tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51151760895249025692024-03-04T23:38:57.389-06:00Riding the U.S. PerimeterOne Dream. One Promise. One Ride.The Tributehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10743853433112763375noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5115176089524902569.post-32675113689359299982011-06-19T13:39:00.003-05:002011-06-19T14:01:24.337-05:00Still Ridin' Still Writin' - Update for the readersI've continuously expressed my gratitude to all of the readers out there that followed this journey and have supported the adventure through words of encouragement and advice. I'm not going to stop now. Thank you again.<br /><br />It seems that Betty is stuck in Florida, her story never rolling out of the sunshine state. The blog has come to a crawl, but rest assured, the writing has continued. In an effort to turn this crazy idea into a book, I've backed off of the blog for a while(a sedentary, cubed existence in corporate America hasn't exactly lent itself to cooking up inspiration either). <br /><br />Since the last post, a lifetime dream has been realized and I was allowed the great opportunity to have a feature article <strong>published in Ride Maine</strong> - a biker pub out of, you guessed it - Maine. The people there were great to work with and while on the trek, I actually read last year's book cover-to-cover many times over. <br /><br />Soul smiling, I'm both saddened and excited to say that while I attempt to chase a dream and turn this crazy idea into a lifestyle and actually earn a living from these wonky words, the blog will continue to be fairly inactive.<br /><br />I will try to keep you updated on the successes and failures as I attempt to become a paid writer and see if this thing turns a corner.<br /><br />If you're just burning for more tales from the road, and there are many, (a battle with a black bear, a tough-as-nails NYC cop breaking some rules, hang-gliding in a thunderstorm, soaking up beauty in Savannah just to name a few) please write me at <br /><br />dan@ridetheedge2010.com<br /><br />(full site coming soon)<br /><br />I'd love to hear from you.<br /><br />With the utmost sincerity,<br />DanThe Tributehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10743853433112763375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5115176089524902569.post-40734075144510331332010-10-02T22:28:00.010-05:002010-10-02T23:24:32.504-05:00Florida: Key West 4.2 - 4.9<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiG4PcQxd3uqR29DyDPQ4m_EkWHRZM_cvebA9cleYG8IcZBHKCIFchph-mkVeshADCvXVMqrfjW5S9S8LaD_R6XhJu7mrgnjbmSKuToaCjxbq50S9UXFiyVoJuHq7pVmz0Qbdg5gPc4VTx/s1600/IMG_0482.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiG4PcQxd3uqR29DyDPQ4m_EkWHRZM_cvebA9cleYG8IcZBHKCIFchph-mkVeshADCvXVMqrfjW5S9S8LaD_R6XhJu7mrgnjbmSKuToaCjxbq50S9UXFiyVoJuHq7pVmz0Qbdg5gPc4VTx/s200/IMG_0482.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523658280165739410" /></a><br /><br />Route: Key West, around Key West, Duval Street, Key West<br /><br /><strong>“When life gives you limes, make margaritas.” – Jimmy Buffet </strong><br /><br />Key West is the isle of sunsets, lovers, gypsies, margaritas and debauchery. While many of you may be expecting more from this post, let me just say that while writing this blog, readership and response are as immediate as a trip to the bathroom after eating at McDonalds. And while this chapter of the voyage would leave mouths agape and yearning for the more water-cooler-worthy side of this tale, I shall save most of it for another medium in order to avoid the instant shit that would follow, spare some feelings and tease your curiosity, of course. Riding down another avenue will allow that buffer of time-past that will inevitably ease the repercussions that could potentially follow. Intrigued? Well good. Besides, what fun would it be if I unveiled all the really good stories now? Those involved…consider your reputation intact. For the time being.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQXS5mRZoiIMRnggHL0QmsUayBXThGmJk3raJx62FxkekNBVdblSIPs29KfMbvg5_PUg190lk_mD2FHwylBT1uEJro8U6Shpq-CvIRVUKQ93groYqPiCWE9Hvvh6_OX_J8ca7RydUYwyc6/s1600/IMG_0416.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQXS5mRZoiIMRnggHL0QmsUayBXThGmJk3raJx62FxkekNBVdblSIPs29KfMbvg5_PUg190lk_mD2FHwylBT1uEJro8U6Shpq-CvIRVUKQ93groYqPiCWE9Hvvh6_OX_J8ca7RydUYwyc6/s200/IMG_0416.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523659103349598626" /></a>After slapping the “ride the edge” dollar bill up with all the other Washingtons that get lost in the crowd of staple-gun victims on the walls of the No-Name Pub, an iguana tickles the air with its tongue on the side of the road and the slow trickle continues down to Key West. All the daylight hours are mine for the taking, until the time a guest will arrive to share company for a couple of days. Betty drips down Highway 1 to Fleming Street on Key West, where it promptly ends at mile marker zero and street signs band together, forming a worthy adversary, to test my navigational skills. Just a bit away is the southernmost point in the lower 48, the famous Key West buoy. The island is small, but Key West still takes the form of a familiar enemy, the city, and of course, directional confusion consumes me as forcefully as the elation of having finally hit one of the “most” points of this journey. After a few twists, turns and happy coincidence, I’m unwittingly spit out right next to the buoy…and a line has already formed down the block where tourists eagerly shuffle their feet 24 inches at a time to immortalize their vacation in the lens of a camera, with an iconic tribute. Bikers don’t wait in lines… do they? Well, this one doesn’t. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHszIre3iz1U_FEjQMGBDp32f4Bl7JFrLfoMQBNO9OOxmd70uqgQ_wSf2hDn9P1yCqNTgZD56wr9dyqqH7eYFzFi6chqxcgSvVqdOtzsmalE8KbPU6ijxWqmnuWb9aEep77LljnP7ppYVQ/s1600/IMG_0421.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHszIre3iz1U_FEjQMGBDp32f4Bl7JFrLfoMQBNO9OOxmd70uqgQ_wSf2hDn9P1yCqNTgZD56wr9dyqqH7eYFzFi6chqxcgSvVqdOtzsmalE8KbPU6ijxWqmnuWb9aEep77LljnP7ppYVQ/s200/IMG_0421.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523659561441282514" /></a>Not today. Betty stealth fully purrs into the fire-lane and poses with the vixen-like styles of a pin-up queen. The tourists, once so eager to fill their frames with their own faces, turn and start snapping shots of the Harley, sunlight bouncing and blinding off her like solar flares. The moment with Betty and the buoy is captured and I try to mount up and ride out before the local law enforcement start enforcing. Luckily, a gentleman and his son offer to take a rare shot of the bike and I in the same frame next to a national landmark. What can I say? I’m a tourist too, eager to fill my frame with my own face (but the helmet stays on in case I have to make a speedy getaway).<br /><br />Sun rains down in sheets of heat and sweat that cook the contents of my leather and helmet with the authority of a blast-furnace, leaving temptation wide open to strip the skins from mine and reveal the white that lays within, offering a cool relief from stifling safety. Safety wins, as it always does and will and the familiar curiosity surrounding all the caution of a solo journey is explored, as it will be continuously on the road. How much would I err on the side of caution? How much more adventure would there be, had there been a partner in chrome on this trip? The opportunity is taken to check into a hotel and rid all the road uniforms of their soil and stink, while taking the same opportunity to do the same to myself as I watch discomfort and fatigue slip down the drain, floating on layers of grime. The scene is not glamorous and neither am I, the dryer buzzes with the annoyance of a high-school basketball scoreboard and a restricted wardrobe is rejuvenated with a scorched freshness that has been unknown for quite some time. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm6sTCPvcffeMD7RhPhuRvn1p4uEvM4-KtJ8tcAntktXolU23IAdj73TDgj6_TrVgj-37ouSyeMfEm_ULUkufkDlBh4es1538LuoCWc0u183T4IBrFxJhuVJbj0xKgFXQs3gzVlZqYQMLh/s1600/IMG_0487.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm6sTCPvcffeMD7RhPhuRvn1p4uEvM4-KtJ8tcAntktXolU23IAdj73TDgj6_TrVgj-37ouSyeMfEm_ULUkufkDlBh4es1538LuoCWc0u183T4IBrFxJhuVJbj0xKgFXQs3gzVlZqYQMLh/s200/IMG_0487.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523660718243848930" /></a>Names have been changed to protect the guilty. When Charlie arrives, the Holiday Inn pool-side bar has me sipping on an island drink (even though a trip to the store has already been made and the room fridge is stocked) and having a lovely chat with the bartender. After a buzz worthy of a few hours strapped into Key West, I go to the room for the anticipated rendezvous. Once Charlie settles in and unpacks, we head on over to the Conch Club for some conchtails, excuse me, cocktails. The Holiday Inn is at the north end of the island and without a rental car and the inevitable consumption of island spirits, Betty rests peacefully under the canopy of the front lobby, while we walk to all of our tropic libation destinations. The night beautiful, stars twinkle like ice in a tumbler, but it is a typical night at a bar, as most are and there is generally nothing specific, unique or surprising about an evening such as this and tonight offers no exception. Venues may change as vastly and quickly as the price of the same cocktails do in each, but the course of an evening and the outcome of which seldom equate a memorable experience that could ever be discerned from the myriad of other bars one will visit in a lifetime. It’s fun nonetheless.<br /><br />The next day, Mallory Square beckons, boasting of its famed sunset festival and the chest puffery of the cheaply printed flyers is warranted as street performers produce feats amazing enough to rival the beauty of the sunset. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim1vSMNxSTz2KIWuyFTDkxZSuZ5lOZGoVQ_8Uc8VRxgzBqwlLn3HT9Sc_qj4Ogn-4OBf3Ob8YBLGPBYc6wuRJB7vXbhFDqR8JBiyMViJSTSYxFEE-g545CENEGwPC46MY3Dl7oYrylX3Nq/s1600/IMG_0425.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim1vSMNxSTz2KIWuyFTDkxZSuZ5lOZGoVQ_8Uc8VRxgzBqwlLn3HT9Sc_qj4Ogn-4OBf3Ob8YBLGPBYc6wuRJB7vXbhFDqR8JBiyMViJSTSYxFEE-g545CENEGwPC46MY3Dl7oYrylX3Nq/s200/IMG_0425.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523661624207792530" /></a>Ringmasters worldwide would drool at the thought of being able to introduce this small band of painted, neo-punk Houdini disciples, eating fire, escaping from chains and straight-jackets while performing contortionist moves that would make a nun blush. Conch fritters are a must and so are margaritas as we tour the square and settle into a Cuban restaurant for dinner. Spinning, whirling and tripping the light fantastic, an older couple makes light work of a samba and thrills the crowd with their beauty and grace. He’s dressed in gray slacks and a black shirt, complimenting the silver top, formed by the passing of years. She’s dressed in a paisley skirt and a red blouse that radiates throughout her perfectly styled white locks. Their faces read of a relaxed concentration while their shoes click and slide effortlessly across the brick and their bodies sway in unified rhythm that make couples sixty years their junior envious. They know each other. They know each other’s moves and smooth is too coarse a word to describe them. They move as one, as if doing so for a lifetime, which I’m assured they have. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjJE27A9vgghCV_GLXZcb7TrQG2IZgAbBl5rsUDi9q1hhqBnAAPi0tZzEVLxMBsYy6fiilYCMcj2LhwDhR_0mCorOLJHPNSn4yfn87hiiGaixmm6BUt69ivFKSqvTTrMD1ANYN8HjX3SFD/s1600/IMG_0461.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjJE27A9vgghCV_GLXZcb7TrQG2IZgAbBl5rsUDi9q1hhqBnAAPi0tZzEVLxMBsYy6fiilYCMcj2LhwDhR_0mCorOLJHPNSn4yfn87hiiGaixmm6BUt69ivFKSqvTTrMD1ANYN8HjX3SFD/s200/IMG_0461.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523662193079229954" /></a>Wrapped in a cloak of pristine and fundamental beauty, longing and wonderment glaze my eyeballs, which are wide-open.<br /><br />The red neon of Sloppy Joe’s is undeniable and a visit to Hemingway’s old haunt before visiting his home is as obligatory as slapping a read onto at least one of his works after you visit. The joint is packed with tourists and cigarettes, all lit up and smoking while the band on stage fires up some cover songs that set the crowd ablaze. Charlie chats up the bartender a bit and a warmer version of me takes to the floor and strikes up a chat with anyone that looks like a biker or looks like they may be interesting to talk with. A few random scatterings of conversation are found, but nothing noteworthy comes of this adventure, save for the fact that some very nice people are met with smiles and handshakes, once again proving that the masses are open and friendly, not the scary monsters we’re often lead to believe they are. There is no stranger danger at Sloppy Joes. Explanations unknown, it feels good to wrap up in a buzz blanket and have that numbness make an appearance. The same numbness that used to pay Papa frequent visits on those old stools and floorboards.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSkNFThzSDYj3F3AGB08YhEpLlwMIx8_aX0z9fHXoGjHyXZTFGiQR2c6ojsq4VOPO_8zH0AnqahnnPZoA1hi90uabnT3n4T1__vQllPJlvkTykbtcmU6L14xcnyDBTgS56Lb5LGj5DW19j/s1600/IMG_0472.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSkNFThzSDYj3F3AGB08YhEpLlwMIx8_aX0z9fHXoGjHyXZTFGiQR2c6ojsq4VOPO_8zH0AnqahnnPZoA1hi90uabnT3n4T1__vQllPJlvkTykbtcmU6L14xcnyDBTgS56Lb5LGj5DW19j/s200/IMG_0472.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523663693031312690" /></a><br />A friend of Will’s, I’m told, works at a bar called either Fogarty’s or the Flying Monkey. Apparently both of these are correct and are actually one venue. For the sake of Peace, Love and Flying Monkeys, that is the name that it shall be known. Jamie is working the bar when we get there and the fountain of generosity that strangers have been spewing on this journey is continued with an invitation to her barbeque the next day. Unfortunately, while I accept the invitation, it will later be passed upon when the time comes. Sound like there’s a story there? Yup. But not right now. After a quick rum drink and a conversation with two gay brothers (these two were awesome) who profess to have the “luckiest mom in the world,” a blues band lures our paths to wander into the Green Parrot to help close down the night. The lead singer is a strong woman, whose facial contortions and quivers grind her axe into the throaty, gravely riffs that define what blues is. The set is finished, the band starts to pack up and the tip bucket is passed. Not wanting the music or the night to end, I present a generous offer to continue or at least close out with Sweet Home Chicago. Cliché? Yes. Homesick? Yes. The answer is an expletive laden “no,” which is taken with a smile and the sould of the evening and the night is done. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8TN9FP5Bi4QHarXDbrG5N9GhZba117TkKNOW4ysQXdKJCMCJ9WCU37yeBEgbJUuA8zeOf28IZOMJf6B3da_9EA7CXSGIOuF3BEuzlkO-bW9aYCc0J7pqbYIpc9Ip8QPNjWkSrJ_R5YzvY/s1600/IMG_0471.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8TN9FP5Bi4QHarXDbrG5N9GhZba117TkKNOW4ysQXdKJCMCJ9WCU37yeBEgbJUuA8zeOf28IZOMJf6B3da_9EA7CXSGIOuF3BEuzlkO-bW9aYCc0J7pqbYIpc9Ip8QPNjWkSrJ_R5YzvY/s200/IMG_0471.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523664766351756962" /></a>Another night of wandering…Hog's Breath Saloon, cheeseburgers at Cheeseburgers in Paradise (Jimmy Buffet’s restaurant), complimented by margaritas and some other flavors of Duval Street, this next day and night is a rather dull one with nothing other than a very angry cab ride to splash colors on an otherwise monochrome night. This cabbie is a kind, thoughtful and intelligent man, who hates Russians with a violent ferocity that makes the grudge of Montresor look like a trite bout of sibling rivalry. <br /><br />Charlie’s company was well received but it’s time for that great sky bus to return my companion to another place and leave me alone on this not-so-deserted island and for that, an impish smile works its way back across my mug. I’m back on my own time, in my own world, with my own thoughts and responsibilities. It is how this trip is meant to be, selfish, and that is perfectly acceptable. Some essentials are picked up at the local grocer and Betty, with a sweaty, leather cowboy on her back, rumbles on The 1 to Boyd’s Campground. Military jets, full in the throes of jaw dropping daily maneuvers, provide a jet exhaust path that the metal horse hikes to a nice campsite on the water’s edge, under the shade of a palm. Enjoying the air show, the breeze, sun and general bliss that comes with staying on an island and the pure glee of not knowing what’s next, a call is made to a cohort and fellow Harley enthusiast<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqtkqyUXf2Y14x1WD1L2SuhgsrDEMXq6lj2tFw5FpQcL5igTyggPA-KDjmn29yLMmjHXghf11UWJ7iu-NDuRfaRffj4JvZPvSPUOxH_1u0mkfCycpND-BX5IBgIdWQyK1ybAh4CBNMojUb/s1600/IMG_0445.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqtkqyUXf2Y14x1WD1L2SuhgsrDEMXq6lj2tFw5FpQcL5igTyggPA-KDjmn29yLMmjHXghf11UWJ7iu-NDuRfaRffj4JvZPvSPUOxH_1u0mkfCycpND-BX5IBgIdWQyK1ybAh4CBNMojUb/s200/IMG_0445.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523666366435206146" /></a> that I had the extreme pleasure and fortune of making the acquaintance of during the prerequisite motorcycle safety class back in Chicago. Tim has been a good friend and great proponent of this adventure and words pass from mobile-to-mobile with easy comfort and I hang up with a smile on my face and an eagerness to catch-up with him in San Francisco. A most incredible individual, he has lifetime experiences that rival great men of our time and times past, yet he remains humble, unassuming and never pretentious. The dark-half of these traits could easily be rationalized, given the life he has devoured, and accepted without hesitation by those with lesser experience. I have nothing but admiration for a man that has seen what most dream of, but still will listen with the attention of a young, naïve student, when another talks of a topic of interest.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnMPZlEPQGYnLEf9WI9ysCi3_AbuRPwlOLIzNxq5ZLXsjo4r_YBiEd2-htSFymiUp9cGVWVd_DlFo6xdAnF4xwhNiejwPtAYMWW2EGgZLzRzcuvW2IClTmBNCzJQKuP5JgffVa6SYm0RJs/s1600/IMG_0504.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnMPZlEPQGYnLEf9WI9ysCi3_AbuRPwlOLIzNxq5ZLXsjo4r_YBiEd2-htSFymiUp9cGVWVd_DlFo6xdAnF4xwhNiejwPtAYMWW2EGgZLzRzcuvW2IClTmBNCzJQKuP5JgffVa6SYm0RJs/s200/IMG_0504.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523667005411703954" /></a>Motivation finally steals its way in, coupled with the threat of inevitable darkness and camp is finally starting to look like a habitable place after wallowing in a few hours of unregrettable sloth. The tent is going up with a stubbornness unseen thus far and is only matched by the stubbornness that lay within me. When a battle of this magnitude occurs, there can be only one outcome. A victor and the other. The victory is made clear when the tent pole snaps, splinters, leaving a rumpled heap of nylon on a bed of gravel. The loser is left with no shelter and thoughts of, simply, “oh shit, you are one stubborn asshole, my friend” and a few minutes of contemplation surrounding his own dumb-assedry. The moment is quickly lighted by the realization that within the duffle that holds all, duct tape shall be found. The splintered pole is wrapped with the silver, miracle, fix-all band-aid and I jump in the tent, strip down naked and let the breeze take me to a gentle island slumber. To the victor go the spoils. <br /><br />Eyes, popped open by the early morning training maneuvers of military jets circling the island, take a few minutes to adjust to the new day’s light. The jets are a nice change of pace from the alarm clock of my previous life, always buzzing maniacally, seemingly more worried about me waking up and getting to work on time, than I was. It is, however, slightly emasculating to have these jets flying overhead, with missiles and jet wash visible to the nekkid eye, yet unable to identify exactly what type of jet it is. Men are supposed to inherently know these things the same way we should know how to kill and eat an animal, hotwire a car or pick a lock. A quick ride down to and a couple of laps around the Duval Street area offers up some motorcycle parking on one of the side streets. Given that most of the island hasn’t fully recovered from the home invading, perverted voyeur known as the sandman, parking is ample and I change into shorts, flops and grab frozen key lime pie, dipped in chocolate for the day’s breakfast. It is tough, isn’t it<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-hmZuK9kZCrfX8YZeGZnGxCwpNaGh63Wwqk5se_Huok8aklEKiAlSq2QQCmWm4uZu6M2OhsR0uH0gTI2ZTLtiwVVJR2x3P1rvhCKdS5ypYR3ytnKLBdaWU_yjX-Cn6SIH6-yNa5Y3axAC/s1600/IMG_0498.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-hmZuK9kZCrfX8YZeGZnGxCwpNaGh63Wwqk5se_Huok8aklEKiAlSq2QQCmWm4uZu6M2OhsR0uH0gTI2ZTLtiwVVJR2x3P1rvhCKdS5ypYR3ytnKLBdaWU_yjX-Cn6SIH6-yNa5Y3axAC/s200/IMG_0498.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523668660630171490" /></a><br /><br />There is an effect of gazing upon Ernest Hemingway’s writing studio, specifically his typewriter, which I have not yet felt in my lifetime. Previously unknown, this feeling burrows itself deeply into my gut with what I can only imagine as the power of 100 fluttering grammar school crushes all felt at once. I don’t know what exactly the feeling is. I don’t know why I have it. And I certainly wouldn’t know what I would do with it if Hemingway liked me back. Tourists walk through the house, snapping photo after photo, as tourists are programmed to do, but the blank gazes upon their red washed, twice-baked faces convey a message that it’s just another place to see and check off some bucket list and that is their depth. The six-toed felines that sloth about the grounds pay no attention to the myriad of five-toed bipeds milling about. Like a marriage with long forgotten love and sex that is tolerated as an act of supposed-to-be, they put up with random hands petting their coats with enough disdain and repulsion to be noticeable in their eyes, if one was to look, but not enough to tell them no. Maybe it’s the fact that he was only there for 9 years. Maybe it’s the fact that it was during his most prolific writing period. Maybe it’s just one lover of the drink speaking to another through the haze of time. Whatever the reason, Hemingway’s house has spoken to me in a way that nothing else on this trip has or could. ?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgMQ8PtXOptZkGh9Bd8LmmeD-kDTXVAs48qebj2S1tkJOGPspAfJOq_plPtuvNmLoNA95Yq-4BejR8nuaxODYhnRueDZ1c-1sz5-QmgclhCnMay1uXK0MWmmDyfj-H9cEVcL3fl0R3lG49/s1600/IMG_0485.