It's trite to compare the experience of driving a car versus a motorcycle to that of watching a television to actually experiencing life. When Robert Pirsig wrote Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, it was apropos. Pirsig experienced an unfaired journey, on a bike needing carburetor tuning, repair, kickstarting, etc. There was a simplicity to his bike that seemed more... what? Honest, maybe? True to the experience of life on the road. It still holds true that our highways embody a metaphor for the passage of life, the literal transportation of life, goods, food.
When I look at our motorcycle, it isn't simple. We have electronic fuel injection, cruise control, ABS brakes, heated grips, heated seats, plugs for heated gear, an AM/FM radio, weather radio, GPS, XM, Bluetooth. Melissa and I converse with each other through our helmets wirelessly, again through Bluetooth. There is no drama with the motorcycle; it just starts, it just runs.
What is true, however, is that riding a motorcycle is still dangerous and when you ride, you live in the moment, constantly aware of the situation around you, front, side and back. There is no downtime. Also, as we ride, unlike cars, we experience heat, cold, wind shifts, road and tire noise, we smell the spicy citrus of the orange groves down 95 South, the burning brake fluid and drums/disks (?) from OTR trucks, the smell of gasoline from a rolled-over motorhome that took a corner too fast and caught the Florida ocean wind just so. If you feel closely enough, you sense the anger from the people inconvenienced in the other lane.
This is something car drivers don't experience. Technology has done its part and has become mostly invisible in cars to the degree that drivers no longer engage at all. This hit home to me today as we rode from Jacksonville to Ft. Lauderdale and I saw a whole lot of people driving while texting. It is egregious and I've mostly become inured to the behavior, dangerous though it might be. Texting is not a good technology; it isn't invisible. It is engaging unlike listening to music or driving. However, today I saw a woman texting in her Jeep, traveling 90 MPH. She was using both of her hands to text while using her knees to steer her death machine.
Robots are already better drivers than you or I. It's time to let them take over the driving of cars, commercial vehicles. The world would be a safer, better place. Just leave the motorcycles alone. We don't need no stinking robots.
We arrived at Ft. Lauderdale safely today around 4:45. Melissa and I are at the W Hotel's amazing bar, looking at the Atlantic ocean, drinking a couple of cabernets before heading to our room.
Monday, May 12, 2014
Last official 50 CC act and on to the W in Ft. Lauderdale
Jacksonsville, Florida, on a non-football Sunday, Mother's Day, doesn't rock nor should it. We certainly didn't expect it to, of course.
We spent the better part of the early afternoon taking a nap and, no, not the kind of nap we used to tell our kids we were taking ("So leave us alone!"), rather an honest-to-goodness, hour-and-half snore and drool-fest. It was heaven on a big, comfy king mattress at the Holiday Inn Express.
After we awoke and prepped, we called on Uber to shuttle us to and fro, from beach and back, to a couple of bars, the most notable of which would be Sketchers if only to while away the warm and lazy afternoon, while watching the beach goers and motorcycles - and there were plenty of bikes cruising around, the riders without helmets, always a surprising site for us - and to eat and imbibe, all the bars' television screens tuned to the the PGA drama between local player Furyk and the German, Kaymer. We chitter-chatted with many of the locals, all very pleasant.
We were back in bed by 9:30 PM and slept until 8:30 AM.
Yes, we've accepted that we have officially become old.
So, for today, we're heading back to the beach for our last 50CC act, the gathering of sand and ocean water in a small container, a ceremonial gesture and a remembrance of our trip.
I negotiated a great deal for two nights at the W Hotel in Ft. Lauderdale, our next stop, about five hours south. We decided to blow the budget on a luxury hotel in honor of our anniversary, which we'll miss together this year as I'll be on the road and Melissa will have flown home to San Jose, back to realty and work.
After 16-hour travel days, I'm hoping the five hours to Ft. Lauderdale is a nice, easy ride
We spent the better part of the early afternoon taking a nap and, no, not the kind of nap we used to tell our kids we were taking ("So leave us alone!"), rather an honest-to-goodness, hour-and-half snore and drool-fest. It was heaven on a big, comfy king mattress at the Holiday Inn Express.
After we awoke and prepped, we called on Uber to shuttle us to and fro, from beach and back, to a couple of bars, the most notable of which would be Sketchers if only to while away the warm and lazy afternoon, while watching the beach goers and motorcycles - and there were plenty of bikes cruising around, the riders without helmets, always a surprising site for us - and to eat and imbibe, all the bars' television screens tuned to the the PGA drama between local player Furyk and the German, Kaymer. We chitter-chatted with many of the locals, all very pleasant.
We were back in bed by 9:30 PM and slept until 8:30 AM.
Yes, we've accepted that we have officially become old.
