I had somehow upset her, perhaps encroached too far into the oncoming lane(?) although the bike's front wheel stoically waited behind the white line. No matter, I thought, and pulled in behind her, her broom, in this instance a white Ford Focus. I looked at her driver's side mirror and she still looked at me, started saying something, an incantation. Here it was then, my first run-in with a real Salem witch. She talked to me, gestured with her right hand, rolled down her window, rolled it up, murmured more, gestured more, the driver's side window intermittently moved up then down.

As we rolled along, my eyes started to tear, burning tears, and I coughed, roughly. I looked down at my motorcycles' gas tank, covered green with Dutch Elm pollen. Through telekinesis and incantations the vile witch had manifested the pollen to magically appear on my bike, to attack me through my allergies. How she knew I had forgotten to take Claritin, I did not know, but she was obviously a witch of some mastery as she was clairvoyant, a mind reader.

What to do? I thought. I should probably pull her from her car at the next stoplight, haul her to the nearest large body of water of which there are many in Salem and throw her in; if she floated or tried to swim, she was a witch - if she sank, an innocent. If she were a witch, she'd need to be hung or banished. Would the authorities back me?

I decided to pass her; better to flee and take Claritin than stay and fight the sorceress.

Vampires! The tiny, pernicious blood suckers were trying desperately to get me through the three clothes layers, my gloves, and the full-faced motorcycle helmet. I had stopped at a gas station to shutdown my cell phone, Google Maps and Life360 having drained the GPS life out of it, and the mosquitos bumped and buzzed off my visor, angry, thirsty, desperate.

I was near the third corner, within the Passamaquoddy Indian Township, a beautiful area surrounded by rivers, lakes and, of course, the ocean. I had chosen the more direct, albeit the slower, route from Salem to Eastport, Maine, diverting through U.S. Route 1, the coastal highway that abuts the Atlantic Ocean in Maine. The drive proved to be mostly dark, a bit stormy, and incredibly scenic once I passed Rockland, the port of which being where I took the picture of my bike below.

The early travel on Route 1 had proven to be somewhat arduous with many stoplights and signs encouraging me to ditch the coastal highway and take I-95 North, instead. Coastal highways always payoff if you put enough time into them, some wonderful scenery that would've been lost if you'd taken the faster route, and there were plenty of amazing views, some of which I captured on the GoPro, although transferring the media has proven challenging on the new Samsung Chromebook.

I digress.

The conifers have overtaken the deciduous here and I'm not sure why but the deciduous trees seem smaller, shorter, somewhat anemic compared to the ones south.

Eastport, Maine and Lubec, Maine have an on-going feud as to which is actually furthest east in the U.S., with the peacemakers saying that Eastport, once a quite busy sardine producer, is the furthest east city, while Lubec is the furthest east village. In the morning, I'll take more pictures of Eastport before traveling half-an-hour south to Lubec to confirm I did indeed make the third corner.

I'm staying with another AirBnB house owned by a wonderful couple Pierre and Kendall and their four dogs that allowed me a huge puppy fix that I've been craving. I finished coffee with them before going to the room to write the blog and, as always, the best part of AirBnB has been talking with my hosts.

It's all good now that inertia is back on my side, no more mud.

I've realized that I am now at the furthest point in this journey away from my friends, my family and my lovely wife, all of whom I miss dearly. Tomorrow I turn the third corner and begin heading homeward. Here's hoping I have a strong wind to my back.

Dread

Inertia isn't a great motivator but as a force it's a good way to move forward.

I needed to rest, take a day from the long-distance riding that had propelled me so far. The challenge of stopping is that resting invites the rain, turns you to mud, a thick, resistant dreck and it takes a lot of energy to move forward.



I'm tired. Still.

Last night I called our youngest daughter. It was 8 P.M. and I had a difficult time staying awake to talk. She noted that I'm in it now, there was no turning back. I like her attitude but it's easy to say when you aren't living it, aren't in the fight. Keep going.

But there's always turning back. There's always a myriad of options: I could fly home, have the bike shipped; I could just leave the bike, New Mexico-style, park it on the side of the road, get a ticket, take a bus home; I could stay in Salem for a few days, sell the bike, hitchhike, call friends, make different arrangements...

Part of me wanted to teach her, a part of me that wasn't somehow exhausted - there are always possibilities, there are always options. You might not like the options but they are always there. For our conversation, however, I simply agreed with her. I barely had the energy to brush my teeth. I fell asleep by 8:30, up at 6 A.M., and still I'm mud, even after the strong, crappy hotel coffee, still resistant to moving forward.

I miss my friends, my family, my dog and most especially my best friend, my wife.

Here's to inertia. Onwards then to corner three, Sail Rock, Lubec, Maine.

Salem Massachusetts

And I'm in Salem, actually a quite lovely town, and it was a beautiful day.