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgMQ8PtXOptZkGh9Bd8LmmeD-kDTXVAs48qebj2S1tkJOGPspAfJOq_plPtuvNmLoNA95Yq-4BejR8nuaxODYhnRueDZ1c-1sz5-QmgclhCnMay1uXK0MWmmDyfj-H9cEVcL3fl0R3lG49/s200/IMG_0485.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523667516546803922" /></a><br /><br />Roosters crow with confidence around Key West, strutting, posturing and bellowing like much of the men in the bars around the island. As contemplations of these “free range” chickens occur, a dude approaches proffering a nice, green bag of sweet, stinky weed. Politely, a refusal is made, as much fun as it may be, however, please remember, I am still alone on this journey-that-has-a-purpose and am consistently crossing state lines, wearing a look that screams convict. We’ll let this one fall in the overly-cautious bucket and a woulda-coulda-shoulda.<br /><br />As I leave Key West, a wash of melancholy coats over me like a matte, gray primer, washing drab onto my psyche. Knowing more cheerful layers will be painted upon me, one after another that will get so heavy my frame can’t bear the weight, bringing a happiness that is based on a layer of the sadness of exiting a place that is an eternal smile. The days pass, not slowly or quickly, but in that way that days are meant to, full of meaning, worth and time. They pass with a smile, no matter what the conditions, for I am free. Rain, heat, humidity, winds, dust devils can all toe the rubicon. I dare them to cross it. If they do, they shall undoubtedly fail. I will not back down. There is not one single day that I do not want to ride. No matter how long and excruciating the prior day’s ride. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUvp73W4LtNjyflpVpI7RdUVm9nSevgpuabXevpTd_E4n2kdJUvLH8FjiUjg1cVUmLYsix-EsDcs3Taj8sG4RFJkdt1lei3pecsQ1zggJIQnBg6JxXy-8q6lpi1tbGJGtLQmNspMd-EDxh/s1600/IMG_0519.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUvp73W4LtNjyflpVpI7RdUVm9nSevgpuabXevpTd_E4n2kdJUvLH8FjiUjg1cVUmLYsix-EsDcs3Taj8sG4RFJkdt1lei3pecsQ1zggJIQnBg6JxXy-8q6lpi1tbGJGtLQmNspMd-EDxh/s200/IMG_0519.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523669218998168018" /></a>No matter how aching muscles scream in agony. No matter how downtrodden, how wet, how hot, how cold, how treacherous conditions may be…I was born to ride and each new day is attacked with an amnesia of any sorrow that may have befallen me the day before. The road is my elixir. There have been no sorrows here in the Keys, but I am as sure as Betty is Black, that there will be many to come. Bring it on.<br /><br /><em>“The bike may break me. The road may take me. I will forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart.”</em>The Tributehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10743853433112763375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5115176089524902569.post-16030771114564348922010-08-03T17:33:00.002-05:002010-08-03T17:37:56.040-05:00Soundtrack to Ride The Edge; Disc Two:The much anticipated follow-up to the RTE DiscI Soundtrack:<br /><br />1. Where is my Mind? – The Pixies<br />2. It Coulda Been Me – Social Distortion<br />3. Lunatic Fringe – Red Rider<br />4. Road to Nowhere – Talking Heads<br />5. Into the Great Wide Open – Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers<br />6. Wide Open Space – Mansun<br />7. No Excuses – Alice in Chains<br />8. Unforgiven – Metallica<br />9. Black Betty – Lynyrd Skynyrd<br />10. Reach for the Sky – Social Distortion<br />11. Crazy Bitch – Buckcherry <br />12. Wiggle Stick – Reverend Horton Heat<br />13. More Human than Human – White Zombie<br />14. Livin’ on the Edge – Aerosmith<br />15. Mountain Song – Janes Addiction<br />16. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds – The Beatles<br />17. Hold On – John Lennon<br />18. Route 66 – Depeche Mode<br />19. Mama I'm Comin' Home - Ozzy Osbourne<br />20. Home Sweet Home – Motley Crue<br />21. Wild Boys – Duran DuranThe Tributehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10743853433112763375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5115176089524902569.post-28412708680859876802010-07-26T23:24:00.028-05:002010-08-11T15:33:34.852-05:007.21.10 - The Final Monthly Ride the Edge Update:<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLf7IaRLYfkjbVwKayH2cET9CHPB-bj98_Keh5-epPdbsbTzLMGAiVanInLJjFwFq7p1NNpHWQ7sjisg4s2Mj0XZ4YlYgu3zT6Hf-IsNSi8Xf48a6r2SjUUFuMwCV1KsEkamXymE_Zx_Sp/s1600/Ethan_2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLf7IaRLYfkjbVwKayH2cET9CHPB-bj98_Keh5-epPdbsbTzLMGAiVanInLJjFwFq7p1NNpHWQ7sjisg4s2Mj0XZ4YlYgu3zT6Hf-IsNSi8Xf48a6r2SjUUFuMwCV1KsEkamXymE_Zx_Sp/s200/Ethan_2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498443625956978114" /></a><br /><strong>“Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.” – Winston Churchill</strong><br /><br />The journey is completed and yet just begun as I come back to a formerly known and familiar world that is now as alien as the regions that have just been explored. A few quick FINAL updates are below, followed by some final thoughts and thank yous. The blog will continue being updated with experiences and tales from the road. Realizing that I’ve left you all in the Florida Keys, your wheels will continue to roll down the road as you’re brought on the full extent of the journey, so please stay tuned.<br /><br /><strong>Final days on the road:</strong> 153<br /><br /><strong>Total miles traveled:</strong> 23,263<br /><br /><strong>Total miles around U.S. perimeter:</strong> 17,744 (estimated by my route)<br /><br /><strong>Pairs of Sunglasses:</strong> 5 – it must have been the magic number<br /><br /><strong>States:</strong> 36 plus D.C. and Canada<br /><br /><strong>Time Zones Traversed:</strong> 5; triple up on the American 4 (Eastern only doubled)<br /><br /><strong>Current Location:</strong> Home <br /><br /><strong>Books Read:</strong> Genome by Matt Ridley; Black Mass by Dick Lehr and Gerard O'Neil; Travels with Charley by John Steinbeck (Thank you Crystal); A New Earth by Eckhart Tolle (Thank you John) and I finished up at home with A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway<br /><br /><strong>The “MOST” places visited:</strong> 4 corners of U.S. plus:<br />• Southernmost point in U.S. – Key West, FL<br />• Easternmost point in U.S. – Quoddy Head, ME<br />• Northernmost point in U.S. – Northwest Angle, MN<br />• Westernmost point in U.S. – Cape Alava, WA<br /><br />For just over 5 months and 23,000 miles, I was retired at the age of 33. Riding into the first few months of my 34th birthday, America was my home, my office, my passion and my inspiration. It’s difficult to write through bubbles of choking emotion, now that the journey has delivered me safely home to a world left behind and a world of possibility in front of me. I have been free of all constraints and 90 degree prisons. There were no boxed-in apartments, no safety of the caged automobile, no cube to work from, no cornered television to drain my essence. The road was pure passion, wild and free. Life roared through time that remained stagnant. Distance was measured in miles, not minutes while a free soul bellowed triumphantly and tauntingly through oncoming gales. <br /><br />America has proven to be more beautiful than ever expected, and this trip, as extensive as it was, merely an appetizer to the bountiful feast that is this country called home. These travels have not sated my wanderlust, but fueled it with a raging desire to explore all that has not been seen. I have battled a bear and ducked moose, dodged antelope, hiked with a coyote and fished with a bald eagle. Mother Nature has threatened to end my existence as swiftly as the Mother F@ckers that vomit their poisonous habits onto our roadways. I have feared for my life and basked in the splendor of which it is. Mountains, plains, oceans, volcanoes, islands and rivers have all been a playground and gauntlet at the same time. I have been frozen and baked, exposed to 80 degree temperature shifts on and off the bike that left me layered in ice and caked in salt. This journey has waged a war against fear and indecision while providing peace with inner demons that threatened to possess. The road has provided me with miracles and tragedy, life and death, elation and depression. When once trying to explain my emotions and the volatility of them, not merely day to day, but sometimes hour to hour, a friend told me with raw certainty: “Of course you are. You’re living a full life. Condensed.” It was perhaps the most brilliant reasoning that ever dripped into my ears. There were times when I wanted to give up, throw in the towel and call it a day in fits and screams of rage and fury. But the road, the beckoning miles of asphalt and concrete, kept singing its siren song, leading me further and further down the black and yellow rabbit hole. The trick was to know the tune. To be aware of that allure and see the rocks, steering out of the way at the last minute before crashing into them. Play the sirens’ game and grift the grifter. This trip is one in a lifetime. Not because the adventures are over. Oh no. I have a taste now and restless blood runs thick in these veins. The trip is once in a lifetime because it will never be matched in route, reason or emotion. I could follow the same highways and byways and the outcome will be completely different, even for me. If another soul should attempt the feat, their experience will be different than mine based on their motivations. This journey, my friends, is one in a million. It will never be replicated exactly and for that knowledge, my shit eating grin will never leave my lips. <br /><br />Some little known facts about the trip:<br />• Superstition wins. Every time.<br />• I sang the song (or some variation of) Black Betty every single day I rode her<br />• Mornings hit on the most brilliant inspiration, but it was also while I was riding<br />• A good waitress can make your entire day, at breakfast. Consequently, a bitch can completely wreck it<br />• Most mornings on the bike I talked to myself in just about every accent known to the world. Favorite? Trying to say “grainery” very fast, in Scottish. Most often uttered: "that's great kid, now don't get cocky."<br />• A song could get stuck in my head for weeks at a time<br />• Dangerous situations would cause me to scream with absolute glee. Common sense kept me out of most of those<br />• I watched videos of Pete in my tent just about every night<br />• Blogging from the road became very stressful<br />• At a certain point, quite quickly, fear is replaced by a curiosity of outcome<br />• People CAN be trusted<br />• There may be a lot of shit talkers among us, but all bikers respect each other<br />• There is nothing better than the metallic taste of bourbon, clicking on a laptop with the walls of your house flapping around you<br />• The bond of travelers disappears once summer vacations start<br />• There is no reason that anyone on this earth cannot achieve their dreams.<br />• There really is only do or do not. There is no try.<br /><br />Much appreciation goes out to many people along the trip. Here is my best attempt to capture all the generosity that swerved into my lanes over the past 5 months.<br /><br /><strong>Cast and Crew (In order of appearance)</strong><br /><br /><strong>• My Family</strong>. All of you, for without your support and encouragement this trip would NEVER have been possible. I love you all and am forever grateful that you continue to entertain the crazy ways of your son, brother, grandson, nephew and cousin<br /><strong>• Ride Chicago – Chicago, IL</strong> - School for motorcycle safety and licensing<br /><strong>• Uke’s Harley-Davidson – Racine, WI</strong>. Geno, thanks for getting me on the big bikes<br /><strong>• Suburban Harley-Davidson – Thiensville, WI</strong>. Dick and crew – you’re better than eHarmony. In fact, you did so well with the bike, I may just have you pick out my next girlfriend<br /><strong>• Digitas Chicago</strong> – for recognizing the importance of an employee’s need to try something a little crazy and having their back the entire time<br /><strong>• Milwaukee Harley-Davidson – Milwaukee, WI</strong> – for making Betty’s trip to the west coast a little more comfortable and her home-coming an experience in luxury<br /><strong>• Haul Bikes Motorcycle Shipping – Milwaukee, WI</strong> – for getting Betty to L.A. in one piece<br /><strong>• Tim</strong> – for selflessly allowing my truck to dominate his garage space while I was gone<br /><strong>• Glendale Harley-Davidson – Glendale, CA </strong>– you picked her up, cleaned her up, stored her for free and had an unbelievable staff<br /><strong>• Dylan, Will, Juliette and Jean Patrick</strong> -your hospitality and generosity know no limits. Thank you for being Ethan’s friends and now mine. This goes out to the entire L.A. crew that are simply too many to list, but my hope is that you know who you are and that you always have a warm bed in Chicago<br /><strong>• Adam (and Will again)</strong> -for putting together one KICK ASS commemorative intro video<br /><strong>• Rustie and Chris</strong> – thank you for kicking off the trip with such culture and beauty. San Diego will always have a place in my heart, as will the old man playing saxophone under a street lamp<br /><strong>• Dan, Hilary and Bowie</strong> – we go way back and will continue to go way into the future<br /><strong>• Yoonil</strong> – follow your dreams cowboy and don’t ever be discouraged<br /><strong>• Joeta’s Leather – Mesa, AZ</strong> – your bovine suit of armor kept me safe from all dangers<br /><strong>• Bob and Luann</strong> – a long overdue visit and was glad to get to know you better as an adult<br /><strong>• Dave and Roni</strong> – cut from similar cloths, I look forward to seeing you soon<br /><strong>• Goe Harley-Davidson – Angleton, TX</strong>. You guys helped a traveler, rocked out the service and Dallas, thank you for the intro to REAL Texas BBQ and driving my ass 30 minutes out of your way. TRUE customer service<br /><strong>• Doreen and Gene</strong> – as always, your love and hospitality keeps me going<br /><strong>• Cathy, Thomas and Kirstyn</strong> – the flowers are bloomin’ in Texas. Love you guys<br /><strong>• Ben and Angie</strong> – rain check on that crawfish boil? Bourbon Street wouldn’t have been the same<br /><strong>• Mel and Jane</strong> – thank you for everything, it was great to see you…and again…and yet again <br /><strong>• Nick and Janelle</strong> – new friends for life that took a chance on a goofy looking biker<br /><strong>• Rachel, Abby, Morgan and Selena</strong> – your van, with its non-flapping walls was heaven, you four are amazing...fantastic even?<br /><strong>• Radar </strong>– keep living the life that is envied by all<br /><strong>• Nimrods</strong> – for the much needed boys weekend in Miami. Enough said.<br /><strong>• Mary Anne, Greg, Tony and Kelly</strong> – great to get some one-on-one with ya’ll<br /><strong>• The town of Taintsville </strong>– for existing<br /><strong>• Becky and Kelly </strong>– Savannah wouldn’t have been the same<br /><strong>• Myrtle Beach Harley-Davidson – Myrtle Beach, South Carolina</strong> – Black Betty appreciated the spa treatment and you people just kick ass<br /><strong>• Zac, Jake and Josh</strong> – good, ole fashioned’ country fun, USMC style. Semper Fi, gentlemen<br /><strong>• The Royalty of Assateague Island</strong><br /><strong>• Christine and Trevor</strong> – strangers to acquaintances to friends, thank you for opening your home<br /><strong>• Atlantic County Harley Davidson – Absecon, New Jersey</strong> – unexpected, in and out, you take care of your own<br /><strong>• Dave </strong>– for helping to make my birthday painful and completely unforgettable<br /><strong>• Tasha and Ahren (and Nando)</strong> – Brooklyn style, baby! For letting me be a last-minute guest and being phenomenal tour guides <br /><strong>• Mandy </strong>– always<br /><strong>• The NYPD Officer at Lady Liberty</strong> – you and I know why. I salute you.<br /><strong>• Tim and Caitlyn </strong>– your hospitality kept me full, your coffee kept me awake and your soap kept me clean (when I used it)<br /><strong>• Angela</strong> – for guiding me around John Harvard’s polished foot with an outlook that will never tarnish<br /><strong>• Wolverine H-D and A.B.C. H-D</strong> – esp Dan in service - Betty needed a new pair a shoes and you found her glass slippers<br /><strong>• Hodag Honda</strong> – my lid fell apart and you fixed my brain-case for free – keep on rockin’<br /><strong>• All you campers </strong>that gave me that little taste of home for a much needed boost in motivation as well as exhaustion<br /><strong>• Wausau Harley-Davidson – Rothschild, WI</strong> – hometown service, hometown attitude<br /><strong>• Jacyn and Brian </strong>– for humoring the guest that wouldn’t leave and caring just as much for Betty as I do. You two knock life around in style<br /><strong>• Devil Mountain Harley-Davidson – Pittsburg, CA</strong> – you guys had the BEST service out of all the shops that I called home. ALL dealerships visited were exceptional. You were just that much better<br /><strong>• The Nelson Sisters</strong> – Cali style<br /><strong>• Big Bear Cabin Crew – Will, Marie, Carl, Carolyn, Paul, Joe, Sarah, Tammy and Pablo</strong> – for inviting me to share your holiday with you and for your incredible strengths in courage, humanity, caring and maturity in the face of tragedy. Lucy will be missed<br /><strong>• Tim</strong> – for your newly formed friendship, constant encouragement and everlasting humility. Retire already and enjoy that Dyna!<br /><strong>• The men and women of our armed forces and those that protect our borders, for doing what you do every day to make dreams like this possible.</strong> And for showing me real machine guns and educating me on the finer points of specific situations.<br /><strong>• All of you</strong> supporting and commenting on the blog, offering words of encouragement, advice and warning<br /><strong>• My fellow brethren</strong>, bikers and travelers from all corners of the globe. You offered me places to see. You offered me places to eat. You offered me soft beds, warm campfires and even warmer spirits. You came from Switzerland, Deer Isle, Phoenix, Illinois, Wisconsin, Germany, Napa, Canada, Mexico, Alaska to form one world, the road. Most importantly, I thank you for your trust, companionship and having the balls to do what you do<br /><strong>• Every man or woman</strong> that gears-up onto a <strong>Harley Davidson </strong>and any biker that keeps pushing and stretching their borders <br /><strong>• The BEST friends</strong> a guy could have. You know who you are. You talked to me on the trip, kept me sane in the darkest, loneliest hours, made me laugh on Facebook and kept me human when a feral side threatened. You are the ones I continue to talk with and text, the ones that share experiences, movies, dinners and beverages. If not for you. This could have not been done.<br /><strong>• Pete</strong> – for not holding a grudge and your unconditional, furry, drooling love<br /><br />With words that can never express, I thank <strong>Ethan Willoughby</strong> and <strong>F. Roger Rutter </strong>for showing me how real men live life and providing the truest forms of inspiration ever to be felt and learned from. You rode on my shoulders and kept me far from peril. It is known fact that I came through unscathed because of your presence and protection. <br /><br /><em>"The bike didn't break me. The road didn't take me. I will forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart."</em>The Tributehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10743853433112763375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5115176089524902569.post-75793313587374950922010-07-14T21:07:00.011-05:002010-07-14T22:01:33.826-05:00Florida: The Keys 3.27 – 4.5<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8sBvLyAMTTAEtvJeAQoHxAjHcf4JNU_pNz7ACjVmmgCrxKv5R6yea75PJX3D_x-XVzhwHFe_CT_ELARk83spHUaykN376cXpjoCS8VYBAxd67WpV_1a_X7YePpGjMbTpP-eTYO3vdd3vH/s1600/IMG_0382.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8sBvLyAMTTAEtvJeAQoHxAjHcf4JNU_pNz7ACjVmmgCrxKv5R6yea75PJX3D_x-XVzhwHFe_CT_ELARk83spHUaykN376cXpjoCS8VYBAxd67WpV_1a_X7YePpGjMbTpP-eTYO3vdd3vH/s200/IMG_0382.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493949885859137186" /></a><br />Route: 41E to 997S (Krome Ave) to 1S<br /><br /><strong>“You can’t lay on the beach and drink rum all day if you don’t start in the morning.” – Bathroom Wall</strong> <br /><br />Florida’s Everglades, as beautiful as they are, are surprisingly small when cruising through. For some reason there was this grandiose idea in my head that the area consumed by the wetlands was vastly greater than Russia. Being left on an island in the middle of Gator land is still not a desirable situation no matter what the size, although one is able to drive through the Glades pretty quickly. The views, the life and the energy that flows within their swampy waters are can flood a soul and pours riders out into an easy glide down to mile marker 107.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEr3VeCvQQMUx-EDnvO6qvv1NT6oK3lT18jz2h4yabLZ7Glhr6ld9g_LozI1Wl2lFNc5wIJXlwGw8bqbqdvLUNkl5vdHITRsydNaUIRANAiDCoYI138de82L_YTbMkDuex1uMFutgQlDl8/s1600/IMG_0343.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEr3VeCvQQMUx-EDnvO6qvv1NT6oK3lT18jz2h4yabLZ7Glhr6ld9g_LozI1Wl2lFNc5wIJXlwGw8bqbqdvLUNkl5vdHITRsydNaUIRANAiDCoYI138de82L_YTbMkDuex1uMFutgQlDl8/s200/IMG_0343.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493950615980350818" /></a>Wanting to soak up the Keys as much as possible and slowly, deliciously drip down the gulf to a puddle of bliss at Key West, the first day’s ride is parked at King’s Campground in Key Largo. It’s a decent campground, but it’s primarily for RV-ers and the sites for the tents are compacted upon one another like smoked oysters in a tin. Tent areas resembling kitty litter boxes come with blue and yellow picnic tables that offer a place to rest if one is the size of an Ewok, but the price is right and hell, I’m in the Keys. Even though the sites are on top of each other, a break is caught as there are only two occupied and the guests are able to spread out enough to allow a little more privacy. While resting my chin on my knees at one of the mini-tables, a couple comes scouting for a site to spend the night. Craving age appropriate human interaction, small talk is made and a quick rapport is developed with the semi-spring breakers. Down from Daytona, Nick and his fiancée, Janelle, are about to spend a few days relaxing in the Keys.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAms2Z3ZQ2DdA8ZBrF7EaWF7weR8AdI43ddazsLSy-AlF3FVaOFTR3cEgmNFKsuaFoJP0VMGv8n3M4L7zK-6zZHlJLuX0V2dVcAUxoBJXd2qikxDSyUwik6M8J-98IWfqGKMn6o6UNHW_x/s1600/IMG_0341.