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.