So, for today, we're heading back to the beach for our last 50CC act, the gathering of sand and ocean water in a small container, a ceremonial gesture and a remembrance of our trip.
I negotiated a great deal for two nights at the W Hotel in Ft. Lauderdale, our next stop, about five hours south. We decided to blow the budget on a luxury hotel in honor of our anniversary, which we'll miss together this year as I'll be on the road and Melissa will have flown home to San Jose, back to realty and work.
After 16-hour travel days, I'm hoping the five hours to Ft. Lauderdale is a nice, easy ride
Sunday, May 11, 2014
Last leg of the 50CC complete and Melissa flashes hot cop
There you go then.
The 50CC is in, officially. Well, not officially, I guess, as the Iron Butt Association (queue the chorus) needs to sanctify the ride but either way, we made it coast-to-coast, San Jose, Caleeeeforn-I-A to Jacksonville, Flo Rida in just under 48 hours and 30 minutes.
Yes, we're proud of ourselves. And we're tired.
One of the criteria for the successful completion of the 50CC ride is a witness, or three depending, to verify that you are who you are, that the motorcycle is indeed the motorcycle in question, that the odometer shows the reading you'll provide to the Iron Butt Association. If you can get a law enforcement officer to witness for you ("Can I get a hallelujah?"), the 50CC needs just that person's information and badge number. If you can't, you need three, which is what we did when we started this motorcycle lark in Ocean Beach.
We decided to enlist the help of one of Jacksonville's finest.
First, Jacksonville, Florida is hot, like sweltering, even in the morning. My lady, Ms. Hurricane, is in black, spaghetti-strap tank top, appropriately emblazoned white with a dia de los muertos skull and roses. She calls the police station, we're parked in front of the station, incidentally, and a tall, full-head-of-dark-haired hunk of gorgeousness in blue uniform, pulls up in his car, steps out.
Melissa unzips her coat, revealing the girls.
I can't blame her. It's been a long trip.
Officer Williams shakes my hand.
I cup his left buttock with my right hand and squeeze.
I didn't.
Really.
But I thought about it.
Melissa captures a pic of Officer Williams and me and tags it for Facebook as hot cop and husband.
.JPG)
Some quick thoughts on Jacksonville (other than the stifling humidity and heat):
Everyone is nice here. What the hell? We're from California. What's with these southern niceties? We ate breakfast outside at a diner and younger boy, maybe ten, asked if he could use one of our unused table's chairs. Of course. He pulls it to the table next to us and his grandma tells him, "You need to say thank you." Unbelievable. What are they teaching these children? Now, go cook me some grits, old lady, and happy Mother's Day.
What else?
Oh, Jacksonville is hosting a big crossfit competition and there's a parade of built young men and women strutting around in short shorts and tight shirts, a veritable bicep-, boob- and booty-fest. Now, why you'd want to have a competition in this heat... I don't know. Maybe they can feed the dehydrated corpses, aka, losers, to some of the critters at the zoo.
The 50CC is in, officially. Well, not officially, I guess, as the Iron Butt Association (queue the chorus) needs to sanctify the ride but either way, we made it coast-to-coast, San Jose, Caleeeeforn-I-A to Jacksonville, Flo Rida in just under 48 hours and 30 minutes.
Yes, we're proud of ourselves. And we're tired.
One of the criteria for the successful completion of the 50CC ride is a witness, or three depending, to verify that you are who you are, that the motorcycle is indeed the motorcycle in question, that the odometer shows the reading you'll provide to the Iron Butt Association. If you can get a law enforcement officer to witness for you ("Can I get a hallelujah?"), the 50CC needs just that person's information and badge number. If you can't, you need three, which is what we did when we started this motorcycle lark in Ocean Beach.
We decided to enlist the help of one of Jacksonville's finest.
First, Jacksonville, Florida is hot, like sweltering, even in the morning. My lady, Ms. Hurricane, is in black, spaghetti-strap tank top, appropriately emblazoned white with a dia de los muertos skull and roses. She calls the police station, we're parked in front of the station, incidentally, and a tall, full-head-of-dark-haired hunk of gorgeousness in blue uniform, pulls up in his car, steps out.
Melissa unzips her coat, revealing the girls.
I can't blame her. It's been a long trip.
Officer Williams shakes my hand.
I cup his left buttock with my right hand and squeeze.
I didn't.
Really.
But I thought about it.
Melissa captures a pic of Officer Williams and me and tags it for Facebook as hot cop and husband.
Some quick thoughts on Jacksonville (other than the stifling humidity and heat):
Everyone is nice here. What the hell? We're from California. What's with these southern niceties? We ate breakfast outside at a diner and younger boy, maybe ten, asked if he could use one of our unused table's chairs. Of course. He pulls it to the table next to us and his grandma tells him, "You need to say thank you." Unbelievable. What are they teaching these children? Now, go cook me some grits, old lady, and happy Mother's Day.