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAms2Z3ZQ2DdA8ZBrF7EaWF7weR8AdI43ddazsLSy-AlF3FVaOFTR3cEgmNFKsuaFoJP0VMGv8n3M4L7zK-6zZHlJLuX0V2dVcAUxoBJXd2qikxDSyUwik6M8J-98IWfqGKMn6o6UNHW_x/s200/IMG_0341.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493951436968762450" /></a>Responsibilities for the preamble of the night fall upon the shoulders of the sun and in true form, the panoramic sunset does not disappoint as it tickles the masts of sailboats and washes their bows in radiant beauty. Accepting Nick and Janelle’s invitation to join them for drinks, after the sunset’s opening act, we walk down the road to The Big Chill, in search of a grouper sandwich and some ice cold brews. This not-so-easy rider is ready for some nightlife and the company of really cool people and that is exactly what I get. The beer is cold; the grouper sandwich is delicious and to top it off, is served by a waiter that resembles a 23 year old Norm MacDonald who is definitely living on “island time.” A couple more bars hit and then the night ends with a cap at the camp site. The night is more fun than a troupe of dancing poodles and deciding that all energy has been spent for one day, I retire to the tent with a light head. <br /><br />During the previous night’s festivities, Nick and Janelle graciously extended the invitation to join them on a snorkeling excursion, which was eagerly accepted. Having such a great time with the two of them, the decision is made to extend the stay here an additional night. Sleeping was difficult as the polyester, 20 degree down bag and heat reflecting sleeping pad are not made for such tropic climate. Managing to squeak out a mere 4 hours, the day starts slowly and recovery comes in the form of sunshine, swimsuits and a leisurely pace, which trumped a waking headache with force. Lounging around, campers have coolers and grills filled with and sizzling up bacon and eggs which brings on a heavy drool as the standard instant oatmeal and coffee is consumed. Seeing these treasure troves of culinary excellence brings on a rush of temporary envy and I envision opening a cooler full of delicacies is like opening Marcellus Wallace’s briefcase. <br /><br />Post morning consumption, we head out to Pennekamp state park to hit up a snorkel tour and after the reservations and gear is secured, the boat is boarded with just a few minutes to spare. Given it’s the end of March, the water is still a bit chilly and while about half of the tour group dons wetsuits, there is a Dutch family that just won’t have it. They are so eager to prove their proclivity of cold water, it seems, that one older gentleman takes it to the next level and caresses the group’s eyes with a contrast of his ghostly white and beluga-like form strapped not-so-securely into a straining, black Speedo. Resembling an upright walrus, the unfortunate soul casts only the appearance of the cold water conditioned mammal and is in and out of the gulf rather quickly. Just because one looks like a water mammal doesn’t mean one can act like a water mammal. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipWMzgptpVTGTFfz-nHblJY2BR9TWO0xpqISEdBQYCcFqZlV9CfLPePLsN4ULthmkUdaC_0Fbc74xT0O67r83FgfI1arEClyb32rsJ-tXyNZ3INScZ-AtkAkId3uWW9nNzsAfzFyLonYHg/s1600/IMG_0337.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipWMzgptpVTGTFfz-nHblJY2BR9TWO0xpqISEdBQYCcFqZlV9CfLPePLsN4ULthmkUdaC_0Fbc74xT0O67r83FgfI1arEClyb32rsJ-tXyNZ3INScZ-AtkAkId3uWW9nNzsAfzFyLonYHg/s200/IMG_0337.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493951973150838962" /></a>Barracudas and conchs line the sea floor with other bright, colorful fish and sea life. Choppy seas lose their power while we snorkel on the sheltered side of the reef, time flies quickly, the trip is a success and we head back to the camp to do what those in the Keys do best. Relax.<br /><br />Later that evening, after dinner and a small campfire, we imbibe, talk, get to know one another a bit better and raise the same curiosities regarding a myriad of people going into the woods with nets, buckets, never to emerge again. Curiosity gets the better of us, and upon inquiry of one of these woodland creatures, come to find out that the moon is full, the time is right and they are heading to the channel to catch fresh shrimp. Upon further inquiry, one of the shrimpers explains that it’s really quite easy to catch them. One shines a flashlight into the waters below and when two glowing amber eyes pop out on the surface, simply dip in the net and place the caught shrimp in your catch bucket. This is awesome; all three of us are excited to get on this shrimping wagon, only there are two problems. Neither a bucket nor a net are in our immediate future. Or so we think. After a half-assed attempt to make a net out of a grocery bag and stick, we borrow one from a neighboring camper. It’s just past midnight now, and we head to the channel to get our share of edible booty. After about an hour of shrimping and unsuccessful night fishing, we take our haul of 2 dozen back to the camp, throw them in some foil with butter and garlic salt and lay the sea treasures on the grill. THE best shrimp I have ever eaten. It was a little disconcerting, putting them on the grill and watching the foil dance like a tin of jiffy-pop, but well worth the disturbing scene. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKNlnTygqN6gIxQZjgH0lKgCzkVrGRVXLPtdnKTJPgmgwvXPb0gsGdN8_htb-pAYSPwzipWg5CjXCA_iz0iRM2w6EMRn7xQcSXabBJjc6jA4YY4dpbx2FySIIxEP6fq5JQLKjgZZtLG8BZ/s1600/IMG_0331.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKNlnTygqN6gIxQZjgH0lKgCzkVrGRVXLPtdnKTJPgmgwvXPb0gsGdN8_htb-pAYSPwzipWg5CjXCA_iz0iRM2w6EMRn7xQcSXabBJjc6jA4YY4dpbx2FySIIxEP6fq5JQLKjgZZtLG8BZ/s200/IMG_0331.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493953304700845506" /></a><br /><br />Nick and Janelle certainly made my introduction to the Keys memorable. Some of the most giving, sharing and hospitable people that will be met on this excursion, I know that we’ll keep in touch long after the trip is over and am glad to have made new friends. But for now, I must leave and continue trickling down the Keys. <br /><br />A great, lifelong friend from back home gets wind that I’m in the Keys and sets me up with some friendly faces for a day or two. Chris’ fiancée Rachel is on a girl’s week down in the Keys, and having just finished up the more luxurious part of their trip in Key West, will be camping at Fiesta Key and have passed on an invite to join them for a bit. On the way to meet the ladies, a quick stop is made at the well-known Islamorada Fish Company for some fish tacos. The restaurant itself is incredible with seating on the dock and a lagoon in between the bar and the seating, complete with swimming critters to occupy one’s attention while the food is being prepared. It’s a good thing too, because on this rainy day (which provides some nice shelter while the storm plays out), the service is extraordinarily slow and the tacos are sub-par. At first a bit of agitation sets in, but quickly the realization of island time is gained, muscles relax and the chair embraces the full weight of my back. A smile sets in.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3OZR5NXzGDFQPBcR__5T67moMZHrdKToeWcl8dwKpOOEnJ8KL9NuiOZjQ7DfFEqs7f1lNl7gtSTQ0NOe8cLsP72vBgc-Ujt8HcOESgmxd5WD00KqhiRJb0GJB0WRTIBeBMp2ln5E2nBEm/s1600/IMG_0345.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3OZR5NXzGDFQPBcR__5T67moMZHrdKToeWcl8dwKpOOEnJ8KL9NuiOZjQ7DfFEqs7f1lNl7gtSTQ0NOe8cLsP72vBgc-Ujt8HcOESgmxd5WD00KqhiRJb0GJB0WRTIBeBMp2ln5E2nBEm/s200/IMG_0345.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493957663101995586" /></a> <br /><br />Winds gust with the ferocity that only those from the ocean can and clouds continue to threaten angrily while Betty growls down the 1 to lay a little rubber during the afternoon and explore this part of the Keys in anticipation of the Cougar Van’s arrival at the campsite. Rachel, AbbyJo, Morgan and Selena welcome me with open arms as we take shelter behind the Volkswagen van that blocks the wind so that conversation can be had. Conversation isn’t the bubble-gum type of talk that usually accompanies relative strangers, but dives into deeper realms of substance and life appreciation and it’s satisfyingly exhausting and makes the time pass quickly. The sun goes down and the ladies retire to their quarters and set me up in the back of the van and it’s a relief to be sleeping in a space that doesn’t have moveable walls. <br /><br />Farm fresh eggs and home brewed coffee sizzle, pop and boil the morning into lazy day by the pool, complete with fruity, newly concocted rum drinks with fresh coconut milk and strawberries. A few hours of this repeated activity, the morning turns into afternoon and the ladies extend an invitation to stay another night. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5xkCVQf4zu_BcRIdGgp-99hNtPGET4v9pKFqLJj2MjmlA_Dz78TW03kDvIrQTj9GSlQkWvYLlDo_2dmhnlHfBZLPEu7jY462fKWIIdE3ind0-qm-hE7KfoaMTADquCN4tWZ5CKrZG2aJx/s1600/IMG_0350.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5xkCVQf4zu_BcRIdGgp-99hNtPGET4v9pKFqLJj2MjmlA_Dz78TW03kDvIrQTj9GSlQkWvYLlDo_2dmhnlHfBZLPEu7jY462fKWIIdE3ind0-qm-hE7KfoaMTADquCN4tWZ5CKrZG2aJx/s200/IMG_0350.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493958290379642882" /></a>Torn between not wanting to interrupt their vacation and the coconut buzz swimming in my head, with no clear agenda I agree without too much arm twisting and the day slowly bakes on. The couple camping next to their group is of Russian origin, but now lives just outside of Chicago and are extremely amiable. Seeing us up on the deck of the pool, they come up to talk and we invite them to a lounge chair and fruity rum drink of their own. Many factors could have led to the events that were to come, but I am going to chalk it up to plain old frenzied excitement of meeting new friends and looking forward to good times. Paul is talking with the group, near the edge of the pool, standing at my four o’clock. Peripheral vision screams out a red alert as he dives into the shallow water and I whir around to, I don’t know… shout, grab his waist band, watch in horror. Tragedy splashes into the water and Paul’s legs stick perpendicular out of the 4 foot water, seemingly forever. Stunned, we all look to the pool to see what is going to happen next. He flips himself upright and there is an instant of relief, until shoulders shrugged in pain, a face dominating wince and gash on the top of his head tell another story. Everyone plays a role, without verbal direction and we whirl into action. Within minutes, we have him pool side, paramedics are called and we give him a quick once over. Can you wiggle your toes? Yes. Where does it hurt? Between my shoulders. What is your name? Paul. What day is it? We're on vacation, I’m not sure.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9UD8EjoeOU4mnEklCEkjCqEH8vX34vrq7aRrFRcOP0Vr5_wqxDmpZdIboRf5EIR2H-0lPe6jcLmlWnzsstSikOMA0iV6Rqol85KMy5tzIZ-9myRjenxfckyY1A9p3bcg9mFM8LPAea-A9/s1600/IMG_0368.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9UD8EjoeOU4mnEklCEkjCqEH8vX34vrq7aRrFRcOP0Vr5_wqxDmpZdIboRf5EIR2H-0lPe6jcLmlWnzsstSikOMA0iV6Rqol85KMy5tzIZ-9myRjenxfckyY1A9p3bcg9mFM8LPAea-A9/s200/IMG_0368.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493959103495497154" /></a><br /><br />Luckily, a firefighter/paramedic is on holiday with his family, but has just gone out on a jet-ski. His wife waves him in with a telepathy that only a husband and wife can have and immediately our good-willed responsibilities are taken over by a professional until the local authorities arrive. Paul is put into a collar, loaded into an ambulance and taken to the local medical facility while Morgan and Abby jump in the van with Paul’s fiancée, Marina, whose broken English and lack of drivers license would leave her stranded on an island of worry. X-rays reveal a broken neck and warrants a first-class ticket on a med-flight copter to the hospital in Miami, which later will be a second trip to a specialist in Chicago. If not for the calm and rational responses of the girls, this crisis would have ended up terribly; as undoubtedly, Paul would have simply gone back to the tent to lie down, where greater tragedy could have been waiting for the most unexpected time to strike. They turned the outcome of this horrible even into the best possible and I applaud them.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihpFDLwOBxcGoOHg2EOtFcFtLrT_ggRRaZfz3RBnwzeAOgznIyLJhLwkrsaQ0jLweWtfOYg2q79Isi4mRPvR36CzcL1SKIrxprOMPo71vZnCUX_mlhVPCmg9l6qGdlhQWeXoilpLMjNJAM/s1600/IMG_0357.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihpFDLwOBxcGoOHg2EOtFcFtLrT_ggRRaZfz3RBnwzeAOgznIyLJhLwkrsaQ0jLweWtfOYg2q79Isi4mRPvR36CzcL1SKIrxprOMPo71vZnCUX_mlhVPCmg9l6qGdlhQWeXoilpLMjNJAM/s200/IMG_0357.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493959552975158498" /></a><br />That night, these four incredible women continue to teach lessons of the more important aspects of life; agriculture, sustainability and furthering personal education while preparing a dinner of home-grown parsnips, carrots, ginger, potatoes and other tasty treats. They bring this over to the campground’s resident entertainer, Radar, who will be grilling up some venison and burgers to top off a feast of Queens and Kings. Radar may just have about the biggest heart out of anyone that I have met in my life. His life is simple, complete, content and exactly the way he wants it to be. The site where he lives is an island paradise, complete with tiki bar, fire pit, karaoke tent and camper trailer all led to via a pier post and nautical rope lined walkway through a yard proudly flying the stars and stripes. A former Army soldier, Radar’s life is lived the way he wants it and is, as far as I’m concerned, the most successful man in the world, for finding his true self and his true way of being. Everyone stops by Radar’s landing zone for the after-dark party and with good reason. It’s good times and great people in true island style.<br /><br />The next day, word comes from Marina regarding Paul’s move to Chicago and Morgan and Abby make the 3 hour drive to Miami to pick her up from the hospital, but their selfless acts do not stop here. Not only do they drive up and back, but all four women cut their vacation short to drive Marina and all their gear back to the Chicago area, which is a short stop on the way home and Rachel keeps me updated via text. Remarkable, all of them, and once again fortune has smiled upon me with the friendship of such incredible humans being. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHFYcGyp-U6Etj6y5Ta0ihFE0dlhpSt3qvsPbYqxy-kN3inwJDtGAZjC3_-c-DoQFTUW7UnvlLAHhYtm_yDjEDlI3l5PY8UfvBqvYb7ZoMYlj_nYoIYAe04ibimOS6hPjzo3wnZQdE7pMG/s1600/IMG_0373.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHFYcGyp-U6Etj6y5Ta0ihFE0dlhpSt3qvsPbYqxy-kN3inwJDtGAZjC3_-c-DoQFTUW7UnvlLAHhYtm_yDjEDlI3l5PY8UfvBqvYb7ZoMYlj_nYoIYAe04ibimOS6hPjzo3wnZQdE7pMG/s200/IMG_0373.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493961381332835234" /></a><br /><br />This all happens after my departure from the grounds and lunch of Conch burger at the Cracked Conch Café. The pit stop once again proves the small world theory when I meet a friend of a friend from Glen Ellyn, IL. Eaves dropping in on their lunch, the name Chicago floats over to my ears. Inquiry is made and after some conversation and the fortuitous discovery of a mutual friend, I am invited to stay the night in the family’s condo. It’s amazing, the small world theory, but if eaves had not been dropped and had no conversation been initiated these cosmic links would have not been made. The experience proves that when traveling, either solo or in company, keep your ears and eyes open to all possibilities because you never know what good fortune or good advice may find you. <br /><br />Nearly a month and a half on the road now and thoughts turn towards home, family, work and the thoughts of what life will be like upon returning to Chicago. More of a curiosity than a longing, these wonderings swim inside my head and I contemplate if it’s too early in the excursion for this. The value of humanity, kindness, patience and tolerance grows infinitely stronger the longer that the road holds me. Increasing cooperation, as I bear witness to the way travelers work selflessly together, with a smile and offer assistance to those in need, even if not asked for. The way travelers interact and help each other is a powerful lesson and is often preached in corporate America, but seldom practiced. This is just one of the many examples that I hope to incorporate in my way of life and will stick for future use, not just be left in the miles behind me.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhywXEqxT_EzIV7LxL3mQbM4N_6WFsWS74JPvlnQz_4fc9NhxiVJMMJdtEDXTswGEpwahrubskUuJSK9KhPP9ryqJcqHivO_KHoog6eB1f9MIp3-M4QSv4ltZVGK4SXSWRl2WHIeLvjDzag/s1600/IMG_0393.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhywXEqxT_EzIV7LxL3mQbM4N_6WFsWS74JPvlnQz_4fc9NhxiVJMMJdtEDXTswGEpwahrubskUuJSK9KhPP9ryqJcqHivO_KHoog6eB1f9MIp3-M4QSv4ltZVGK4SXSWRl2WHIeLvjDzag/s200/IMG_0393.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493960538256698962" /></a>Known for being a world of its own, bathed in rich history, sunsets, margaritas and whom I call the “most interesting man alive,” Ernest Hemingway, Key West calls and it’s time to answer. A sign points to the Key deer sanctuary and having never seen one of these mini-stags, an immediate right is taken through No Name Key. Winding though with no real direction, fortune smiles and the street turns into another sign, this one saying “You’ve Found It.” The No-Name Pub. A recommendation that had been forgotten, it’s a nice break in the day to stop for a grouper sandwich. The pub is dark, dingy and delicious. The walls furry with hanging dollar bills decades old that resemble a fuzzy piñata. Patrons of past visits inscribe their names, witty sayings and pledge allegiances to favorite sports teams on these singles, then staple them to any spot in the pub they can. I, of course, can not resist a bit of shameless self-promotion, so the inscribing of Ride the Edge occurs and this Washington is stapled directly above the first barstool on the left, in front of the entrance. This is the type of place that one could hang out all day and throw a lot back in and the experience is sweetened when I look to the left and see the “Harley Davidson Parking Only” sing. The sandwich was excellent, but they are known for their pizza and another visit in the future is a must.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWNOXqSoisj4tWbNj1E2Oexsl64qHwIx_s6yIjXGPx6YhNuZ557EDK4f17ZYRANB64IwpKym1oJpITVzOVrhWBuQFyR285D4qB5XeHyW-Yegw6ubZ0znCEHc3ygYo61A3BPECUNv6w09cn/s1600/IMG_0405.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWNOXqSoisj4tWbNj1E2Oexsl64qHwIx_s6yIjXGPx6YhNuZ557EDK4f17ZYRANB64IwpKym1oJpITVzOVrhWBuQFyR285D4qB5XeHyW-Yegw6ubZ0znCEHc3ygYo61A3BPECUNv6w09cn/s200/IMG_0405.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493962497987486690" /></a> <br /><br />As I ride the highways and byways of America, frequently, other bikers are passed; Hondas, BMWs, Victory, you name it. I look at these bikes with minimal interest and vague curiosity. There is so much Harley Davidson pride pumping through these lines that no other bike is worth a head turn. As the 1 rolls down to Key West, something is unsettling and it takes a few miles to determine what it is. Bikers are everywhere in Florida, yet for some reason, this state yields the least amount of biker waves yet. Throwing out the two fingers, low-five or HD “V”, reciprocation is few and far between. My only guess for this seeming lack of cordiality is that it is indeed a vacation spot and perhaps most bikers are renting, unfamiliar with the bikes they ride, therefore uncomfortable taking their hands off of the bars. This, of course, is just a hypothesis. <br /><br />Key West is next. A world all its own and a separate spirit from the rest of the island chain, it’s deserving of it’s own post. To come…<br /><br /><em>“The bike may break me. The road may take me. I’ll forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart.”</em>The Tributehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10743853433112763375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5115176089524902569.post-53946993432853889682010-06-30T21:05:00.009-05:002010-07-06T22:04:51.474-05:00The Edge is DONE, man! 6.30.10; 2:57pm<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1PEW9Kft3NrWU-OSNFRpji61BBEkoyE8EnA3-3wxAz3KXzRqPQyGTqSy02U03QKpL6dn6VHS96EGXXrsJo1oozE3RjdTe2Q2oqXTzDnd4if88qZMdBM4682z6nWukuW5wqN180Wk6aFbE/s1600/IMG_2720.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1PEW9Kft3NrWU-OSNFRpji61BBEkoyE8EnA3-3wxAz3KXzRqPQyGTqSy02U03QKpL6dn6VHS96EGXXrsJo1oozE3RjdTe2Q2oqXTzDnd4if88qZMdBM4682z6nWukuW5wqN180Wk6aFbE/s200/IMG_2720.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488753680686238082" /></a><br /><br /><strong>"Tip the world over on its side and everything loose will land in Los Angeles." - Frank Lloyd Wright</strong><br /><br />A sign reading “Santa Monica” etched into the overpass of the Pacific Coast Highway brings a welcome sense of pride that threatens to pop the seams of all that leather. The helmet starts to fog up and immediately emotions are put into check until the intersection where it all started is found and a safe spot on the side of the road brings me in. Can’t start blubbering now, I won’t be able to see where I’m going. It’s hard to choke back the tornadic emotions that swirl together like a frog in a blender. Relief, excitement, pride, contentment, elation are a few that can be named, but there are those that rear their heads from the 9th circle of emotions that scream as loud as the others. It’s a mixed can o’ nuts and as the course is set to make way for Ocean and Broadway, the completely thinkable happens. I get lost. Christ. Really? Of course, I’m in a city.<br /><br />After a 10 minute detour, the spot where it all began is found, the kickstand is set down and Betty purrs into silence. The perimeter of the United States is complete. An estimated 17,774 miles exploring all the nooks, crannies and crags of our nation’s outermost borders and coastlines. Here are the stats usually saved for the monthly updates:<br /><br />Days on the road: 132<br /><br />Miles traveled: 19,734<br /><br />Pairs of Sunglasses: 5 (still holding, fingers crossed)<br /><br />States: 32 plus D.C. and Canada<br /><br />Time Zones Traversed: 5 (plus a double up on the American 4)<br /><br />Current Location: Studio City, CA <br /><br />The “MOST” places visited: 4 corners of U.S. plus:<br />• Southernmost point in U.S. – Keywest, FL<br />• Easternmost point in U.S. – Quoddy Head, ME<br />• Northernmost point in U.S. – Northwest Angle, MN<br />• Westernmost point in U.S. – Cape Alava, WA<br /><br />It AIN’T over yet! There is still a formidable chunk of American highway to traverse before getting back to all the creatures and comforts of home. Route 66 does not stand in the way, but glows like a runway that will guide me and the Harley Davidson V-Rod Muscle home. For now, this is a small victory that I shall relish with a ginormous shit eating grin.