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.