What else?
Oh, Jacksonville is hosting a big crossfit competition and there's a parade of built young men and women strutting around in short shorts and tight shirts, a veritable bicep-, boob- and booty-fest. Now, why you'd want to have a competition in this heat... I don't know. Maybe they can feed the dehydrated corpses, aka, losers, to some of the critters at the zoo.
Saturday, May 10, 2014
Day Two of the 50CC completed
Whew, 5:00 AM was tough.
But, we soldiered through it, on the road by 5:20 AM, through Texas via San Antonio, into Louisiana, went through Baton Rouge, cool place, sorry we missed our friends there but we were thinking of you, into Biloxi, Missouri, Mobile, Alabama (surprisingly interesting architecture), through Pensacola and into Tallahassee for the night.
We're exhausted! By the time 5 PM hit we were wondering how we were going to complete the rest... but we did, through the heat, humidity and light showers.
Back at it in the morning to finish this thing. Let's do this!
But, we soldiered through it, on the road by 5:20 AM, through Texas via San Antonio, into Louisiana, went through Baton Rouge, cool place, sorry we missed our friends there but we were thinking of you, into Biloxi, Missouri, Mobile, Alabama (surprisingly interesting architecture), through Pensacola and into Tallahassee for the night.
We're exhausted! By the time 5 PM hit we were wondering how we were going to complete the rest... but we did, through the heat, humidity and light showers.
Back at it in the morning to finish this thing. Let's do this!
Friday, May 9, 2014
First leg of the 50CC is Kaput
We made it to Ozona, Tejas just now, an hour-and-a-half ahead of schedule, from the Ocean Beach Hotel, where John and Dana saw us off at 5 AM, through San Diego, Tecate Pass, El Centro, into Arizona, New Mexico and Texas.
I've said many not-so-nice things about Texas in the past but I can't fault I-10 and Texas's willingness to post an 80 MPH speed limit.
So, mañana, we'll be taking off at 5 AM-ish for the second long day of the 50CC. I'd like to post more tonight but, frankly, I'm wiped and it's time for bed.
Good night, y'all!!!
I've said many not-so-nice things about Texas in the past but I can't fault I-10 and Texas's willingness to post an 80 MPH speed limit.
So, mañana, we'll be taking off at 5 AM-ish for the second long day of the 50CC. I'd like to post more tonight but, frankly, I'm wiped and it's time for bed.
Good night, y'all!!!
Thursday, May 8, 2014
First Corner - SW (Tijuana River Valley Park) and an Immigration Bust
...and the first corner is done, not without a bit of drama.
This was the shortest leg of the trip and, at a couple of hours, the easiest, flying down the I-5 speedway (non-rush hour), where 80 MPH is reserved for the slow lane and trucks. We took 805 south to San Ysidore Blvd., the last exit before the US/Mexico border and exited to Monument Road, a narrow winding slab of rough pavement bordered by horse properties and brilliant purple Jacarandas. The hills to the south abut to Mexico, dry, parched weeds and tan sand.
We traveled as far as we could go on the road and ended at the Border Field State Park where only horses, bicycles and hikers were allowed. We were at the furthest point we could travel by motorcycle at the southwest corner of the contiguous US. In the dirt parking lot, a lone school bus rested, a lone hippie listening to National Public Radio. I suggested to Melissa that we should walk the two miles to the beach but she was nervous about leaving the motorcycle unattended. After all, it really is about the bike, the travel and it seemed rather disingenuous to leave our trusty ride alone while we wiled away our time walking about the park. We had arrived at the first corner, May 8th, 2014, 11:50 AM. A quick (and not very good - still learning how to use the GoPro Melissa's boss, Erin, bought her) video is available here.
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In the distance, I pointed out to Melissa two men crowning one of the desolate hills, loping down the northern side. Very quickly after, three white and green border patrol vehicles rolled down a trail after the men, lights flashing. As we returned on the road we saw two fugitives, handcuffed to each other, the older man smiling, the younger one clearly disappointed.
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We meandered to Ocean Beach, the origin of our 50 CC attempt, and meandered through the beach town, typical of all beach towns, with wonderfully odd characters, chintzy t-shirt and souvenir shops, little dive bars and restaurants, youngsters on their skateboards, the crack addict on her stretched bicycle, her dirty wife beater barely masking her emaciated breasts, mumbling incoherently, weaving down the road and into on-coming traffic, dogs tethered to bicycle racks on the street, howling for their owners' return. We're in the Ocean Beach Hotel, top floor, ocean view and I'm watching the surfers in their wet suits paddling in the ocean, looking to grab the next decent wave, of which there are plenty.