<br /><br /><em>"The bike may break me. The road may take me. I'll forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart."</em>The Tributehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10743853433112763375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5115176089524902569.post-3450045206390044572010-06-25T20:22:00.019-05:002010-06-25T21:47:48.587-05:00Florida Panhandle to the Glades 3.21 – 3.27<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqLpsuM3v5vNXAwT5x_ETs29JcDby3LW2_Bpzpt67sUBilWqXP7nmYRPKIXiGodCbEMugNPOXO0yvUVDfKC4oT0HDIQAFSpPHMgj3C8RcF20xklbUeqvBFbL7Ezh7_h-N8t9Ki78GdFC46/s1600/IMG_0199.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqLpsuM3v5vNXAwT5x_ETs29JcDby3LW2_Bpzpt67sUBilWqXP7nmYRPKIXiGodCbEMugNPOXO0yvUVDfKC4oT0HDIQAFSpPHMgj3C8RcF20xklbUeqvBFbL7Ezh7_h-N8t9Ki78GdFC46/s200/IMG_0199.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486888158804840194" /></a><br /><br />Route: 292 to 297 back to 292 to 98E to 399 (along islands) to 98E to 19 to 361 (at Perry) to 351 to 357N to 19/98 to Port Charlotte. 776 to 41 to 867 to 869 (Ft. Myers Beach); 901 to 41 to 94 (at Monroe Station) back to 41 through the Glades. <br /><br /><strong>“I see my path, but I don't know where it leads. Not knowing where I'm going is what inspires me to travel it.” –Rosalia de Castro</strong><br /><br />The previous night’s violent squall bullies its way east, giving the coast and its travelers swirlies and noogies with gleeful vigor. It is apparent that the fierce winds have slapped the Easter-egg-colored, stilted houses that line the beach fronts with a ferocity that would make Hallmark cry. The hope is that the storm is far enough ahead that I can’t catch it and worries of the milk money tucked safely away in my socks are unfounded. The day is cast is a medium shade of depression-gray and the road brings a struggle against the wind, which, after a few hours, evokes a deep-gut rumbling of hunger. Eyes are peeled for one of the plywood-built, hand painted seafood shacks that live up to the old cliché, “don’t judge a book by its cover.” Unfortunately today, like so many things in life that aren’t around when you need them, the shacks have taken to hiding, most likely still quaking in their dens from last night’s festivities, and a growling stomach is heard over the bark of Betty’s engine. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0wakuQfrV90IYqXUqvPsXbUk_Z1T2c1ieV7J2nkc9_fmutL9jMfkkel5EdgMqJIyhq03bP_caz8UK9D7_YdP5hE_paurndxH4koknxmAaiWhizBLDdsB_HnLL9ILUjwlWUF6Yk-aRjZ-p/s1600/IMG_0205.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0wakuQfrV90IYqXUqvPsXbUk_Z1T2c1ieV7J2nkc9_fmutL9jMfkkel5EdgMqJIyhq03bP_caz8UK9D7_YdP5hE_paurndxH4koknxmAaiWhizBLDdsB_HnLL9ILUjwlWUF6Yk-aRjZ-p/s200/IMG_0205.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486889238248140754" /></a>Skimming along the bottom of Florida’s panhandle leads to Panama City Beach and a flood of nostalgia washes over when I stop at the condo that was once shared with Ethan during our ‘guys’ week. A debacle of a trip in every sense of the word, Ethan, 2 other Dans and I spent a week here for an old guys spring break getting in every amount of trouble that we knew to be possible. Ethan had arrived with hair that would make Saigon Kick jealous and left looking like a made-over Chris Cornell. Eating and drinking too much and sleeping too little, the trip was everything that 4 over-worked guys needed to cut loose. Bar hopping, deep sea fishing and all the debauchery that goes along with Spring Break was enjoyed to the fullest and somehow, the rat that was cut off the back of Ethan’s head (ponytail) was, to us, the most ingenious joke we could think of and ended up in each or our beds at some point throughout the vacation or in the microwave or under the toilet seat or in a duffle bag. Ethan had a wide-eyed and frenzied expression of a 5 year old on Xmas eve plastered to his face for the entire week and that trip is remembered in detail (not all that will be mentioned here), with memories that cause me to laugh out loud and hang my head in embarrassment all in one motion. A devilish smirk commandeers lips inside the Shoei helmet and the ride continues out of the city that holds our secrets.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUF-roz692bOdAwx2mzWTcoLdT8gqi9VygD_oOyuBLLK19s4OBME4weNNf1-k_Cnq1TL3YaIeT1iy3T7XCrUBaJCRdFccre_S7mrhIfb-bud7E3dkQ1eLGuM4rTl1q3Lxx6JBwMbLtL1SA/s1600/IMG_0206.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUF-roz692bOdAwx2mzWTcoLdT8gqi9VygD_oOyuBLLK19s4OBME4weNNf1-k_Cnq1TL3YaIeT1iy3T7XCrUBaJCRdFccre_S7mrhIfb-bud7E3dkQ1eLGuM4rTl1q3Lxx6JBwMbLtL1SA/s200/IMG_0206.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486889971642052578" /></a><br /><br />Apalachicola is laid out like a seaside picnic for two. The town is amazingly quaint and made for lovers young and old. Should I be fortunate enough to find myself in that situation, a trip will be made back to this seaside village to spend a long weekend exploring the secrets that it holds. Running through the town, highway 98 is one of Harley Davidson’s featured rides called out in the HD road atlas and proves to be worth the yellow and orange highlighting. There is only road on this stretch, no guardrail to cages the rider and it feels as the ocean can be scooped up in the palm of your hand. A biker and motorcycle caress the curves of the road as one, skipping along the water like a stone and it’s hard to tell where the dividing line between earth and heaven is drawn. The smell of salt and pine envelop the helmet, released from the shoreline being warmed by a setting sun. This part of the ride is effortless and euphoria takes over as the trees and ocean steer Betty and I into increasingly lengthening shadows. Inspiration is freshly renewed and receives a new spark after being smoldered by the storm. Long shadows, once cast upon the road have evaporated into the darkness and only the headlight illuminates the curving byway. It’s time for a motel. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYx35RRqLa7un_cYZ6TiFivEK9tHxeqEuf93rppgt4H_zlgnWPlNS4FYe1rAtXRZB9G94siQyY-EFRBCoLmGuL7J-AdWkJIHo9CFAD21BIfAXMTtpvvmxGWJvFbahxTAJNhuNl4lblcLYI/s1600/IMG_0211.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYx35RRqLa7un_cYZ6TiFivEK9tHxeqEuf93rppgt4H_zlgnWPlNS4FYe1rAtXRZB9G94siQyY-EFRBCoLmGuL7J-AdWkJIHo9CFAD21BIfAXMTtpvvmxGWJvFbahxTAJNhuNl4lblcLYI/s200/IMG_0211.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486891339373691378" /></a> Pulled over to check the map, the nearest city on this route is much too far for a comfortable travel, but fate has other ideas. A few miles down the road, in Wakulla, a motel pops up out of nowhere and a room is available. It’s a palace, complete with courtyard, fountain and remarkably clean rooms and new amenities. If exhaustion wasn’t holding the ace today, astonishment would have trumped the situation.<br /><br />Morning brings an unusual awakening filled with a heightened tolerance and acceptance of all things and situations. To say this is a new feeling would be to mislead you, as this is in my true nature, but it has been shamefully hibernating for longer than I care to admit. There are many reasons to take a journey like this, but one is to get back to who I used to be. To shake the greasy hands of a mechanic without hesitation. To hold a conversation with a toothless and dingy man without checking a watch with shifting eyes or itching to be in another place. To be with real people, the hard-working people of our country that believe in honesty, friendship, loyalty and would give you the shirt off their backs, even if they only had one to give. Clouded by the haze that breeds between starched-white shirts and the oily blue denim that often separates people, I have embarrassingly kept the latter out of my field of vision, even though I am a product of both worlds. The filter of dirt that has been keeping my corporate self out of touch with the people that represent the backbone of truth is removed. Abruptly. The feeling is clear, uplifting and a lightness consumes me. It’s going to be a good day. Hell, they’ll all be good days.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmzRG7dNSKlALuyBLXni5kMXeTo-9bEF0HknJH_IwqpDNt0bx89F5XgHgg9c72l4kxiaqliVvXhhrKEcGO7gu4WSvWSWiP_bDOy7YC-lDW2IZu1j18AWPvHpueZzDQvssBN_eC1-7bbFH9/s1600/IMG_0229.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmzRG7dNSKlALuyBLXni5kMXeTo-9bEF0HknJH_IwqpDNt0bx89F5XgHgg9c72l4kxiaqliVvXhhrKEcGO7gu4WSvWSWiP_bDOy7YC-lDW2IZu1j18AWPvHpueZzDQvssBN_eC1-7bbFH9/s200/IMG_0229.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486893611976724786" /></a><br /><br />Biscuits and gravy are devoured at the continental breakfast and the table to the right is speaking in unfamiliar tongue. I tilt my head, like a bird on the ground listening for worms, and powers of deduction lead to the conclusion that they’re German. Wearing leather cuts, further detective skills lead to their ownership of the four Harleys parked in the front overhang. No English is heard and I’m disappointed that we can’t chat bikes over coffee, so the tedious chore of gearing up the Muscle is attended to. Bags are zipped and straps are cinched as one of the men from the group comes out for a cigarette and begins to chat. I’m ecstatic! Chatting about bikes, I find out that his group is a riding club from outside of Munich and that they are on a 3-week tour from Orlando to Los Angeles. Normally they ride Goldwings, which again, my Holmes-like powers of deduction lead me to the translation on the back of his cut. “Schwaben Winger” = “Gold Wing.” I’m a genius. For this trip, they’ve decided on Harleys and are in love with a true American icon. It’s time to get on the road, an eagerness to see the Spanish hanging moss, which has been effectively decimated on most of the Louisiana coast, drives me to kick it into gear and get cruising.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3GxdsmAYOe8FQuI1ZT_0SXgLtmI5qSJ7-cW1-Z1WzFw2xcnTadL52i3_KNwqgoEWodQAIWZguvz2Khxu0zbtZFb2DMX6jHGa_wHFDDd7tNBBq9A_JD5fshNv30XBnxPnh-gkdI6MV0ERI/s1600/IMG_0252.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3GxdsmAYOe8FQuI1ZT_0SXgLtmI5qSJ7-cW1-Z1WzFw2xcnTadL52i3_KNwqgoEWodQAIWZguvz2Khxu0zbtZFb2DMX6jHGa_wHFDDd7tNBBq9A_JD5fshNv30XBnxPnh-gkdI6MV0ERI/s200/IMG_0252.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486894695933538962" /></a> <br /><br />A drizzle sets upon the roads, changing the asphalt from light to dark gray, much like armpit sweat spots on the hyper-color shirts of the early 90s, and it’s not enough to deter today’s trip to the Grandparents. Wanting to stay true to the intent of the trip (as close to the coast as I can get), the map is broken out and illustrates a varied labyrinth of logging roads that will eventually spew me out onto the main highway. Back roads are already filled with lumber trucks rolling down the byways, bursting at the seams with the daily limit for their catch. The logging roads are frustratingly slow, unmarked and not well maintained (Captain Obvious says “duh”). Getting turned around for nearly two hours, I find that maps are excruciatingly similar to birth control. Only about 99.99% effective and for the casual “traveler,” work out just dandy, with no information slipping through to put any hitch in one’s giddyup. However, when participating more heavily in either event, should the ball land on that .01% red, the practioner is most properly F’ed. Given that lack of internal direction that has befriended me over the course of a lifetime, for the moment, I am precisely that.<br /><br />Twists, turns, and a few more turnarounds with multiple expletives passing through clenched lips and dirt turns to gravel, which transforms to asphalt and the main highway snakes into GPS territory, delivering me to my Grandparent’s doorstep in the late evening. They have some friends over and we all chat about bikes, the area, the trip and head to dinner, which I swallow whole, like an agitated Bantha. The night is topped off with ample servings of conversation and cocktails, both of which I will never turn a cheek to.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9jq9isWrtUvhhMoQjJuZoueCs-ELzip9OdMkiWV8mn4KY8gLoUt9VRwPuclr2TtDQW5Rb6U1pCRGfwuQUjyafjJIEryvuT7oEcfsgo_f4zDTJvW687QJRJQ7M-V3Akk-tlIQdcQn_rnuv/s1600/IMG_0247.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9jq9isWrtUvhhMoQjJuZoueCs-ELzip9OdMkiWV8mn4KY8gLoUt9VRwPuclr2TtDQW5Rb6U1pCRGfwuQUjyafjJIEryvuT7oEcfsgo_f4zDTJvW687QJRJQ7M-V3Akk-tlIQdcQn_rnuv/s200/IMG_0247.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486897851121786706" /></a><br /><br />A delicious breakfast spread lures me out from under the sheets and Grandpa, Jane and I spend a more energetic morning catching up and getting to know each other a little bit better. Breakfast morphs into lunch, then a tour of the area begins. The Port Charlotte Harley Davidson dealer shop begs to be checked out and when we go in, the immediate perception is that it is not as friendly as others that have played a part on this trip. Perception is confirmed when we leave the idle shop after about 20 minutes and nobody has approached with a friendly “hello” or “can I help you?” It is an unfortunate turn for the shops that have been so amicable whenever visited but the HD reputations still holds strong. Dealers are all independent of one another, so the experience is not held against the others and it’s chalked up to an off day. The next few days are spent on the reddish-brown, brackish waters of Port Charlotte fishing, seeing the beaches, taking a cruise on the boat, eating, imbibing and just…relaxing. Using the always tempting shrimp for bait, an alligator fish is lightly lipped and as it comes to the surface slowly, flashes a toothy snarl out of a plank of a snout. Not too inclined to have to dig a hook out from all those daggers, the line is let slack and the snare is shaken from the gruesome mouth of this prehistoric looking beast. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0v8d0JwMMl6fiVMrPkxub93INqMnYu7KUE1nOxvo4f-bwgBoOi-f1waq8O8e971ANtGxMfGdM48xQq2oH8UNwkcDTcYMuBbg3ISflbCtzRynET-ca8ZDgW32xFN1fePRsWAy321M9kEzy/s1600/IMG_0233.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0v8d0JwMMl6fiVMrPkxub93INqMnYu7KUE1nOxvo4f-bwgBoOi-f1waq8O8e971ANtGxMfGdM48xQq2oH8UNwkcDTcYMuBbg3ISflbCtzRynET-ca8ZDgW32xFN1fePRsWAy321M9kEzy/s200/IMG_0233.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486898733343700034" /></a>A shift in my vulnerability is becoming apparent as it is now nearly 6 weeks on the road. It is an uncomfortable change and quicker than expected, but welcome. This journey has become a fine sandpaper, smoothing an abrasive nature that had been growing increasingly coarser in daily life. Constantly transitioning emotions from loneliness to overwhelming attention, from seeing not a familiar soul on the road to being surrounded by people and living merely to survive to riding out a weekend in everyday luxury has brought on a change in view, making friends that would have before been overlooked as I walk down the street and living an extremely minimal life has awoken a sense of understanding and emotions that have lain dormant for far too long. <br /><br />Grandpa and Jane treat me extremely well as the visit goes on, but good weather and an itch to get on the road beckons me to lay down some rubber. The visit with them, and all my Grandparents, have provided inspiration and energy, for they have not even yet begun to slow down and their ways of life are truly remarkable. The day before, all gear had gotten another coating of waterproofing, after the storm in Alabama and it’s packed, the stinging, chemical smell digs into my nostrils. As the wind from the road siphons the pungent odor out from the helmet, the open road calls as do the gators and snakes of the Everglades.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgWSuy2gg0hZUkjG2ShICFPHt3pOktTywVnb2o1dWI5W8CC7-txGMUnFEHrAz-3d1VcLTrXJunHVVVdzgVLKeZjddkrYN4fec9YvhxtGy1XUOF7ySLOvJru2RoLH5KZ6QyG4LdebmlAr32/s1600/IMG_0253.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgWSuy2gg0hZUkjG2ShICFPHt3pOktTywVnb2o1dWI5W8CC7-txGMUnFEHrAz-3d1VcLTrXJunHVVVdzgVLKeZjddkrYN4fec9YvhxtGy1XUOF7ySLOvJru2RoLH5KZ6QyG4LdebmlAr32/s200/IMG_0253.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486901149404267714" /></a> <br /><br />The gulf coast is filled with tourist traps, constant population and the virus of traffic that accompanies both. It is also filled with nooks, crannies, twists, turns and 25 mph zones that split through the middle of the islands that edge the state on the west. Going is slow, and while tempers and frustrations used to be quick to rise, a new outlook provides much needed patience and understanding that this, along with all situations that will present themselves, is all part of the journey. Hwy 41 finally appears and just when that hard-wired sense of entitlement and instant gratification starts to hiss, sputter and pop into gear, Mother Nature starts to weep and humbles me with its helpful, rainy reminder. Raining only for a few hours, the skies finally subside and I pull over to take off the rain gear. As the suit packs up into the saddle bag, I look across the highway and notice a porn shop. I also notice a sheriff’s cruiser parked right outside with driver’s seat empty and chortle a bit. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPTPlESazuuSh9Q8hUVtml87531pJpKRUGXZmqQBQBx97vNfbJyEOLUKf4gKlHpbQOufQbSzEmGC89QTM0B9rTUfS0hz15hg0GhRtE569hINBNZZShc698RKnb4jIWgcpeeEsYrqsAnsIJ/s1600/IMG_0261.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPTPlESazuuSh9Q8hUVtml87531pJpKRUGXZmqQBQBx97vNfbJyEOLUKf4gKlHpbQOufQbSzEmGC89QTM0B9rTUfS0hz15hg0GhRtE569hINBNZZShc698RKnb4jIWgcpeeEsYrqsAnsIJ/s200/IMG_0261.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486896755672858178" /></a> The Everglades announce itself abruptly and now that the rain gear is packed, the sunny skies start to cloud and drizzle a bit, but not enough to be bothersome. Signs for Big Cypress boardwalk tempt me to pull over and I eagerly accept at the chance to walk through the swamps with hopes of seeing a gator. The boardwalk is just a hair over a half mile walk, an easy stroll amongst towering cypress and pines, with flora that evokes mouth-opening gazes. Hot and muggy after the Florida showers, the trail pays off with the booty that was hoped for. An alligator. The gator sits on a log at the end of the walk, only a couple feet long and covered in vegetation. It doesn’t move as it basks in the sun, and it appears to not even be breathing. Could it be a prop for the benefit of the tourists that decide to make the trek? I’ll never know. <br /><br /><br />Next stop on the tour through the Glades is Everglade City, south of the highway, to indulge in a lunch of fresh stone crab. Starting to roll in that direction, it’s the first time that the route has led me away from a storm and I stay dry for a little while longer. City Seafood Café & Market looks like a fitting place to stop for lunch and an order of stone crab claws and potato salad is ordered and the upstairs balcony that overlooks the marina offers a great place to sit and enjoy. The city seems empty, save for a few straggling cars and the restaurant mirrors the streets. I don’t have to eat lunch alone, however. There is a manatee that offers up his company and continues to hang around the pier, often coming up for air and snorting out a mist of sea water through his nostrils announcing his repeated appearances. Storms have caught up like a persistent process server and blow through during lunch and it is nice to be sitting under a roof, rather than being on the bike. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXMfNbpsodk36eZjyBY1ndvZn3L6Y0nTyRw0DCm1UY4UscwBqkr4v5slEGlYH9A9HsYVkK1sjbkYXS69D5ITjlhqfvwBhhE1iwFGrmYBUnM6oCs9g2I28vsLHOYjW7POj7WCxHPl8JVlVM/s1600/IMG_0275.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXMfNbpsodk36eZjyBY1ndvZn3L6Y0nTyRw0DCm1UY4UscwBqkr4v5slEGlYH9A9HsYVkK1sjbkYXS69D5ITjlhqfvwBhhE1iwFGrmYBUnM6oCs9g2I28vsLHOYjW7POj7WCxHPl8JVlVM/s200/IMG_0275.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486902826898764482" /></a><br /><br />Two short hours in the Glades and the thirst for fauna is sated quickly. Alligators and iguanas line the roads, some absolutely massive, as well as a snapping turtle the size of a truck tire that moves quickly enough to make me think twice about meeting one up close and personal. Panther warning signs line the road and even though it would be quite an experience to see one, I’m not that geeked to do so. Weaving through the wildlife and making tracks down the highway, it begins to get time to think about setting up camp, so I stop at an exotic, safari, animal farm and campground. Perfect place to set up a tent amongst swamp buggies and animals that would dine on me, if they could. <br /><br />I check into the campground and ask the host if there is anywhere that might be dry, or at least a little drier than the rest of the sites. He obliges and with a quick bark on the walkie-talkie, promises that a guide will cut the path to dry land and a place to set Betty’s kickstand down for the night. An absolutely thunderous man appears on a 4-wheeler that seems to scream under the weight. Spilling over the sides, he takes me to a knoll next to the pond and points out a dry place. Before I can express appreciation, he says:<br /><br />“Can park your bike there, there’s asphalt under that grass and she’ll only sink in about ½ inch before she hits the rock. And if the gator comes up, give it a whap with a stick and it’ll go back into the water.”<br /><br />Thinking that he saw the Wisco plates and is just messing with a Yankee, I say:<br /><br />“Sure, when the gator comes up, I’ll give ‘er a little poke.”<br /><br />“No boy, you whap him good, don’t give him a chance to get too close.”<br /><br />“Okay, thanks for the tip, I’ll be sure to do that. Have a good night.”<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG3_AAuDwFA4hyphenhyphenHwdQMapPi24ry-cwDyU_60gaJdUSWxE2YIQi7qki1_jy2zNvexxQCFIJo3TCNuUCVfgx7FexCf_vM4Hw8TPZQMX-2lqS_i9m1IV0gOyG0LoxVpinsAEOCLhhXI2D2tpD/s1600/IMG_0309.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG3_AAuDwFA4hyphenhyphenHwdQMapPi24ry-cwDyU_60gaJdUSWxE2YIQi7qki1_jy2zNvexxQCFIJo3TCNuUCVfgx7FexCf_vM4Hw8TPZQMX-2lqS_i9m1IV0gOyG0LoxVpinsAEOCLhhXI2D2tpD/s200/IMG_0309.