Eating always takes priority for me and I filled the rear tire with air via my portable compressor, the noise of which I'm sure my neighbors at the Clipper Ship Inn found pleasurable at 7 A.M., and tooled down to old town Salem.  I was surprised at how much activity 7 A.M. brings to what I thought would be a sleepy little town. People and traffic scurried hither and yon and the street parking meters, which were everywhere (no designated motorcycle parking I could find), were generally full.

Salem feels bigger than small, though still charming, the old houses well cared for and the people I've met have been chatty, very nice, not witchy, at all. Other than the tacky business names, there were many "witch"-related names such as the Ice Screamery and Witch City Cycles, Salem's vibe entailed what I'd consider normal for an active coastal city with a strong tourism bent. Of course, the town is old New England, which means the streets are small, the cities laid out akin to onions, tiny rings in the center that expand and run into other blooming onions that were growing towns that eventually run into each other and create the occasional five-way intersections with similar or the same street names that don't quite run together properly.

I took the Cross Country to Cycles 128, a family-owned motorcycle dealership that's in Beverly, Massachusetts, about 4 miles away. The service people were exceptional. The nearest Victory dealership belonged in New Hampshire, about 40 miles away, and as I run a specific set of tires for the bike, Bridgestone Exedra G series, the aftermarket touring tire that most Honda Goldwing riders prefer (the bikes share the same tire sizes), I knew taking my bike to the Victory place would entail a two tire replacement, front and back, most likely, as the Exedras are radials and it might be tough to match. So, I took a chance and headed over to Cycles 128, a Honda (as well as Triumph, Kawasaki, etc., but not Victory) dealership in the off chance that they might - just might - have the Exedra G704.

I should've played the lottery today as the dealership did have one, only one, of the tires I needed in stock, a special order that someone hadn't picked up, and though running a full bay in the garage, the one tech guy who knew the Victory platforms had availability and could change it. Two hours and $350 later (thank goodness it's only money) and I trundled down the Essex bridge to an amazing view of the harbor that opened onto the Atlantic, an infinite range of adventure ahead.

Later that day, my phone had died, out of battery. I had been on a call, texting with my family, texting with the next AirBnB hosts, and using GPS extensively. Where was I? I looked around. Beverly, Massachusetts. I knew I was close. I pulled the bike next to an older man sitting on a bench, turned down the music.

"Are you from around here?" I asked.

"Yah," he said.

"Great. My cell phone... ah... it died and I'm trying to get to Bridge St."

"Okay."

I wait a moment. No response. "Can you tell me how to get there?"

"Sure," he said. "You want to avoid the pahk." I assumed he meant "park".

"Okay," I nod.

"So, here's what you do. You go down this street. It's Essex."

"Right," I said.

"You go aways and you come to a sign that says Essex and it will take you to Gloucester. Don't take that one."

"Don't take Essex?"

"Not that one, but this one."

"Uh huh."

"Right before you see the sign, there's a street. It's called Drimbal Ave. Take that one to the right but it's short. And then you take Essex but to the right not the left."

"Okay. To the right, not the left. Got it."

"Then you'll run into Bridge St. It will be right in front of you. That's the Essex Street you want."

Most of the morning had been spent getting the bike fixed and I spent the early afternoon being the consummate Salem tourist heading over to the allegedly haunted colonial mansion House of the Seven Gables made popular by Nathaniel Hawthorne's famous 1668 novel and several movies.

After that I drove to Salem's Witch Museum, gandered about but didn't take the tour, instead walking among the magic shops or shoppes, respectively, filled with brooms, wands, witches' hats, dragons, crystal balls, Harry Potter paraphernalia, books on potions, love spells, bad spells, good spells, wicah, druids, all sorts of magical treasure, none of which I purchased, of course.

I stopped for lunch at a Mexican comida for tacos, surprisingly good and certainly not what I expected in witch-central Salem.

And then I found Carl (or Karl?), the proprietor of New England Magic, a younger guy but certainly a knowledgeable reference about all things magical but most especially the Salem witches and their 1662 story, the fourteen that had been hanged, none burned as most imagine, that most witches were charged with civil not criminal offenses which meant banishment, not outright hanging, but banishment pretty much meant death as one lost all property and found oneself alone in the woods with no means. I had imagined, and secretly hoped, that the witches had actually been early suffragettes, looking to free themselves from the harsh Puritanical ogres bent on moral legislation. These women would be heroines, martyrs even, for a greater purpose.

After talking to Carl for about half-an-hour I conceded that the hangings were less about social mores run amok and more about property rights. A woman in the 1600s couldn't own property but she could inherit it when her husband died. Women outlived men almost 20 years at the time and that made it possible for a woman to have two husbands who died and she would have a lot of property. Apparently, if someone, say a land-owning woman, were convicted of being a witch and was either hanged or banished, the two adjacent property owners, not the woman's family, would inherit and split the land so as is often the case, especially in the land of plenty, follow the money.

Ah well.