.JPG)
John and his girlfriend, Dana, are meeting us tonight at the hotel. They'll be two of the three witnesses who will see us off at 5 AM tomorrow as we begin our 50CC adventure. So it's an early night tonight and tomorrow brings our first 16 hour ride.
This was the shortest leg of the trip and, at a couple of hours, the easiest, flying down the I-5 speedway (non-rush hour), where 80 MPH is reserved for the slow lane and trucks. We took 805 south to San Ysidore Blvd., the last exit before the US/Mexico border and exited to Monument Road, a narrow winding slab of rough pavement bordered by horse properties and brilliant purple Jacarandas. The hills to the south abut to Mexico, dry, parched weeds and tan sand.
We traveled as far as we could go on the road and ended at the Border Field State Park where only horses, bicycles and hikers were allowed. We were at the furthest point we could travel by motorcycle at the southwest corner of the contiguous US. In the dirt parking lot, a lone school bus rested, a lone hippie listening to National Public Radio. I suggested to Melissa that we should walk the two miles to the beach but she was nervous about leaving the motorcycle unattended. After all, it really is about the bike, the travel and it seemed rather disingenuous to leave our trusty ride alone while we wiled away our time walking about the park. We had arrived at the first corner, May 8th, 2014, 11:50 AM. A quick (and not very good - still learning how to use the GoPro Melissa's boss, Erin, bought her) video is available here.
In the distance, I pointed out to Melissa two men crowning one of the desolate hills, loping down the northern side. Very quickly after, three white and green border patrol vehicles rolled down a trail after the men, lights flashing. As we returned on the road we saw two fugitives, handcuffed to each other, the older man smiling, the younger one clearly disappointed.
We meandered to Ocean Beach, the origin of our 50 CC attempt, and meandered through the beach town, typical of all beach towns, with wonderfully odd characters, chintzy t-shirt and souvenir shops, little dive bars and restaurants, youngsters on their skateboards, the crack addict on her stretched bicycle, her dirty wife beater barely masking her emaciated breasts, mumbling incoherently, weaving down the road and into on-coming traffic, dogs tethered to bicycle racks on the street, howling for their owners' return. We're in the Ocean Beach Hotel, top floor, ocean view and I'm watching the surfers in their wet suits paddling in the ocean, looking to grab the next decent wave, of which there are plenty.
John and his girlfriend, Dana, are meeting us tonight at the hotel. They'll be two of the three witnesses who will see us off at 5 AM tomorrow as we begin our 50CC adventure. So it's an early night tonight and tomorrow brings our first 16 hour ride.
Good news, bad news
Okay, the good news: our bodies feel great, even after 7.5 hours on the road and 434 miles.
The bad news? Holy crap do I have a red wine hangover...
Our trip today to hit the first corner is a short jaunt to San Diego, a mere two-ish hours away, depending on traffic, which is why we'll be leaving later (really... has nothing to do with my hangover).
We purchased two Saddlemen gel pads for the bike and we like them, a lot. I have a custom seat from Corbin that's still on the bike, of course, and it's a great seat, plenty firm, but after a few hours I develop some hot spots on my posterior. Consecutive riding days or the upcoming 16 hour days for the 50CC and on the gel-less seat and I'd be a hurting monkey. Fortunately the gel pads work well.
I have no good way to transition from gel pads to our buddy so I'll just say JBram is a gracious host and we barbecued steaks, corn on the cob, and Romaine lettuce (yes, on the barbecue - I was skeptical - and it's actually quite good), and killed several bottles of very good cabernets. John is persnickety about his wine and we imbibed far too heavily both poolside and in the mammoth hot tubs around the campus of his new living area.
Poolside
Rear-nekked choke
The bad news? Holy crap do I have a red wine hangover...
Our trip today to hit the first corner is a short jaunt to San Diego, a mere two-ish hours away, depending on traffic, which is why we'll be leaving later (really... has nothing to do with my hangover).
We purchased two Saddlemen gel pads for the bike and we like them, a lot. I have a custom seat from Corbin that's still on the bike, of course, and it's a great seat, plenty firm, but after a few hours I develop some hot spots on my posterior. Consecutive riding days or the upcoming 16 hour days for the 50CC and on the gel-less seat and I'd be a hurting monkey. Fortunately the gel pads work well.
I have no good way to transition from gel pads to our buddy so I'll just say JBram is a gracious host and we barbecued steaks, corn on the cob, and Romaine lettuce (yes, on the barbecue - I was skeptical - and it's actually quite good), and killed several bottles of very good cabernets. John is persnickety about his wine and we imbibed far too heavily both poolside and in the mammoth hot tubs around the campus of his new living area.
Poolside
Rear-nekked choke
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