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486903818498947058" /></a><br /><br /><br />Joke is on me. After setting up camp about 10-15 feet from the water’s edge, I decide to take a walk around the pond and take some pictures. It appears that all other residents are indeed just that, or at a minimum, semi-permanent. There is a group of hunter/fishers that have trailers whose tires have sunk so far into the earth because they haven’t moved in quite some time and appear to have no plans to do so in the near future. The other group is of hard-core swamp buggies with tires, some as tall as I am and open cockpits that sit 15 feet above the ground. They look like a lot of fun. Further down the path is indeed a gator. Crap. He wasn’t messing with me. A little one at around 6 feet, it’s decided he poses no real threat as he silently glides through the water, a stealthy killer. Besides, camp is set and what else am I going to do? I go to sleep. The glades come alive at night, exploding into a cacophony or symphony of sounds depending on one’s mood and level of exhaustion. It’s a beautiful symphony of life with the bass lines of bull-frogs, the fluttering chirps of insects and the trumpeting squawks of baby gators. The performing swamp orchestra is beautiful for the first 2 hours, and then it just gets old. Sleep? Not happening like this. A few snorts of Woodford Reserve later and I’m nuzzling my pillow like a puppy. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpdkdNxoBCkeXpULBLFNKmN5QRJhV7GZr8P3W_VrlJe1o0YwtiZQcYuBrXXrtBoNHt3zF2IXX1BSxzypjhJoiGv_1fKcXZX5TVnf3Lec10XWzIWnVGAvYtxBeN9MUIHssV-ovaFRQ10EN9/s1600/IMG_0293.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpdkdNxoBCkeXpULBLFNKmN5QRJhV7GZr8P3W_VrlJe1o0YwtiZQcYuBrXXrtBoNHt3zF2IXX1BSxzypjhJoiGv_1fKcXZX5TVnf3Lec10XWzIWnVGAvYtxBeN9MUIHssV-ovaFRQ10EN9/s200/IMG_0293.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486906415148252514" /></a><br /><br />Morning arrives more silently than the path traveled to actually get to it and there is one goal in mind. Airboat. Exiting the park, a stop to see the exotic animals of this roadside attraction is a must and the overpriced ticket is worth every cent. To teach a lesson not to do this again. Cages made of Plexiglas, chicken wired and wood line a garage-like area and hold pythons, an anaconda, some snapping turtles and other reptiles, amphibians and birds. An experience to be had once, it’s over quickly and the highlight is being able to hold a fairly substantially sized anaconda, whose wrath is nothing compared to the blood-thirsty Skunk Ape.<br /><br />Take some asphalt. Add two tires. Spin repeatedly. A recipe for a great breakfast. The west gets further away with every second rolling by and the animals know that something is up. Water birds, great and white, fly parallel to the HD Muscle, providing an escort across Hwy 41. Gators clap their powerful jaws in applause as over-sized turtles and under-sized deer crane their necks over guardrails to see what all the fuss is about. Freedom. Pure freedom.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSFjwfI8cFpNaA0O8pa-aRKkjjCJsmF9QyaKs5_rATRiLbyKY3tXO6v8ePOL6-ZyKREXG5Q2EI9CUxLAEmruONuIZ-UcZ3Wcw9TZaN_1Hh0b_o3Dl8PvcLy-YrHaR7a8kQ8Rc0JUrPE63M/s1600/IMG_0308.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSFjwfI8cFpNaA0O8pa-aRKkjjCJsmF9QyaKs5_rATRiLbyKY3tXO6v8ePOL6-ZyKREXG5Q2EI9CUxLAEmruONuIZ-UcZ3Wcw9TZaN_1Hh0b_o3Dl8PvcLy-YrHaR7a8kQ8Rc0JUrPE63M/s200/IMG_0308.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486908501669030354" /></a> <br /><br />Some advice was given, by who has escaped, but concerning the airboats it is simple. Don’t take the first airboat tour that you seen on either side of the Glades. This advice is heeded and I end up at a Miccosukee-run tour. It’s a smaller boat, which is a plus and the price is reasonable for an hour. Talking with the guide, he says that they also use revenue generated from the tours to fund their animal sanctuary and rehab facilities. This is definitely a business that I can support, all there is to do know is wait for other passengers. We need at least 2 to make it worth their while and a few people show up and an intimate tour for 5 blows out into the glades to skim across the grass and get the wind in our hair. The guide is excellent, the tour is completely educational as well as a Glade ripping good time and I learn that Tiki is actually pronounced “Chee kee.” Huh – all these years pronouncing it incorrectly. The tour over, and saddle underneath, it’s a quick cruise down the way to snarf down some gator bites and the Keys are only a turn away.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBh868Njk86T_Bbuho4JWFofaUEXcWqKyF_LTapwGGwlsg8oBHfIUvoxbv9Fn9OIR7YxAHs7cOKAkymsn2r28wG_ZLbVwxl-bTttPgZUkKRBspqDN9j68IGPJ53ZeXKE_uC-VVk7Rz2xqn/s1600/IMG_0301.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBh868Njk86T_Bbuho4JWFofaUEXcWqKyF_LTapwGGwlsg8oBHfIUvoxbv9Fn9OIR7YxAHs7cOKAkymsn2r28wG_ZLbVwxl-bTttPgZUkKRBspqDN9j68IGPJ53ZeXKE_uC-VVk7Rz2xqn/s200/IMG_0301.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486907553642573154" /></a><br /><br /><em>"The bike may break me. The road may take me. I'll forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart."</em>The Tributehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10743853433112763375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5115176089524902569.post-9588830236777202922010-06-19T11:06:00.002-05:002010-06-19T11:13:20.080-05:006.19.10 - The 4th Month Anniversary of Ride the Edge Update:<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikkQbUfuZmr839atJp_i7Nsl3vOZFp43ouZdkwRHcnM7-grqKmARl86SISCad6KRz-X_wTb-QtK2xMU3NQSpJJjJ_wcsDodsdL3eGHdbPqRZHJqW-ucoZPQKs2xIkXXWyEIUKtzahwvGer/s1600/IMG_1852.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikkQbUfuZmr839atJp_i7Nsl3vOZFp43ouZdkwRHcnM7-grqKmARl86SISCad6KRz-X_wTb-QtK2xMU3NQSpJJjJ_wcsDodsdL3eGHdbPqRZHJqW-ucoZPQKs2xIkXXWyEIUKtzahwvGer/s200/IMG_1852.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484518442346885042" /></a><br /><br /><br />4 months of Harley and road living, so here are some quick stats (seeing as the actual blog is quite behind):<br /><br />Days on the road: 120<br /><br />Miles traveled: 17,797<br /><br />Pairs of Sunglasses: 5 (still holding, fingers crossed)<br /><br />States Visited: 32 and Canada<br /><br />Time Zones Traversed: 5 (plus a double up on the American 4)<br /><br />Current Location: Mt. Ranier, WA <br /><br />The “MOST” places visited: 4 corners of U.S. plus:<br />• Southernmost point in U.S. – Keywest, FL<br />• Easternmost point in U.S. – Quoddy Head, ME<br />• Northernmost point in U.S. – Northwest Angle, MN<br />• Westernmost point in U.S. – Cape Alava, WA<br /><br /><br />The first and longest leg of the journey will be completed as the circle on the perimeter of the United States is closed when Betty and I roll into Santa Monica on 6/30. Coming through the Cascade Mountains in Washington, over the pass on Hwy 20, proved to be a great challenge and a seemingly final test before allowing the west coast to present itself once again. As the altitude climbed, the weather deteriorated severely, crossing lines from cold to rain to full whiteout blizzard. There were two options. Stay and wait it out or inch forward through the snow and get over the pass. The choice was made to inch forward and get out of dodge. It was the right choice. A harrowing experience, but a devilish grin never left my lips as the challenge was met with fierce contention. The decision proved the right one (not knowing if the storm would get stuck on the pass and keep me there indefinitely) and a few hours later the view of the Georgia Straight came into sight at Blaine, Washington. My friends, I am almost there, even though I have quite a bit left. Seeing the water again plastered the biggest smile onto this mug that has graced its presence in quite some time. Going coast to coast to coast is a nice milestone. The trip is still incredible, but now I day dream about Pete (dog), family, friends, my own bed and the luxury of opening a refrigerator at anytime to raid the delicious contents it holds. The next anniversary update will be the final of 5 months and I should be rolling into home at this time, after completing historic Route 66. As history suggests, posts of the trip will not be complete by this time, and they will continue to be updated after I am home, until the story of the trip is posted in its entirety. As always, thank you all for your continued support, advice, hook-ups and friendship.The Tributehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10743853433112763375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5115176089524902569.post-8712589418955780772010-06-03T20:16:00.012-05:002010-06-03T21:04:45.361-05:00Nawlins, Mississippi, Alabama and into sunny FLA 3.18 – 3.21<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgapf8t7FPS7WoTH1KSju4eFU1qmUfjghZTla994h98mskyo4_2XiKloM2wUSUpF-n8-yBgrVVKgbROK4DDT7OfM9yCjQXWeEm5SMpuiJ-o4PTE-aX-43H_qBaBdge2rDfMoR4hCC4ocxqH/s1600/welcomeLA.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 118px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgapf8t7FPS7WoTH1KSju4eFU1qmUfjghZTla994h98mskyo4_2XiKloM2wUSUpF-n8-yBgrVVKgbROK4DDT7OfM9yCjQXWeEm5SMpuiJ-o4PTE-aX-43H_qBaBdge2rDfMoR4hCC4ocxqH/s200/welcomeLA.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478723236822408050" /></a><br />Route: From Sulphur, LA: 82E to 27N to 14E to 90E to Nawlins. 90E out of NOLA and continue on 90E through Mississippi (which is only 79 miles across). Continue on 90E to Alabama, then 188E to 193S to Dauphin Island. Toll ferry across to 180E to 182E to camp at Gulf Shores State Park.182E joins up with 292E and then 98E into Florida.<br /><strong><br />“For I have always lived violently, drunk hugely, eaten too much or not at all, slept around the clock or missed two nights of sleeping, worked too hard and too long in glory, or slobbed for a time in utter laziness. I’ve lifted, pulled, chopped, climbed, made love with joy and taken my hangovers as a consequence, not a punishment.” – John Steinbeck</strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidswvJlvp9hjSdHimoynxaNcT1bNquzmu8yQQ5o18Q_dsofh_2DpeyjfMNEIWhY_8n-Jj9wOD12H8Yo9PMW8iEgVjYMGsWdujljBtHp8LVzVYoWYZsjjwCq_k-LoTEfCza086fjPMVuYmw/s1600/IMG_0103.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidswvJlvp9hjSdHimoynxaNcT1bNquzmu8yQQ5o18Q_dsofh_2DpeyjfMNEIWhY_8n-Jj9wOD12H8Yo9PMW8iEgVjYMGsWdujljBtHp8LVzVYoWYZsjjwCq_k-LoTEfCza086fjPMVuYmw/s200/IMG_0103.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478723591118276994" /></a>The morning after St. Patty’s day does not greet me with the pulsating headache that habitually makes its annual appearance, but rather thrusts me into a groggy conversation of which takes me a few minutes to digest and realize what quagmire has ensnared me. Sipping a cup of coffee and noshing on muffins and Danish that is the Microtel’s continental breakfast, lips, teeth and tongue operate groggily to provide the day’s energy. In a less than coherent state that coincidentally resembles the hangover that should be, a white-haired man wearing a sport coat made from David Lynch’s red velvet curtains approaches and asks if I want a “free ticket.” Without thought, a yeth is uttered through muffin crumbs and a drink of coffee is taken to correct the speech impediment. He hands over a pamphlet promising to absolve me of all my sins and begins the elevator speech to my own personal redemption. Intrigued for a hazy, bleary-eyed moment I thumb through the pamphlet and realize that it’s only about 3” x 4” and only 4 total pages. Unfortunately to be absolved of my “sins,” it’s going to take a much bigger pamphlet. Yet another reminder of the heavy stream of influence that flows underneath the bible belt, that cinches across the south like a leather corset and the foreign territory explored and now called home, I excuse myself with coffee almost gone and cup of sin still full, it’s time to mount up and move out. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtl7YZa0Eqnjsb7W7JATM96cfBrao72BXhhEmVxBFEkKgsNi7WbtBnOL7K3ucZDMMzTpixLhB1b3t6OQjrKX6lya806MC68muz2JHtTthMn-nTtUFFwX3YyW3sV8GYGGecZgTmNL611Xoq/s1600/IMG_0101.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtl7YZa0Eqnjsb7W7JATM96cfBrao72BXhhEmVxBFEkKgsNi7WbtBnOL7K3ucZDMMzTpixLhB1b3t6OQjrKX6lya806MC68muz2JHtTthMn-nTtUFFwX3YyW3sV8GYGGecZgTmNL611Xoq/s200/IMG_0101.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478725950832801570" /></a>A quick chat with the morning desk clerk brings a promise of local experience that the route through the bayous will be clear and that there will not be a repeat of the mosquito laden horror from the night prior. It’s a promise that is trusted and after a brief, early morning idle, Betty grumbles her way down to highway 82. Her word is as golden as the rapidly ascending sunrise that keeps the hundreds of thousands of vampire invertebrates at bay and attempts to warm the arid, cold morning air. The road today is friendly and the wildlife preserve is peaceful, a complete 180 from the night before leaving the white knuckles and black mosquitoes a twinkle of a memory in yesterday’s dark of night.<br /><br />82E runs along the bottom of the Louisiana coastline and leaves plenty of time to apologize to Betty for not having the time nor the opportunity to wash or change her bug-crusted gown. An unexpected detour is forced as a remnant of hurricane damage presents itself in the form of a washed out bridge. Under repair from local workers, the bridge is the only in the area and they are confident that there is no other close. This hiccup leads to a route that is further north than desired, but being the only option...well, it’s the only option. It’s a shameful sort of situation because the ride has been lone, peaceful and encompassed by a recovering beauty of nature’s relentless fight to reclaim its tiara from its natural adversary. Feeling dejected as the trip north courses away from this silent battle, thoughts are immediately reversed once I turn onto Hwy 90 and a surprising turn of scenery threatens to move attentions from the road to the sides of it. The trip so far has been mainly farmland, desert or bayou until this turn is made and now lush forests surround this narrow concrete byway.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbZtoOwcA4Z7z0dHtVyQF-g2ZE2tPIDvslA7o5vsUeI-ekyazR-RK-ug_IGvWkwVSYhW24IvUYrRoZpTy_eKF8Y4O5e_ZalOXcWq3pzX2-o2hp4fYF40m_JJhvknGbsQREQXfkWpN1Z0Fr/s1600/IMG_0096.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbZtoOwcA4Z7z0dHtVyQF-g2ZE2tPIDvslA7o5vsUeI-ekyazR-RK-ug_IGvWkwVSYhW24IvUYrRoZpTy_eKF8Y4O5e_ZalOXcWq3pzX2-o2hp4fYF40m_JJhvknGbsQREQXfkWpN1Z0Fr/s200/IMG_0096.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478726672616294066" /></a> <br /><br />Despite rigorous tests of prowess better suited for a dual-sport, the Harley Davidson Muscle has been performing perfectly under conditions that may not have been in mind when this performance bike was built. Betty has combated gravel, rocks, potholes, dirt roads; hard-packed sand paths and city streets that make a lava field look like fine-bone china, always coming up with the title belt. Back on a smooth road is a welcome luxury, given the angry nature of the back roads that were previously travelled. Wanting to keep the tires on a pothole free highway for a while, partnered with my lust for the French Quarter, I push on Hwy 90 until New Orleans is realized and the labyrinth of city streets once again claims me as a victim of uncertain direction.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwfGnj-3loJ_MOR408fSjjYUPDNKF3mXynJS9ku1lWmfgsHn0KNXFAFrJ5pe5lM-2bevKjTHswfGGZd0u_pZdOd0O6hxTf30LgjhgduB1EVWKNfIKp5zp7-NiY3HR5dMl9OtpZOzNKMaR4/s1600/IMG_0138.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwfGnj-3loJ_MOR408fSjjYUPDNKF3mXynJS9ku1lWmfgsHn0KNXFAFrJ5pe5lM-2bevKjTHswfGGZd0u_pZdOd0O6hxTf30LgjhgduB1EVWKNfIKp5zp7-NiY3HR5dMl9OtpZOzNKMaR4/s200/IMG_0138.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478724447482526642" /></a>Unbeknownst to me (and I assume all newcomers to the city), New Orleans’ French Quarter is a small, but daunting maze of one-way streets that change names when hitting certain others. Canal St runs to the river and everything north of this has one name and everything south another. Since they are one-way roads, the signs only are read from the direction that is pertinent. Good info to know and being slow, in the blistering heat (only because every scrap of my suit of leather armor is adorned) it takes a solid, sweaty hour to figure out where the supposed hotel is located. Streets are jam packed with the not-so-typical spring break crowd and it is assumed that this city of sin always behaves in this uncooperative manner. As the bike idles on a street corner trying to get bearings, Steve Zahn stands next to me looking just as confused as I am. He’s wearing a Kentucky t-shirt complimented by a Kentucky visor and the realization that I’ve just entered New Orleans during spring break AND the March Madness tournament slaps me in the face as gently as Lenny pets the rabbits. Sh!t. I’m not getting a hotel tonight, am I? Having not eaten since 10 hours prior, the hanger sets in and a growling stomach confirms the perspiring contempt of the moment. Plan: get a hotel, shower and eat. STAT!<br /><br />After a daunting search, a hotel has a last-minute cancellation and offers a reprieve, but for one night only. It’s Thursday and the hopes to explore Nawlins for a couple of days are merely on pause, but not stopped completely. The room is taken for the night and if must comes to must, all gear, clothes, bags and whatnot will be dutifully moved to any hotel that will put me up for the night, no matter what the cost. With Betty safely in the garage and all the gear hoisted to the 4th floor the shower starts to wash away the hanger that has been all consuming for the past few hours. The walk over to Canal and up Bourbon Street is inspiring, energetic and it feels as if the last golden ticket has been delivered to its rightful owner. Remoulade’s menu glistens in the front window, no it shines in the front window and promises to soothe the overpowering craving that hit once the Louisiana got under the Harley’s tires. Catfish nuggets and cold beer. I’m happier than Admiral Akbar watching the Death Star blow up. The meal is perfectly wonderful .The catfish nuggets are rolled in cornmeal and fried to the point that once it hits your lips, pixies appear. The beer is ice cold and compliments the nuggets better than Sam compliments Frodo. Sated and stuffed, the town is for the taking as long as a pair of waders is available to muck through the stream of spring breakers. It will be a happy day when there is no longer a contention for a hotel room with these hordes of former mes. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC19uGFUxxRgl3adW4vANm9_8-whyphenhyphenFSFaU5iUGmEKw-mG3Is1-yokJxLbvk-zu8SgcFc9luvrrwsC12UduR6VXv8GClHM4IXQTL-Mc1Ig0ToiM6KOZqIwaZgt_DuF4YnTir2oPZK2XazeR/s1600/IMG_0164.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC19uGFUxxRgl3adW4vANm9_8-whyphenhyphenFSFaU5iUGmEKw-mG3Is1-yokJxLbvk-zu8SgcFc9luvrrwsC12UduR6VXv8GClHM4IXQTL-Mc1Ig0ToiM6KOZqIwaZgt_DuF4YnTir2oPZK2XazeR/s200/IMG_0164.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478727840597593858" /></a><br />The bartender at a house of libations which the name of has now been released from the grips of memory pours a tall, tall, golden whisky over eagerly awaiting ice cubes and the stool is just as comforting after a long day’s ride. Ponied up to the bar, while watching the band belt out spring breaker favorites such as Journey and Bon Jovi, an easy conversation is struck with the trio standing to the left. Two locals, originally from Wisconsin, Ben and Angie are entertaining Ben’s cousin Pete for a much needed vacation. Like the few remaining Cheerios in the bottom of the bowl, Sconnies have a tendency to float towards each other in any bar and strike up an immediate rapport. This night is no exception. Ben is a decade veteran of New Orleans and his job as a deep sea diver keeps the beer flowing in his glass. We hit it off and that good old Wisco hospitality is alive and well on Bourbon Street, they extend an invitation to let me tag along and the acceptance drools out of my mouth. Jimmy White’s is the bar that does us (me) in. Just off of the main drag, it is a low-key, friendly, dark bar that acts like deet to those buzzing spring breakers. Shots are poured, beers are drunk and the good times flow and conversation covers everything under the sun. These are my people and after a while, the impression made must have been a good one because they invite me to an authentic crawfish boil that upcoming Saturday. Acceptance is a shoo-in. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHXnXkl5DEGaHnGR8MO1uw6XMADSVj3IzNAVR7Ziryszet8DOmmEqn69zPd5adcGUDEnF6o1Iqvg5IFpOChWuCsSLmiXsudYMaAIYu5X0iEeg2tn6YK-5GM01Y7p5zM-sNorjagZzN41rq/s1600/IMG_0167.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHXnXkl5DEGaHnGR8MO1uw6XMADSVj3IzNAVR7Ziryszet8DOmmEqn69zPd5adcGUDEnF6o1Iqvg5IFpOChWuCsSLmiXsudYMaAIYu5X0iEeg2tn6YK-5GM01Y7p5zM-sNorjagZzN41rq/s200/IMG_0167.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478728927774700370" /></a><br />After mutitudes of the cheapest shots and beer that has gracd these lips in ages, Ben, Angie and Pete call it a night and while they jump in a cab to go home, I jump into the next bar, of course. More Bon Jovi and Journey, what a surprise. Astonishment barely contained, I once again pony up to the bar and with spirits fairly high for 1am, order a lesser of the evils, the old stand-by, rum and coke. Striking up a conversation with a couple of sisters from San Antonio, I eventually take a sip of common sense and amble back to the hotel. I wish that I could recount for you, the reader, all the establishments that provided the evening’s entertainment, but…well… you know how it goes sometimes.<br /><br />Eyes slowly creak open like a rusty door hinge and the light hits with the force of a jilted lover’s backhand. WHAT IS THIS PAIN?! Riiight, alcohol has been busy and not had the time to swing by for a visit for quite some time and apparently wants this reunion to be extra special. The pain is overwhelming, but the need to switch hotels hurts more. A call is made to the front desk to see if they will allow just one more night under the room’s current tenant. An excruciating 5 minutes pass while the clerk checks with the manager, time drawn like taffy between 7 year olds fingers on a cold day. The handset clunks on the desk top as the clerk delivers the winning lottery numbers for the day.<br /><br />“Yes sir, you can stay in the room for tonight.”<br /><br />If it didn’t hurt to smile, I would have. Sleep drills through the pain and noon pops up with headache’s best friend, hunger. Bound and determined to get what’s possible from this magnificent city, the water from the shower beats the tender skull like a snare drum, clothes are thrown on and a rigorous climb to Café Du Monde is set upon. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiITJxdqatc_80uIA_ZjqALDRTbugjPiJcwxLIYA8nf-k8OrI-742btPWu07Mkb_bkENQPy9YXmaSSeC5Ta6UsjfA5bd4DYA5Hw6qhOdz78cq-vGAhUiXAm1InXYGudh1NAl_EhhHuh6U6M/s1600/IMG_0131.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiITJxdqatc_80uIA_ZjqALDRTbugjPiJcwxLIYA8nf-k8OrI-742btPWu07Mkb_bkENQPy9YXmaSSeC5Ta6UsjfA5bd4DYA5Hw6qhOdz78cq-vGAhUiXAm1InXYGudh1NAl_EhhHuh6U6M/s200/IMG_0131.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478730375296880546" /></a>A delicious early afternoon breakfast of beignets and café au laits lands on the table after wait that would be considered false imprisonment if it happened on a tarmac. While the delicious, fried delicacy drips the over coating of powdered sugar down my gullet, the coffee makes sure that swallowing the dry mass is possible. An absolutely fantastic combination. Hands coated in powdered sugar, a crotchety old man sees an opportunity at a table holding only one and asks if he may sit down and partake in the New Orleans tradition. Obliging, hesitation is obvious as the cantankerous retiree tries desperately to order, with no avail. Trying to diffuse the situation, I start to pry. There may be 500 blank faces in a crowd, but once you start to dig, pages of volumes of fascinating stories begin to turn. This gentleman is a former air force aerospace engineer that developed the gyroscopes that keep the international space station balanced in orbit. Wow. Once the initial crust is peeled from his granite demeanor, the conversation is friendly and I’m glad to have had the opportunity to meet such a unique individual. <br /><br />We part ways and the rest of the day is spent cruising the French Quarter. St. Louis cathedral and Jackson Square amaze eyeballs used to coastlines and deserts. The French Market is perused with hopes that a smoothie will soothe the savage hangover beast and it does. The gypsies are all selling their wares of all kinds. Palm readings, artistry, photographers, dancers and jazz bands abound. The particular quartet that I currently ogle even has their own version of Flavor Flav, stuffing his face with herring from a tin. He dances, jumps and gets the crowd going and if more encouragement is needed, a woman presents him with a bottle of vodka which he promptly downs without breathing.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8nI6u6HaHDHegyeVLQKGI2epZLoPVmh5HqpJukxZrmKJrYsK08P8yxXojPAwhFZz6gpjbM2DZZSZMGijBluf_YTlz4r_5L_a5PnFlF81PLPZHtagJlOL6JJAJSv1uEVEdBXFsV5ombdyX/s1600/IMG_0126.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8nI6u6HaHDHegyeVLQKGI2epZLoPVmh5HqpJukxZrmKJrYsK08P8yxXojPAwhFZz6gpjbM2DZZSZMGijBluf_YTlz4r_5L_a5PnFlF81PLPZHtagJlOL6JJAJSv1uEVEdBXFsV5ombdyX/s200/IMG_0126.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478728293830136370" /></a> The trek around town takes me into an absinthe museum and a movie set that looks like a b-list Lady Gaga video, complete with b-list Cirque de Soleil performers. <br /><br />There is jazz around every corner, filling bodies with exuberance and recharging the listless masses that still suffer as I do. Walking down the river walk, a young man no older than 23 provokes a beautiful moan from a clarinet and the wailing notes pace my footsteps while I walk down and continue to the end of the walk. The events of the day chaperone to dinner, which comes more quickly than expected, so Redfish is chosen and while the jambalaya is consumed, hopes that it is not a chain of Redfish, that I can get in Chicago adds a sour taste of discouragement. <br /><br />Bound and determined to see the famous Ghost Tour, ticket is purchased and the line of hordes of people is attacked with mediocre vigor. The tour guide looks exactly like Jean Reno and with his Creole accent, it’s a strong possibility, although I much rather enjoy him in movies. The Ghost Tour is filled more with the dark history of the city, having burned down 3 times in 60 years or so and causing thousands of deaths. The tour gives a dark underbelly to an already shady town. When the tour is over, there is a meeting of the dead, all the guides rally for a beer and compare tips. I wonder if the winner has to buy.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5dL68M3ZwyGlL71_NAuhYUBZHUYBrwJBi3cYYo2Xlen4AMXx6XY0hupMBEDxH6ABijyY3MEZSG_RuqMSgDz9t8g20Eb8hwv5vVQRv3ohGgPUTCBwqNJH7KIJQnsHm4sgCr9KrQBmTbKmj/s1600/IMG_0162.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5dL68M3ZwyGlL71_NAuhYUBZHUYBrwJBi3cYYo2Xlen4AMXx6XY0hupMBEDxH6ABijyY3MEZSG_RuqMSgDz9t8g20Eb8hwv5vVQRv3ohGgPUTCBwqNJH7KIJQnsHm4sgCr9KrQBmTbKmj/s200/IMG_0162.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478732500657944178" /></a><br /><br />The night is closed out in perfect fashion with whisky and blues at The Blues Club. Troy Turner sings a pulsating set that brings young love as well as old to slide and hold their partners closely on the dance floor. Slow, rhythmic, wet and thick, the music is like sex for your ears, stimulating all your senses and I leave to go back to the hotel room, completely and utterly aurally satisfied. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQvqdnBak2kAOM6O2acN8DEoDMCe5BOlCFCCawpqp5aALmGeqw1QS_FDHnVpQ1SEx5KLiN3qYXYdtRGwO5EjQMjAPlLW4dAZXOxULNe-ZrOSfjgmi1rfngve6j0_0YAQU-DcKbXkCAF-sk/s1600/IMG_0147.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQvqdnBak2kAOM6O2acN8DEoDMCe5BOlCFCCawpqp5aALmGeqw1QS_FDHnVpQ1SEx5KLiN3qYXYdtRGwO5EjQMjAPlLW4dAZXOxULNe-ZrOSfjgmi1rfngve6j0_0YAQU-DcKbXkCAF-sk/s200/IMG_0147.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478731400091700882" /></a> The night closes and the morning comes quickly, more clearly and with a renewed energy and hunger. Due to impending storms and the push to get into Florida, the most regrettable and unfortunate decision to pass on the invitation to the crawfish boil is made. This is a regret that will be carried in my saddle bags for the rest of the trip, but it must be done. Heading into Mississippi, the bugs are relentless and cleaning the helmet’s face shield is a constant and continuing battle and the loss is not falling on the bugs’ scoreboard. Highway 90 once again proves to be the right choice and is lined with cypress, tall pines and a beauty to be appreciated. While Betty chews up the miles, thoughts of the distance between people chew on my mind. It seems a dreadful shame that there is a greater chasm that separates people based on prejudice and perception than there is actual physical distance. The thought leaves a despondent mark branded in my gut. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhghvb-64k_8_u6u3CAYPmJDiozc2AVCOzls0v2DiWJ96yBz5QpN2AsQeil7_3f56Of8LYsX2E-tP59I816d3LdCMGCtas8yVaxfvyW4asNQ-OdKtwSOl6hU-ZM0GIYeWbB11KHa25p1f-R/s1600/IMG_0170.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhghvb-64k_8_u6u3CAYPmJDiozc2AVCOzls0v2DiWJ96yBz5QpN2AsQeil7_3f56Of8LYsX2E-tP59I816d3LdCMGCtas8yVaxfvyW4asNQ-OdKtwSOl6hU-ZM0GIYeWbB11KHa25p1f-R/s200/IMG_0170.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478733272043313698" /></a>Mississippi proves to be a mere 79 miles across the coastal edge and the trip goes continuously, save for a break to eat a fried oyster po’ boy at Snapper’s Seafood. The sandwich is cooked as thoroughly as the waiter, who seems to have spent just a little too much time in the sun. Maybe he was catching the seafood himself. The meal is devoured ferociously as the war against the rapid weight loss of the first month of the trip has been a losing battle. <br /><br />Alabama once again rears the strange mix of tropical mixed with a Midwest forest. Its beauty foreign, yet eerily familiar. Thanks to help from the Dauphin Island ferry, the trip across Alabama trumps Mississippi’s, being only 68 miles from edge to edge. The gulf is a muddy brown, a disconcerting foreshadow of the eco-disaster that is to come to this area, although at this time, I do not know it. Camp is set up at Gulf Shores State Park, on the eastern edge of Bama, for the night and every effort to combat the storm that has finally caught me is made and I dive into my nylon turtle shell a few minutes before the storm begins to pound its wet fists against the roof of the tent. Betty under the protection of a weighted down tarp, the loose parts flap in the gale-force wind like a wounded duck. Midnight brings the true fury of the storm and the Eureka breathes in and out, struggling obstinately against the stakes holding it firmly in place. The walls breathe in and out and I feel trapped in a nylon lung, with no escape as the weather continues to pummel from outside. This is the first time that the tent leaks, but it is not until the storm has nearly screamed itself to exhaustion and it has held up admirably. <br /><br />I pack up a wet camp, in a residual wind that seems to not have lost its power and put the gear away wet. Bound for Florida, hopes are that the storm took no break to sleep overnight and that it is far east enough to prevent me from catching it. Betty is perfect. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbByrwao0sQ7X6KdtSy3UsOfDWv_Yg09rCyx9r5bJYTdJARJQ11zdCcSbVqKemrKPLUTlYIxKInCllb9ktbgK7crpgdKnKlKS0nmWjSvPzCNVo0mJUbdI-7SIdqndGw6a1aRfGaIBd0_9F/s1600/IMG_0196.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 179px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbByrwao0sQ7X6KdtSy3UsOfDWv_Yg09rCyx9r5bJYTdJARJQ11zdCcSbVqKemrKPLUTlYIxKInCllb9ktbgK7crpgdKnKlKS0nmWjSvPzCNVo0mJUbdI-7SIdqndGw6a1aRfGaIBd0_9F/s200/IMG_0196.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478733481917097506" /></a><br /><br /><em>“The bike may break me. The road may take me. I’ll forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart.”</em>The Tributehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10743853433112763375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5115176089524902569.post-55542737760950649552010-05-21T20:44:00.017-05:002010-05-21T22:09:42.309-05:00Dallas to Louisiana 3.12 – 3.18<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDQj63DlicfUzM89EyJJlbx2U7dJHXkMv3Gv9-nHmuXPrWwmjJCSxQnbDw_0Zv4I0VJmGY5Zk7ui_hijOB1k-cl6JysyVcek5x2MnPLV5vess7OdbKbylvcHFpuR37b_L30Uz_bfIeD4hD/s1600/IMG_2942.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDQj63DlicfUzM89EyJJlbx2U7dJHXkMv3Gv9-nHmuXPrWwmjJCSxQnbDw_0Zv4I0VJmGY5Zk7ui_hijOB1k-cl6JysyVcek5x2MnPLV5vess7OdbKbylvcHFpuR37b_L30Uz_bfIeD4hD/s200/IMG_2942.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473908142488713138" /></a><br />Route: I-45 out of Dallas to Hwy 105W at Conroe (to bypass the monstrosity known as Houston traffic) to 6S to 159S to 36S to Blue Water Highway to 87E to 124N to 73E to 82E (Louisiana). LA: 82E to 27N to 82E to 27N to 14E to 90E to Nawlins.<br /><br /><strong>“The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one's own country as a foreign land.” -G.K. Chesterton</strong><br /><br />Dallas and Exit Texas, Enter New Orleans<br /><br />The storm may have skipped town, but it has left behind its blustery offspring. Battling 45 mile an hour winds, the numbing cold helps to soothe flexing and aching muscles that remain painfully strained for the 4 hour ride into Dallas while the sun attacks unclouded, but is helpless against stronger foes. Frozen claws once again grip Betty’s handlebars and she shivers at my touch, a recurring event that is wearing extremely thin.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC1XaW6p9tANe8BpshtNSQ5dsQseltzs-o5GpgjSur6P6psgTuAmZM6RHRqtOacmwXtSU2tt2kJVRP0eWXcvTVl9diFL3WqlI6_v1l_NyrwmNrK0t6gHOoqwE0zU3ed828IVddiTH80nGT/s1600/IMG_0041.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC1XaW6p9tANe8BpshtNSQ5dsQseltzs-o5GpgjSur6P6psgTuAmZM6RHRqtOacmwXtSU2tt2kJVRP0eWXcvTVl9diFL3WqlI6_v1l_NyrwmNrK0t6gHOoqwE0zU3ed828IVddiTH80nGT/s200/IMG_0041.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473910404728398450" /></a><br />A late morning arrival comes with a hug that warms me up as only a Grandmother’s could. The outside taken care of, we head to lunch to warm my belly with the spice and flavors of Mexican. Time spent catching up is priceless as is seeing a welcome, loving, familiar face. Nothing but time on our hands and a growing and unforeseen interest in the trip from travelling strangers, Office Depot is next on the list. Rather than continuously looking for a pen and paper to write down the blog site, a brilliant idea was presented while in the desert and lifers (RV-ers or pro travelers) often do this with flair. Business cards completely decked out with pictures, web addresses, email addresses and maps telling the tales of travel, it seems as if there is an unspoken competition amongst these gypsies as to who has the prize winning card. Pushing my competitive nature to the curb, mine are gray with three lines of black type. They do the job and it’s cheap-o.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSwVuiJWJLPZ_GZ0GVA3lV4lhPhfvAQ9WGPSkohuqDqKzS7jSCW3XOMOfjU-MXQqBV1-_zDn1BPjLsIno_ZE7xFmk0uN30W-5IxqhmiZcchAD0w46hXDIbFchcyAZuygYnKzcDxMDDjGS3/s1600/IMG_0052.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSwVuiJWJLPZ_GZ0GVA3lV4lhPhfvAQ9WGPSkohuqDqKzS7jSCW3XOMOfjU-MXQqBV1-_zDn1BPjLsIno_ZE7xFmk0uN30W-5IxqhmiZcchAD0w46hXDIbFchcyAZuygYnKzcDxMDDjGS3/s200/IMG_0052.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473911624345625234" /></a><br /><br />Back at home the catch-up and tales from the road continue and while Gene and I watch our conversation unfurl, our eyes forget about the steaks on the grill and the end result is far from rare. After dinner and thinking the night is over, I was completely unprepared to run the Wii gauntlet that my grandmother had lain down. A mighty warrior, whose weapon of choice is the Wii paddle, she battles ferociously for hours until exhaustion finally takes over and I yield to the bed sheets of defeat. The knowledge of being in a familiar place and with loved ones comforts me and sleep is deep and peaceful.<br /><br />Breakfast is the spread of kings of which the Del Rio Sirloin Stockade buffet cannot hold a French toast stick to. There is no room at the table for the guests as it is occupied by the residents of homemade strata, blueberry bread, baklava, fruit plate, coffee and juice. I may not want to leave. Even as this is written months later, a stream still runs from the corners of my mouth when thinking about it. That night, dinner celebrates birthdays for Gene and my cousin Kirstyn. His birthday baffles the mind and the years collected along the way contradict his jubilant, positive and energetic attitude. The original silver fox, he’s still jumping over all those lazy dogs. Dinner is delicious, but I can’t eat as much as normally fills the void of my stomach. Weight loss from living a frugal life on the road has reduced my appetite significantly and is disappointing. Then and there, the decision is made (again) to make more effort to ensure that I not only eat, but sleep properly, the success of the trip will hinge upon such simple tasks. Cathy, Scott, Thomas and Kirstyn swing by for dessert but leave before round two of WWii begins. Family can be therapeutic in small doses, this we all know, and right now, I’m in session and I couldn’t be happier.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZk3Xf88rNTK9LcZ2i7i63K28U-mulc2zX-5bth8pltWNOzrGDdGPUGHEg7-aZDSy-abGOFIfN_0LRAJqEf8D-sQJYJe9WVXiOQpoUeZFe-XNrA_VTiKZkEtKiQnLDRoMi15ym-G2Ybw-d/s1600/IMG_0055.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZk3Xf88rNTK9LcZ2i7i63K28U-mulc2zX-5bth8pltWNOzrGDdGPUGHEg7-aZDSy-abGOFIfN_0LRAJqEf8D-sQJYJe9WVXiOQpoUeZFe-XNrA_VTiKZkEtKiQnLDRoMi15ym-G2Ybw-d/s200/IMG_0055.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473912924637138018" /></a><br />A new day greets me with yet another gluttonous breakfast before shifting residence to my aunt’s house to spend some QT with her and my cousins. The cousins are in their teens which logically means they are out the door. Cathy offers up some suggestions for dinner and drinks and of course, the biker bar, Duke’s, wins a heavily weighted coin-toss. Five dollar burgers, two-fitty you-call-its and a clientele dressed in leather makes it the perfect parking spot for the evening. Plans to leave in the morning are re-routed, Mother Nature has other ideas, and so the next day is spent relaxing with the fam.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjovYVrZ-ErF1fRMaXj1Xt8GTnngrokaLWu6pRwqFX_Vr0GFqd1zlJ0ahKnHMYxB6wDgv6_Wz2BUzkEhQM6jiAssjT6g3QnJxU5BRhZq6iHlhrBKliYbW2Pin-19Re3Q47td0BkEIv7d4iF/s1600/IMG_0061.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjovYVrZ-ErF1fRMaXj1Xt8GTnngrokaLWu6pRwqFX_Vr0GFqd1zlJ0ahKnHMYxB6wDgv6_Wz2BUzkEhQM6jiAssjT6g3QnJxU5BRhZq6iHlhrBKliYbW2Pin-19Re3Q47td0BkEIv7d4iF/s200/IMG_0061.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473913916736095826" /></a><br />It seems that Dallas has grown accustomed to having me around and has called in the rain clouds to act as its brute squad, keeping me there yet another day. While I relish the time spent with my family, there is an itch that has the strength of the worst poison ivy and the only one that can scratch it is the Harley. The 6am wake-up bell says “good morning” with more rain and sleep returns quickly, knowing that I’ll be here one more night. Cathy and I go to the botanical gardens and the flowers, though not in full-bloom are simply beautiful and an interesting contrast of color to my all black and leather wardrobe. Exhilaration fills the air and there is energy amongst the people, who know that spring is just around the corner and more beautiful days lay ahead after an unusually long and cold winter. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK0BFNSoo192Ror4KHS1scup2AXXiTZO9xe4JRUJCGLQ5tIKij-INaT6iGxMlXFy218Z4kzqmtTMHc4uFT9yFHFmu1-clFEt47JNXQsKxhJZZcA-Vfl9p3KsUtw4pq9fNqY_WhY56jRQQ4/s1600/IMG_0045.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK0BFNSoo192Ror4KHS1scup2AXXiTZO9xe4JRUJCGLQ5tIKij-INaT6iGxMlXFy218Z4kzqmtTMHc4uFT9yFHFmu1-clFEt47JNXQsKxhJZZcA-Vfl9p3KsUtw4pq9fNqY_WhY56jRQQ4/s200/IMG_0045.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473914978616030130" /></a>Cabin fever starts to set in and random thoughts flutter throughout my brain, noticing that I have one rogue eyebrow…hair? Is the name of eyebrow hair simply eyebrow? Anyway, I have a rogue eyebrow hair that, like me, wishes against conformity and seeks out to be its own individual identity. Living amongst those that assimilate, in a world of comfort, he knows he can branch out at anytime and I call him junior. I respect this wily eyebrow for going against the grain and rising an inch above his brothers. Literally. However, on occasion, junior decides to rise above the rest and stick straight out, welcoming olives and other cocktail garnishes to be skewered at anytime, perhaps to be saved for a midday snack. This said, I make the decision to pluck junior for appearances sake, and in doing so, feel an immediate regret and deep loss for circumcising his own personal flair. Right then, the decision is made to let him grow to his full potential and never to inhibit his explorative need to rise above his brothers, whom he loves and needs so dearly.<br /><br />Rain or shine, the decision is made to leave and the morning of St. Patty’s Day (obviously not spent in New Orleans as anticipated) allows the journey to continue. From back home, news is received that a good friend of mine was in a car accident and escaped unscathed, while another’s grandmother is just about to pass. These events are a stark reminder that life is indeed still moving forward, even though I’m floating in some gypsy limbo.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNqFOmCqZrNt4VgoyUg8LqpCcnRCr_o1AWDf0RgDE1PajHA1Tvd0QX_yFK-Rr2T8LQlRoKmGoyKkKGjfp2xiQPh-tkoYb0NuoK8ngZR0MptoDHOiErQkkitXYPomAujjRihNbBiwa2Ysax/s1600/IMG_0063.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNqFOmCqZrNt4VgoyUg8LqpCcnRCr_o1AWDf0RgDE1PajHA1Tvd0QX_yFK-Rr2T8LQlRoKmGoyKkKGjfp2xiQPh-tkoYb0NuoK8ngZR0MptoDHOiErQkkitXYPomAujjRihNbBiwa2Ysax/s200/IMG_0063.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473916182343507778" /></a><br /><br />There is a love/hate relationship between the pre-dawn hour and I. The love of the morning is often subjected to a back-row seat by a complete lack of desire for the physical act of waking, a paradox that is sure to haunt me and many others for the entirety of days. The deal is done and the alarm bell rings in the dark before the bustle of people awaken. The household sacrifices the sandman to say goodbye as the Muscle once again braces against the frigid, March, Texas air. Pure and clean, the morning ride is not yet polluted by commuters and Dallas is a mere speck in the side mirror as we rip through the Texas countryside. El Sol has popped up to say hello and warms the air, accelerating the fragrance of sun-baked cedar and pine to cut through my helmet like I cut through the landscape and the aroma fills my being. On the road again, the sun, the smells, the sound of clicking into 5th gear brings back my ear to ear grin. All senses are once again ignited, having been doused by the drudge of the population of a congested city and all five are now sitting on a match head, ready to strike and explode into flame at any moment. Rallying against the Houston traffic, a counter-productive route is chosen and west is the way for the day. At Conroe, back country highways and byways will lead me back to my entry point, near Angleton, so that the journey may press on. The days ride turns through Madison County and immediate thoughts of Meryl Streep and Clint Eastwood in a bathtub force the play button and I immediately vomit in my helmet.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkm5cAoy1RLoIRNmJQ55P2Kwq8CCY7s-hGP5LjI7H1ojQEbIfONpChtFcYyCYDqY9WxOQd-ZiOvvlNcTgCllZqpB-djFOdwoRWRrFthZP81FgIdyN8F1eVCEdBTLl_H59LSn4AS5mNeCMf/s1600/IMG_0046.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkm5cAoy1RLoIRNmJQ55P2Kwq8CCY7s-hGP5LjI7H1ojQEbIfONpChtFcYyCYDqY9WxOQd-ZiOvvlNcTgCllZqpB-djFOdwoRWRrFthZP81FgIdyN8F1eVCEdBTLl_H59LSn4AS5mNeCMf/s200/IMG_0046.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473918256665128162" /></a>Stopping for gas brings the fortunate luck of direction, delivered in the form of two Harley riders on an opposite daily destiny from mine. The bikers point to the Blue water Highway, a.k.a. Hwy 87 east, with the caveat that the road’s countenance known in times before as pleasant, may be a little ornery given they are still suffering from a hurricane hangover. The Blue water Highway is a shell of what the couple described as used to be, but the pre-devastation beauty peeks itself from the barren sand like a crab, still leery of predatory weather, wanting to emerge at any moment from hiding. Apparently all roads lead to spring break and the Blue water is no exception, sloshing me up on the shores of Galveston to admire the preliminary surges of scantily clad co-eds getting a jump on spring break. A stop sign forces an idle 10 minutes long while bikini’s and beer cross from the beach to the motels and vice versa. It’s a tough road and a horrible place to stop. The Galveston Bridge commands a $2 cover charge and rolls me to the ferry that is unexpectedly free. The novelty of dropping the kickstand and riding the waves has not yet worn off, and I’m giddy when the cross over the waves into Louisiana is made. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUufHmgqpoSnXa82oLi9dfLGR4cQFVhqZNguKUyVwbs-ZtLx-SrNbr8FODGw5wHSpYLjcozIXjpLReP9U2odRpN6sRldNL-nqzjwXfQDZIbBFhWSQo0mTeShj7yZPxQsTL8mRDGYCnm8Eo/s1600/IMG_0064.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUufHmgqpoSnXa82oLi9dfLGR4cQFVhqZNguKUyVwbs-ZtLx-SrNbr8FODGw5wHSpYLjcozIXjpLReP9U2odRpN6sRldNL-nqzjwXfQDZIbBFhWSQo0mTeShj7yZPxQsTL8mRDGYCnm8Eo/s200/IMG_0064.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473919552579167666" /></a>Dropping off of the Ferry, Betty and I grind up more asphalt and the roads tell an even more intimidating story of the true power of a hurricane. The landscape and trees look like a Tim Burton creation, defying the laws of nature while still holding some shadow of reality as it is known. The bent and mangled rendering of what a landscape should look like continues far past the washed out highway, which forces a detour around Port Arthur and into Louisiana. As bugs take a kamikaze plunge into my jacket and helmet, hoping to deter the invading approach, I laugh at the fact that, unwittingly, each one of my family members got a bug hug, having not the time to remove my jacket before receiving warm embraces. Oops.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIDBuq05EDcsD8oFj4eQMtg0j_ioJnEEYcG8417ThZfMnRgTnVoV4XpqQndAy1LaAQX1vFhYrsQuhHLUVCsivzfc_Jb-LI7TZyKf3kyjWqsgeebrx3osXVAvrPJuaok-jDwi79YlVD15m4/s1600/IMG_0089.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIDBuq05EDcsD8oFj4eQMtg0j_ioJnEEYcG8417ThZfMnRgTnVoV4XpqQndAy1LaAQX1vFhYrsQuhHLUVCsivzfc_Jb-LI7TZyKf3kyjWqsgeebrx3osXVAvrPJuaok-jDwi79YlVD15m4/s200/IMG_0089.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473921615294789106" /></a><br />The very bottom of Louisiana is a lonely world of wildlife refuge, threatening forward progress with taunts of gator and other critter crossing. Roaring down highway 27, it’s now dusk and an ominous black cloud appears on the horizon of the road that rides along the gulf water’s edge. With no route other than backwards available, first thoughts are that it is exhaust emissions from one of the many chemical plants in the area. I could be so lucky. Rapidly approaching, I reach the amorphous ball of brown gas and immediately smack into a tornadic cloud of swarming mosquitoes. The first few bugs take me by surprise and fly directly into my mouth, up my nose and the helmet’s face shield is lowered immediately. There is an eerie similarity in the sound of a crackling fire, rain drops bouncing off a helmet and a swarm of mosquitoes smacking into a face shield at 50 mph. Disgust is the word of the day…DISGUST! AHHHHHHHHHH!! Thousands of humming annoyances explode off the jacket, the chaps, the Harley, the helmet and every other exposed surface that remains and I have to pull over every 5 minutes to clear my face shield. The efforts produces a narrow window of vision that barely allows me to see and without a rag or napkin, this is the best I get tonight and the fight against these unholy creatures lasts for the next 20 miles. A road appears out of the insectous fog and left turn, north, is immediately taken to evade the most nauseating event of my life that in the end leaves me smelling like earthworms. Drop me in a lake and let the fish swim into my pockets. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpiDVTdKShv18VVO5bynYF048t3hLYQst-Pl3FQAT1xjEClwVddtVhxLYuTKHH0kOrjo8uk7A46LV0_mvQv_MQPNdwDcoAWqe6y6cleVGS6aJyYt15c_9OZmCs45z3jhnbGPqKqRVuDmdq/s1600/IMG_0095.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpiDVTdKShv18VVO5bynYF048t3hLYQst-Pl3FQAT1xjEClwVddtVhxLYuTKHH0kOrjo8uk7A46LV0_mvQv_MQPNdwDcoAWqe6y6cleVGS6aJyYt15c_9OZmCs45z3jhnbGPqKqRVuDmdq/s200/IMG_0095.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473922021493169058" /></a><br /><br />Night has dropped its veil upon southern Louisiana and shrouds all that come out to play at night. Once out of the mosquitoes, it’s a perilous road north through the bayous hoping that a gator doesn’t force me into slalom on the narrow, swamp –lined byway. Painted head to toe in mosquitoes, a gas station/bait shop offers a respite and hopefully a squeegee to rid myself of the squished skeets. Luck once again smiles on me and there are no squeegees in this station, so I go inside to find some paper towels and in doing so, find more than I could have ever possibly imagined.<br /><br />Sitting at a table, inside the bait shop/gas station/snack bar (that doesn’t have a squeegee) are three locals that are schnocked off their rockers. The post-retirement stooges watch the bug covered spaceball enter their holy ground and the place goes silent. Politely, directions to the rest room are asked for and received, and then the unmasking of mosquitoes begins. Gross. Gross and um…gross. Clean-up completed, a mound of bug-gut caked paper towels fill the garbage can in the corner of a bathroom that should only be entered in a bio-hazard suit. There are no feelings of remorse as I exit to face the drunken judge, jury and executioner that sit in the corner of the bait shop sucking down king cans of natty ice. The first one approaches and asks if I’m in the service. The answer being no, he repeatedly asks and sobriety taints my end of this conversation. The second of the stooges, sobriety not an option, but apparently she is one of those rare people in an inebriated state that is able to not only form coherent sentences, but derives them from coherent thoughts and tells me he means no harm. I chuckle. Good natured conversation ensues and when the story of the road filters through their ears, the last of the trifecta speaks up in true, old country Cajun and I can barely understand him. <br /><br />“wayaou comfromdahboy?”<br /><br />“Riding the perimeter of the country, just had to clean up and then I’m headed north to a motel.”<br /><br />“yougonngobaggouddah?!”<br /><br />“Yes sir, need to head north and find a hotel.”<br /><br />“Howwyshiboy! Yogod bigohbaws! BIGOHBAWS ISAY!” “Goddamnifumuhsumbish, bigohbaws.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisH_O88Mc_t4Y2HhnzqxXBBT18uc1AUP7QDfjmdawRqJUX1LCtcQmvTHrNvrMYQTaL64ncuiUHBEp2ckHXYO09PACZDpzjlz19WbCnHuJb7VcLVXjSYDaraTXchH-xWWbAf9gnbdJRnRY_/s1600/IMG_0094.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisH_O88Mc_t4Y2HhnzqxXBBT18uc1AUP7QDfjmdawRqJUX1LCtcQmvTHrNvrMYQTaL64ncuiUHBEp2ckHXYO09PACZDpzjlz19WbCnHuJb7VcLVXjSYDaraTXchH-xWWbAf9gnbdJRnRY_/s200/IMG_0094.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473923140684766066" /></a>My three new friends offer to buy me a beer and by the looks of it, I should be buying for them and want to badly. Having to decline their hospitality will be one of less than a handful of regrets on this trip, but the prospect of no place to stay, the dark of night in the Louisiana bayou and the simple fact that I will NOT ride with alcohol in me forces me back on the bike to look for a motel. It’s a shame, as the stories they could tell and the time I could have would have been a continuation of the experience of a lifetime. Guaranteed they will be in that bait shop for many moons to come, one day I will return and buy round upon round of Natty Ice in exchange for them to regale me with tales of their wisdom and experiences. <br /><br />Time to churn road and get to a hotel. Not far up the road, lies a town with an unfortunate name, in an unfortunate area, but fortunately holds several motels and I pull up to the Microtel, strategically placed next to a waffle house, in Sulphur, LA. Good night Gracie, tomorrow is a big day…off to Nawlins.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu5tqD7LVnSPZoh1UoYUtCBZcDSqatxFB179Mln7yEtcT5ddXcRO9nDcJc3B0BObnEtOE_4e4emVIw6UB1kxVcOQJWG38c_T6-J0LP-nRmlczSwAWnc35UQKBCNi27NcPadKvBtBxSqrkl/s1600/IMG_0097.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu5tqD7LVnSPZoh1UoYUtCBZcDSqatxFB179Mln7yEtcT5ddXcRO9nDcJc3B0BObnEtOE_4e4emVIw6UB1kxVcOQJWG38c_T6-J0LP-nRmlczSwAWnc35UQKBCNi27NcPadKvBtBxSqrkl/s200/IMG_0097.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473924378172701890" /></a><br /><br /><em>"The bike may break me. The road may take me. I'll forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart."</em>The Tributehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10743853433112763375noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5115176089524902569.post-40183136369775987442010-05-20T08:26:00.002-05:002010-05-20T08:36:43.411-05:005.19.10 - The 3rd Month Anniversary of Ride the Edge Update:<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM8az-yOdZ1hyphenhyphenw_wZFzVQhyphenhyphenzmKwOjegaYxc0jW8nE8AZ_AFTBiLaoqEGAgJkNrfXyv8W6mturRkr0ctrD_Gb5PDMy16LH-R-4S6i4X3JQ-zP9320emOi7qOBzO9TSSsJEX9n3DVp7S88Ce/s1600/IMG_1367.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM8az-yOdZ1hyphenhyphenw_wZFzVQhyphenhyphenzmKwOjegaYxc0jW8nE8AZ_AFTBiLaoqEGAgJkNrfXyv8W6mturRkr0ctrD_Gb5PDMy16LH-R-4S6i4X3JQ-zP9320emOi7qOBzO9TSSsJEX9n3DVp7S88Ce/s200/IMG_1367.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473345459466917922" /></a><br />3 months of Harley and road living and I thought that you would like to get some quick stats (seeing as the actual blog is quite behind):<br /><br />Days on the road: 90<br /><br />Miles traveled: 12,405<br /><br />Pairs of Sunglasses: 5 (still holding, fingers crossed)<br /><br />States: 23 and Canada<br /><br />Time Zones Traversed: 5<br /><br />Current Location: Alexandria Bay, NY <br /><br />The corner has been rounded, the journey now takes me west. “GO WEST YOUNG DAN, GO WEST!” Finding more and more that this trip, in its essence, is a much more taxing venture than originally anticipated, thoughts of “what I’ve missed” plague me consistently. The true blood that flows in this journey is not to attack every historical monument, tourist trap and city with vigor, but rather to stay as close to the boundaries of this country as possible, spending time with those places and parks that hold meaning to me or that need to be put “under the belt.” The time needed is much greater than expected, thusly leads to a failing of updates, which I know that you are all eagerly awaiting. Rides are consisting of 10+ hours daily and time off is spent with loved ones and friends. There are many stories bubbling up, ready to spew forth and the inspiration to write still holds strong. Please be patient. Next time I do this, I’ll take 8 months and have real-time post ;)<br /><br />All your support and words of encouragement still spur me on to complete this insane adventure. Thank you.<br /><br /><em>"The bike may break me. The road may take me. I'll forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart."</em>The Tributehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10743853433112763375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5115176089524902569.post-51311326578366964202010-05-06T10:16:00.002-05:002010-05-06T10:21:22.189-05:00to tom in new jerseyYour future is built upon the iron spikes and jagged rocks of despair and destitution, of which there is no greater foundation for a prosperous future. May your two wheels guide you to a place that chooses you<br /> Safe riding, I wish you great success.The Tributehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10743853433112763375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5115176089524902569.post-28578850191947305082010-05-05T10:55:00.010-05:002010-05-05T11:29:23.213-05:00Still in Texas - The Coast 3.8 - 3.12<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirJjU6a0SY4neaticC2yrTWR7EY9TwadmdOPU3s6HyJXgAnTzYstKefnYqMaLvUdPzUQhePBKiRuWTsdSO-o2aSCPOt6MrwdrBN74YY3asdtEoz8X8k408rHBADf0ZElCDG2hDK0srszKl/s1600/IMG_2853.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirJjU6a0SY4neaticC2yrTWR7EY9TwadmdOPU3s6HyJXgAnTzYstKefnYqMaLvUdPzUQhePBKiRuWTsdSO-o2aSCPOt6MrwdrBN74YY3asdtEoz8X8k408rHBADf0ZElCDG2hDK0srszKl/s200/IMG_2853.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467815760234560866" /></a><br /><br />Route: Hwy 100W from South Padre to 510 to Buena Vista blvd to Hwy 510 to Cnty 106 (horrible road with competing potholes, dirt and gravel). 106W to 77N to 70E to 286N to 357E to Spur 22 to Mustang Island. From Mustang Island: Hwy 361N to Port Aransas and the Aransas Ferry over the channel to 35N. 35N to 185E to 238N to 316W back to 35N to 521E (just north of Palacios). 521E/N to 36E to 288N to Angleton (5K service on bike). 288N from Angleton to 610W/N around Houston to 45N to 75N to Dallas area. <br /><br /><strong>“It is in the nature of man to roam and explore. Had our ancestors be not compelled to go somewhere, we would have most assuredly not ended up anywhere.”</strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjntY4GfDRBDrOdiy6sRhE1btv3Lv8WEC-Rt9fQTWS2zRfy7p601esCLdFSriVB_WTUAmojUKU9-Kc-TnwXRr5Kkqa12T83To5vOCyOKpJwZUR6aXAli8I_7XIDYSS8_0P90G5mQng12Oc5/s1600/IMG_2934.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjntY4GfDRBDrOdiy6sRhE1btv3Lv8WEC-Rt9fQTWS2zRfy7p601esCLdFSriVB_WTUAmojUKU9-Kc-TnwXRr5Kkqa12T83To5vOCyOKpJwZUR6aXAli8I_7XIDYSS8_0P90G5mQng12Oc5/s200/IMG_2934.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467816160588920946" /></a>The road to nowhere apparently did lead to somewhere, although continued on to nothing but flattened; sand encrusted Portuguese Man of War, some of which were not quick enough to get out of the tire tracks of oncoming beach cruisers. My companion the sun threatens to call it a day and leave my side in search of better things on the other side of the world, and the initial thoughts that the chicken-pock scarred and bug festering road to Boca Chica State Park was a road to nowhere, was indeed just that. Scouring the deserted, dead end road fully elated, but fully exhausted, the time now is to find a dwelling for the night and while Boca Chica offers camping, it is merely beach camping and as most know, Betty doesn’t like the sand between her toes and the beach won’t give her a leg to stand on. South Padre is about an hour away, with darkness settling in 5 minutes, I grit my teeth (mouth closed to avoid a flying dinner) and make for the island that has lured thirsty, horny college students for years, with its hypnotizing anthems of repetitive bass lines and ritualistic dance-floor mating “oot oot” calls. It’s a good thing that I’m too early for spring break, up on the dive bars and down on the dumbasses will make for a nice little celebration in my successful completion of the Mexican border. The bridge to the island is black as pitch and I keep my low beam on out of courtesy for the on-coming traffic, limiting visibility. A conservative 55mph allows me to look around at the nothingness that exists for 360 degrees as I err on the side of caution and play it safe on an unfamiliar road. I am alone and apprehensive until I am overtaken by a band of crotch-rockets scorching through at an easy 80. Reality sets in and as the bridge crests and starts to descend, a marquee at the bottom glows a most unholy message. <br /><br />“Welcome Spring Breakers 2010”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaV6u70Vir_lxjyURHa96O9C7X7HJklC9u21NpKQMchze6kMrCEv27kc6t58qKX2bculACbOgngPEhKBRvetIng7E3RxANNUgL2N_f80zq3863BsC1KlX7h0LTdEqUSKl4CPZmQowNbPmz/s1600/IMG_2942.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaV6u70Vir_lxjyURHa96O9C7X7HJklC9u21NpKQMchze6kMrCEv27kc6t58qKX2bculACbOgngPEhKBRvetIng7E3RxANNUgL2N_f80zq3863BsC1KlX7h0LTdEqUSKl4CPZmQowNbPmz/s200/IMG_2942.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467816626361916466" /></a>Sh!tballs. I’m not going to find a hotel room. These fake-n-baked, debaucherous heathens have arrived early and have no idea or concern that I just spent over 600 miles and 13 hours on a nad-numbing ride abutting our great Nation’s border and all that is wanted is a bed, a shower and some food. Rolling down the strip offers hotels that would bankrupt a small desert town, so the decision is made to knock on the ever-friendly doors of the HoJo. I mean, they have taken care of me every St. Patty’s day with a delicious, pre-debacle meal, so why would they disallow me the pleasures of a fluffy mattress and hot, flowing water. Not to be denied, the HoJo offers me not only a room on the first floor, non-smoking, with two beds and a patio, but Dan, the desk clerk allows me to park the Harley underneath the window of the desk. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8d756IBYcmjr1airmOTi2bOBIwLRkTRjH69w5TLz8GYIyGmWE2vJQiQ-mK7RNqzjPdZhn7NQaCX_DUbQNf0AYyDCZHnAcLgWtPjEYmTr3JOaZ80w6A59zrTY4xEzrKkR3fl6bv9NchlCD/s1600/IMG_2950.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8d756IBYcmjr1airmOTi2bOBIwLRkTRjH69w5TLz8GYIyGmWE2vJQiQ-mK7RNqzjPdZhn7NQaCX_DUbQNf0AYyDCZHnAcLgWtPjEYmTr3JOaZ80w6A59zrTY4xEzrKkR3fl6bv9NchlCD/s200/IMG_2950.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467817053631871378" /></a>Exhaustion be damned, this little burst of good fortune provided a greater burst of energy. After some bike-talk with Dan, he assures me that this is the preliminary funneling of spring-breakers and the real tornado of fist-pumping, bass-thumping, wet t-shirt wearing, vomitous nimrods will not be arriving until next week. Yes, I was one of those nimrods and it was fun.<br /><br />After a shower, shave and some fresh clothes, the door out the back of the HoJo points directly to the Palm Street Pier, it’s a nice beach shack with wooden slat walls and a tin roof, spooning the Gulf of Mexico. As I walk in with thoughts of people, conversation, beer and food, the night’s entertainment, just wrapping up, walks out, as well as the few remaining customers. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFTzWA2ZUi_m6w7BOBKtRoUIUKBZh29pfaBhCcB56G3COWHxgF9P_YSxyPT7O3vlHxe3NiFvM2MR4ZjH2hI2y7KtG87wla9HVHqu73vcKPH05y1reMY95Pr472euoPTrjoM858Oc3GwWFH/s1600/IMG_0008.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFTzWA2ZUi_m6w7BOBKtRoUIUKBZh29pfaBhCcB56G3COWHxgF9P_YSxyPT7O3vlHxe3NiFvM2MR4ZjH2hI2y7KtG87wla9HVHqu73vcKPH05y1reMY95Pr472euoPTrjoM858Oc3GwWFH/s200/IMG_0008.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467817924575443890" /></a>Perfect, I have the place to myself! Not exactly what I was hoping for, but it is nimrod free and the bartender, after a few awkward stumbles, makes for good conversation. Beer and peel-n-eat shrimp. If a stomach could smile, mine would look like the Cheshire cat, I’m sure that my face closely resembles. An empty bottle and a pound of shrimp shells is apparently the signal to close doors and the barkeep wishes me well and encourages me to stop by the next night. Walking back to the hotel with a half-buzz, grinning from ear to ear, pride stops by for a visit, an unexpected friend that brings a realization of my current accomplishment. Sleep evades me as the game footage is played over and over in my head, knowing that I could have made some different calls to run out the clock, but still happy with the final score. <br /><br />Sleeping in comes easy, as does taking my sweet-ass time getting ready and out the door to start the day’s whatevers. The Grapevine Café offers up an omelet, fresh coffee and a biscuit with jam and a side order of moral fortitude. A good meal can lift one’s spirits almost as much as good sex and due to the facts that the way to start the day for the past few weeks has been instant oatmeal and lately showers are more scarce than Hawaiian Tropic girls on Hoth, the hearty meal puts a polish on my ever-increasing glow and my suffering libido is buried in the recesses of priority.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSXCe_C6ozhRo3uoys2jo9IFI_KNhk1_tmUbnY3nsjgWk_NJqQdSuL8xpool1ItDJ7Sp4MvWzIdCx659AYArQWRwK2Ckcwv8tH8SEzKdAo_182Xahmv-dm4dusOpl3pTa7aF51-yOtWN0T/s1600/IMG_0030.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSXCe_C6ozhRo3uoys2jo9IFI_KNhk1_tmUbnY3nsjgWk_NJqQdSuL8xpool1ItDJ7Sp4MvWzIdCx659AYArQWRwK2Ckcwv8tH8SEzKdAo_182Xahmv-dm4dusOpl3pTa7aF51-yOtWN0T/s200/IMG_0030.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467818568455534658" /></a> The meal is complimented by a side dish of entertainment from some red-eyed spring breakers, which upon realizing the plastic condiment cups would work equally as well as shot glasses, promptly buy 2 sleeves from the proprietor. The rest of my day is filled with trifles that I will not bore you with, but evening brings the hot tub and 4 air force buddies reliving last night’s accomplishments.<br /><br />Their stories are not worth repeating in this venue, but the absurdity and hilarity of their interactions make me miss my cohorts of debauchery from back home and I long for our upcoming reunion in Miami. After being fully entertained by the hot tub bandits, my way is made back to the Palm Street Pier for a fried oyster po’ boy that had danced on my eyeballs the night before and some frothy suds. Early enough for the live music and all ordered, the place is a bit livelier tonight and I’m serenaded by the musical stylings of Johnny Mac. Johnny sings my soundtrack, belting out Free Fallin, At the Crossroads and Don’t Stop Believin. It is a meshing of fates and twisting of karmic fortune. Two tables of spring break co-eds sit down for their pre-imbibing supper and I sit back in the chair, sip my beer and am glad to be back among the living. The joint is an open beach shack, with wooden slat windows and a hot tin roof, my kind of place. Weather threatening, the clear, plastic wind shades are pulled, eliminating the true openness of the bar, but at the same time, sparing all patrons from the gusts of wind that would surely claim their food and beverages in the name of King Triton.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh3q8UWYXZfQiyR1Kd53wOnaiJLTZ3IMfM3cB5zoVuy-wl3iAPJggBrp744f8lHqTaDNMgXl_2Tqi0gnLwgjiM5N-2h02xFeWrh1HBvgnnfZVU7nA51FV6Y93EsO9OrVxByDFDZnkymvS3/s1600/Johnny+Mac+S.Padre.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh3q8UWYXZfQiyR1Kd53wOnaiJLTZ3IMfM3cB5zoVuy-wl3iAPJggBrp744f8lHqTaDNMgXl_2Tqi0gnLwgjiM5N-2h02xFeWrh1HBvgnnfZVU7nA51FV6Y93EsO9OrVxByDFDZnkymvS3/s200/Johnny+Mac+S.Padre.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467819126813513906" /></a>The server, Ben, has the face of an innocent and seems oddly out of place in a land and time of lust and debauchery. The music ended, I introduce myself to the table next to me and find that Johnny Mac’s conversation is as entertaining as his music. A life on the road behind him, his stories run longer than any miles he has put on the road throughout his career. He is a story in his own right and an individual who is most certainly individual. We wrap up our tales of travel and worlds past and I ask of him something that I abhor. A picture. It’s ok for some people, but for me, the asking of someone to take my picture or to have a picture taken of said individual is one of the most intrusive acts that makes me feel as uncomfortable as watching the phone call scene in Swingers. He indulges my intrusion, complete with the Palm St. Pier life ring to adorn the set of a traveler hanging up his spurs and the other just starting to jingle and jangle, an unrehearsed and obscure symbol, representing the circle of the traveler’s life. This moment is the part of the movie that’s edited perfectly with a fade-out, fitting for the commercial break when it airs on T.V. Once again, I thank Johnny for his time and excuse myself before a valtrex ad comes on. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3eAfwF1jpDuGTgDW9OznWbTcktO6E1B2U_uaxbknrkPYw7ah0DPq052TP1sjoT1l8mBG1Fk96GrE_xeoAxHM69Dli7mR-sH4ZztQ-0FNMwnXm9AZuSuYXZ3umnVzET6nRXn-Mj0V1mnas/s1600/IMG_0010.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3eAfwF1jpDuGTgDW9OznWbTcktO6E1B2U_uaxbknrkPYw7ah0DPq052TP1sjoT1l8mBG1Fk96GrE_xeoAxHM69Dli7mR-sH4ZztQ-0FNMwnXm9AZuSuYXZ3umnVzET6nRXn-Mj0V1mnas/s200/IMG_0010.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467819807778678034" /></a>The long awaited and much discussed Mustang Island lies in the direct path of my future today. Recommended by an old college buddy, the prospect and thrill of camping on the beach, next to the Gulf of Mexico is absolutely titillating. In Texas, county roads and farm roads can lead and link you to main thoroughfares wrought with congestion and lack of attention. If not, as I chose to stay off of these super slabs, these secondary roads can provide beautiful scenery as well as the feeling of owning your road. This is not so much of a surprise. What is the surprise is that, and maybe I’m riding solo on this perception, county roads are the worse of the two, the latter farm roads being the better maintained. Information like this would have been helpful today, not in 2 days when I’m discussing this curious fact with a fellow biker at a gas station. The county roads that take me through Laguna Wildlife refuge alternate, for no apparent reason, every quarter mile between fresh asphalt and dirt and gravel, who also has a large family of inbreeding potholes. Slowing down the pace considerable to about 10mph, I constantly and consistently apologize with the utmost sincerity to Betty for this misstep. She understands me perfectly, but this offense is in the greatest similarity to telling your wife or girlfriend that she’s acting like her mother and forgiveness will not be coming quickly today, no matter how many flowers I bring her in apologetic approach.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Dr6PumufO7-3jXGksa5dl8JQwB-deZynr4W_-xsg7XLcMnOoiK5HoPuTVzoLcYq-WZAo5Upnltsj0KoQxLA2_6xM-ltjTblfVgkLCkxnl8nQcRSwNYmzbD01VssfW02QqjPOmPKxSxK0/s1600/IMG_0060.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Dr6PumufO7-3jXGksa5dl8JQwB-deZynr4W_-xsg7XLcMnOoiK5HoPuTVzoLcYq-WZAo5Upnltsj0KoQxLA2_6xM-ltjTblfVgkLCkxnl8nQcRSwNYmzbD01VssfW02QqjPOmPKxSxK0/s200/IMG_0060.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467823628433441570" /></a><br /><br />Aside from Betty, tent and laptop, there are few things that hold importance on this trip. One of those revered items that falls just short of true royalty is the camera, which is why, of course, I am about to treat it so disgracefully. Getting very excited at the prospect of swimming in the Gulf, board shorts are donned and the walk is made to the crashing surf, once arriving at Mustang and getting camp set. There is still plenty of time for frolicking in the surf and the intention is to do just that. BUT FIRST A PICTURE! Yes, one of the few self portraits allowed on this trip will be of me, in the Gulf for the first time. Very diligently, the beach is scoured for tidal lines, the surf is meticulously calculated for breadth of reach and wind speed and humidity are judged for any variables in the constants. Setting a flip-flop on the sand as a makeshift tri-pod, set the timer and run into the sea to pose like a mythical god of mer. More like realistic dumbass of der. No sooner does the clock start ticking down as the one rogue wave (of which my mathematical calculations did not account for – an anomaly, of course), comes up to claim the Elph for Davy Jones, hopefully an apt sacrifice to end the days of wet and sop. Able to save the SD card, the last picture shows my face twisted in moronic panic, mere nanoseconds before I break out in a futile sprint. Lesson learned. An expensive lesson, may the gods be appeased.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHJVS5KpzBKpOmQZ8u3M4lLUvTKEBGMx_tp6v9aI9EUIaEkTpYHdfVLETOZ-cGNSUoRgc766i6wMDRN38GXE1lyEIn6C_r6WLGHiBYH7mdykv3ISL6DuJhsy3HNfKpkfw-9Qpeha9WEQC8/s1600/IMG_0015.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHJVS5KpzBKpOmQZ8u3M4lLUvTKEBGMx_tp6v9aI9EUIaEkTpYHdfVLETOZ-cGNSUoRgc766i6wMDRN38GXE1lyEIn6C_r6WLGHiBYH7mdykv3ISL6DuJhsy3HNfKpkfw-9Qpeha9WEQC8/s200/IMG_0015.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467821276477001522" /></a>The insinuated thrills of Mustang Island will not manifest themselves in actuality this trip. Morning comes and with it a dense, dark, wet fog that embraces all around it like the uncomfortable boob hug from a summertime fragranced aunt that squeezes just a little too long. The air around me a blue-gray, and I wonder if it is reflecting the hair of those that I have come to call my own, the silver surfers, RVs their boards, waiting to catch the next asphalt wave, omnipresent and always up for a discussion. My soul gains premature years when talking with these ‘lifers,’ since the conversation comes a little too comfortably. The only speed bumps occur when the discussion turns to politics and reminiscence of the Harding era finds its way to the dead-end street of my capability. Determined to ride the fog out and declare a victory, I also know when it is time to admit defeat. Two days of fog, wet gear, cold and clammy conditions and the mistreatment of the Harley is enough for me to pack up and move on. Even though fully covered, she still shows signs of the abrasive, corrosive sea air as her disks begin to rust overnight. Betty needs a bath. The ecstasy that comes from being in shorts and a t-shirt again, combined with the perpetual breeze and crashing of the surf is no match for the mocking bird that provides daily 5am wake-up calls. This little bird has one big voice and must have grown up on an army base or next to a ham radio operator. Uncannily, it mocks the static crackles and snaps of an untuned radio, followed by the feedback sound that rides the radio waves into a clear transmission. Once this obnoxious tweet has found its station, it proceeds to belt out a series of dashes and dots. Forgive me, my Morse-code is rusty and am unable to translate for you, but I can only speculate that the English equivalent would be “get out of my house. Stop. I want you to leave. Stop. I’m going to annoy you out of my camp. Stop. The message must land in the realm of great importance because this repetition goes on for hours and there is no ignoring it. Or perhaps it’s a message of the rebellion from the Princess to Obi Wan.<br /><br />Departing Mustang is bitter sweet, as I know that sunshine and clear weather lay just on the other side of the bay, but that this island has much more to offer me under better conditions. Carefully trotting down the highway, Betty and I ease ourselves on the two lanes, in the dense fog just before sunrise and in the mist, an apparition appears on the side of the road. In the middle of nowhere, I recant the tale of the teenage boy driving his car, picking up a young, beautiful girl on the side of the road and giving her a ride home. She shivers. He gives her his coat and drops her off at her house. Absolutely smitten, he had forgotten the jacket and was delighted upon remembering the next day, as an excuse to retrieve it and see his love again. Driving back to the house, an older woman answers the door and after a brief discussion and explanation, the old woman responds by saying that sounds like her daughter, but her daughter had been dead for a number of years now, killed while walking on the side of the road. As the young man turns around to go back to his car, he sees his jacket hanging from a nearby tree. Retrieving it, it smells like the fragrant flowers of a funeral parlor. Yes, all this went through my mind as I narrowed the 300 yards to the specter in shadow. This adventure would not yield such an exciting story as the young man just mentioned. No, no it won’t. I roll up on a dumbass kid that ran out of gas on his motorcycle, and when filling up with my spare tank, has a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. Darwin spared him this day, I’m not sure why.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh00Vwrw-O9qdP1M_hvh-AfShucVXvO8M093bhuThq-RT1mqR9d5kLs072a1-pkSK5bsVSLHBplS0whV43sx-fQjY0M-FOPBBgmd2_fUmbgvbiPFueccQku4YpbbJt1a7oyylSA_XyMeUZe/s1600/IMG_0039.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh00Vwrw-O9qdP1M_hvh-AfShucVXvO8M093bhuThq-RT1mqR9d5kLs072a1-pkSK5bsVSLHBplS0whV43sx-fQjY0M-FOPBBgmd2_fUmbgvbiPFueccQku4YpbbJt1a7oyylSA_XyMeUZe/s200/IMG_0039.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467821899560163026" /></a><br /><br />Travels through Port Aransas and across the ferry to Rockport, the Muscle rumbles down the brick-lines streets and gently rouses the sleepy town. Rockport has the feel of an artists’ colony and that feel turns to life as I turn a corner and see a multitude of artists unpacking SUVs with the mediums of their profession, turning out works on the street, either for self-fulfillment, the occasional passerby that turns purchaser, or both. The brick road quickly turns to highway asphalt and the quaint shops transform into trees, shrubs, violently brilliant wildflowers and farmers’ fields. In one of these fields stands one of the largest bulls ever seen, almost too large to fit in the screen of my eyeballs. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLMib-UMk8wymIYIaFejYq2KNJv8rrwcVSjih7xV0mqE_nj-YmqXVjExcp_Rx8oZ0L2WiYRFS6x4GG-oIfTfpcWsE0emA0KOGDxACA9hanKcj0DCSciXCmw_d90MrgbCviLnOYqzE_jQVz/s1600/IMG_0026.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLMib-UMk8wymIYIaFejYq2KNJv8rrwcVSjih7xV0mqE_nj-YmqXVjExcp_Rx8oZ0L2WiYRFS6x4GG-oIfTfpcWsE0emA0KOGDxACA9hanKcj0DCSciXCmw_d90MrgbCviLnOYqzE_jQVz/s200/IMG_0026.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467822240456938354" /></a>A hulking, roiding, massive slab of walking grill fodder, it is cream colored, with muscles bulging, immediately I come to the conclusion that this must be an Austrian cow, obviously related to Arnold Schwarzenegger and I wonder what a moo would sound like with his accent.<br /><br />Today’s dreary adventure abounds with photographic opportunity, but the backdrop of gloom and the air of an asylum does not provide the opportunities that I would like to capture for eternity and the ride to Angleton, TX, in search of a Harley Davidson dealership is uninterrupted. Arriving at GOE HD in Angleton, salutations and southern hospitality flourishes in a young man appropriately named Dallas. Why wouldn’t he be? Dallas hooks me up with my 5K service and treats me as one of his own, offering riding tips for the area, given that pigs are the number one cause of motorcycle crashes around town. Small, black and nimble, they come out at dusk and blend into the asphalt highways, concealing their appearance, bacon shrouded ninjas, they only reveal themselves in the form of a body tossing speed bump. Dallas then takes it upon himself to drive me 15 minutes to a real, Texas style BBQ joint called the Lonestar. An authentic BBQ joint, the menu is a whiteboard, plates are paper, utensils are plastic and the tables are picnic. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOyevS5T7EnWznPnzzW4qDRVwvrIqT2dGQtRywduA_g4hvwa_TVsLLVMEO8uWhHfpnwLQbAPdiH70HnIn0kRuYq__6-p-bdNO-AmXI9uHOEtrU7MBcLYr7ozDZBkjOZxxYCFvk2y7POZWA/s1600/IMG_0029.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOyevS5T7EnWznPnzzW4qDRVwvrIqT2dGQtRywduA_g4hvwa_TVsLLVMEO8uWhHfpnwLQbAPdiH70HnIn0kRuYq__6-p-bdNO-AmXI9uHOEtrU7MBcLYr7ozDZBkjOZxxYCFvk2y7POZWA/s200/IMG_0029.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467822922178810146" /></a>The meats are served with the sauce on top, on the side or optional, not smothered and swimming in taste-bud numbing rivers of spice and juice, allowing the real flavors of the smoky goodness to tickle all fancies. Above and beyond the call of duty, I offer to buy him lunch and he refuses. This is just the way it’s done. A smile and a thank you is all Dallas requires for payment and he’ll pick me up when the bike is ready. Glowing reviews for GOE Harley Davidson and the service clerk Dallas – may you be prosperous in all you do.<br /><br />Appreciations and currency exchanged, I roll out of GOE HD and up to Dallas, but the weather has other plans. An iron curtain to rival any NFL team’s defensive line, the clouds, rain and lightening form an impassible wall of fury of which there is no skirting. A long day already under my wheels and the threats of gale-force winds and bike-hating storms, the decision is made to hunker down in Willis, TX at a Best Western and it is done. Tomorrow I will tackle the road once more, in search of familiar faces.<br /><br /><em>"The bike may break me. The road may take me. I'll forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart."</em>The Tributehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10743853433112763375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5115176089524902569.post-79245621244376094402010-04-22T20:54:00.010-05:002010-04-28T21:27:29.124-05:00Texas - Mexico Border 3.4 – 3.9 Part 2<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijcFdGnJdf6p5flzxpdNC1m-vVdYuXXC_WEch2IZsJHaPpwuZOo7PM-Yj7TPEyWv7yoJ3NazSkN_umNcgxyqo-dYKb-qhdus3NKCVt27TApPJ4dzq0boIjD4lupT2BSwN2MWQsSmvfDdNd/s1600/IMG_2853.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijcFdGnJdf6p5flzxpdNC1m-vVdYuXXC_WEch2IZsJHaPpwuZOo7PM-Yj7TPEyWv7yoJ3NazSkN_umNcgxyqo-dYKb-qhdus3NKCVt27TApPJ4dzq0boIjD4lupT2BSwN2MWQsSmvfDdNd/s200/IMG_2853.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465371359696347122" /></a><br />Route: I-10 out of El Paso to 375 loop (Caesar E. Chavez border highway – riding fence) to Hwy 20E to I-10E to 90S/E (at Van Horn). 90S/E to Hwy 17N (Marfa). Hwy 17N to Balmorhea State Park. 17S to 67S (Marfa again) to Hwy 170E (Presidio). 170E through Big Bend Ranch (best ride yet) to Chisos Basin in Big Bend National Park. Took side road to Rio Grande (unmarked, just west of Chisos Basin at Santa Elena Canyon). Out of Chisos Basin to 385N to 90E to Del Rio (overnight). 277S/E out of Del Rio to farm road 1021 (Eagle Pass) to farm road 2644 (El Indio) to 83S (Carrizo Springs). 83S to 281S (Pharr) to 4E to Boca Chica to end of the earth. 4W back to 48E to South Padre Island (2 days of rest, laundry, people and a bar)<br /><br /><strong>"The greatest and noblest pleasure which men can have in this world is to discover new truths; and the next is to shake off old prejudices.” - Frederick the Great</strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT59dSkAzxwjz5Joh1IOwIX6VjhWbfTiRPg6-50lJKOsfX78FTR4y1aflZgZBgyD5Pn8AVAjs3p74RC1muPj7I2-2FN_B1hi7DvNV6iGARPpCh0ndTVnp1jCxrOObh1Q5QhmeZHOmfRf8_/s1600/IMG_2870.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT59dSkAzxwjz5Joh1IOwIX6VjhWbfTiRPg6-50lJKOsfX78FTR4y1aflZgZBgyD5Pn8AVAjs3p74RC1muPj7I2-2FN_B1hi7DvNV6iGARPpCh0ndTVnp1jCxrOObh1Q5QhmeZHOmfRf8_/s200/IMG_2870.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465371905766614178" /></a>Passing through ghost towns and seemingly soon-to-be ghosts towns such as Shafter and Terlingua, gliding through the Big Bend Ranch, (just west of Big Bend Park) and attentively navigating the precarious switchbacks that snake down into Chisos Basin, a campsite is available and the tent is up in record time. With enough light left in the day, and apparently feeling that there wasn’t enough road chewed up that day, I saddle up and set out on a 60 mile trek around the park and down to the Rio Grande at the Santa Elenya canyon. Betty floats on her wheels, not being bagged down by heavy packs and full saddle bags, she responds to the slightest touch and it’s freeing to be able to just “cruise,” these are my favorite rides. Expansive doesn’t even begin to describe the mountain range, and had I been raised here, I might think that this is how the entire world looks. Mountains have been described in these writings before, but each time new ones appear, it’s like watching a rerun of a favorite television show, but each time it airs, the show changes just slightly enough to rope you in again and again, coercing new oohs and ahhs. 200 proof distilled beauty.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSTq2INztg7p9jgDwu_gAZ3fA7dKUDfx8mOFP-5nFp9gMEXNxbvHtVHWXFu9MBy8WYOSsZVxqfo_6Y8jfBZe0fhX3u1KgNaZSRNg4XJ9da9TA-9keuo_nbSiVB03BY2qmJ8Nao8N3DFApL/s1600/IMG_2880.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSTq2INztg7p9jgDwu_gAZ3fA7dKUDfx8mOFP-5nFp9gMEXNxbvHtVHWXFu9MBy8WYOSsZVxqfo_6Y8jfBZe0fhX3u1KgNaZSRNg4XJ9da9TA-9keuo_nbSiVB03BY2qmJ8Nao8N3DFApL/s200/IMG_2880.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465372423943066898" /></a> <br /><br />Enough fear and respect exists for the dividing line of our two countries, however apprehension does not override curiosity as the engine purrs to silence and I make the walk down to the trickling waters of the Rio Grande. Ever leery for banditos and other stereotypes, one eye is kept on the water as the other scans the riverscape for possible threats, like a crazy iguana. To the right, up river about 100 yards, three people emerge on Mexican property and a lump forms in my throat as all my preconceived notions whiz through at once. Stopping all movement and eyes squinted to slits; I confirm that it’s nothing more than a very pasty dad and his two kids. Breakin the law, breakin the law. Seeing a shallow area, where they crossed, impish thoughts of my own crossing start stealing into my head, ooh a picture on Mexican soil – that’s a good one. They walk closer and after some brief introductions and conversations, guide me to the best route to cross over. Oooh, I’m a bad boy, gonna buck the system and illegally cross into Old Mexico, take that authority. But authority has other plans. As I bend over to remove my boots and begin to roll up my pants, two border patrol agents are perched at the top of the path and promptly halt any stripping that was about to occur, sorry ladies. Their waves beckon as the small family and make small talk on the way to the heavily armed political soldiers, contemplating our fate. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeO_9YbUho5ADwMZxz8yFmpuo49iNIPQNyNOCayN-y5hI-CaWv2QEVokHY9DqEHPtfnmHv31aLtwd-sgqDj2Tyr9Lnuh9yFUUfyV7xybSOgQQrA0TZUipIdLGOtxSS_YHlbnje3YJFOv7j/s1600/IMG_2893.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeO_9YbUho5ADwMZxz8yFmpuo49iNIPQNyNOCayN-y5hI-CaWv2QEVokHY9DqEHPtfnmHv31aLtwd-sgqDj2Tyr9Lnuh9yFUUfyV7xybSOgQQrA0TZUipIdLGOtxSS_YHlbnje3YJFOv7j/s200/IMG_2893.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465373243556544882" /></a>The mountain range and river have replaced the concrete and razor wire, but the boundaries are still just as prominent, were just crossed and note was taken. Hands on their firearms, the pendulum stance of good agent/bad agent swings into play, they being to ping pong threats and niceties for the next 20 minutes. Knowing I’m not in trouble, and with a grin buried beneath the surface, I listen intently while searching for ways to get pictures of the vehicle, the agents and their kick-ass MP4 assault rifles. Apparently I’m not very good at stealthy pictures and the agent catches me red-handed. Telling him that the pictures are of the surrounding mountain pass, he doesn’t press the issue, but upon review of my photojournalistic escapade, all pictures are blurry and are promptly deleted. Damn my unskilled stealth photography. For those of you interested, if you should get into trouble while illegally crossed into Mexico, agents are standing 20 feet away are not allowed to assist you, should trouble arise. If trouble should arise, then you just created an international incident and will be plastered all over CNN. Or, perhaps, quietly never heard from again. As tempting as it is, and as tempted as I was, current knowledge dictates that this course of action is not advised.<br /> <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgN_-bItzGAMH_BBoO0fA4evSzdKXbaLw5WS_mlGVwDnnWhULpbBKwJsok6wrZMJFr5D2X4F6PfGVIw86rQNQ-cdWxOgsxf3vExIvxrgZpkNk9X4LwlzF_lMUicCsInRlGdqUIXpNYpbD_/s1600/IMG_2910.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgN_-bItzGAMH_BBoO0fA4evSzdKXbaLw5WS_mlGVwDnnWhULpbBKwJsok6wrZMJFr5D2X4F6PfGVIw86rQNQ-cdWxOgsxf3vExIvxrgZpkNk9X4LwlzF_lMUicCsInRlGdqUIXpNYpbD_/s200/IMG_2910.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465377226653234354" /></a>Fully amused by the teeter-totter lecture and the fact that for once someone else is in the hot seat, the race against the shadows back to camp once again begins. Sunset falls on the mountains, giving them a red glow that reminds me of the campfire coals that I yearn for but are not allowed in this park. Chisos Basin is snuggled in a towering mountain court, resembling a large, brown cereal bowl with the campground the residual milk at the bottom. Chuckling, the realization that I’m just one of a few random fruit loops drifting aimlessly in this cosmic milk draws up satirical images in my head. Someone in a campsite close by is playing an eerily beautiful violin and it echoes off the canyon walls, a surreal serenade, given my surroundings as it pierces the silence. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe9zTGVRmzlqCvv9A5haLv3ldkTWOB4vgwRFGorTO_ZdusYD02T1h-tpp1Obg0coqkX3XeJS6r5ks6pAvZn4Wbc12yp8bFD2BYV6M5GU48J99xLpyZ2zJoa6IvLdEz2sT-hHWXjoqPf07A/s1600/IMG_2917.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe9zTGVRmzlqCvv9A5haLv3ldkTWOB4vgwRFGorTO_ZdusYD02T1h-tpp1Obg0coqkX3XeJS6r5ks6pAvZn4Wbc12yp8bFD2BYV6M5GU48J99xLpyZ2zJoa6IvLdEz2sT-hHWXjoqPf07A/s200/IMG_2917.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465377593929918242" /></a><br />Floating through the air on the notes from the strings, smells of grills, burgers, onions, steaks and other luxury foods tease my nostrils, which have a direct line to my stomach. I eat freeze-dried spaghetti. Mmm. Sitting at the trough of the canyon leaves no room for cell service and electricity is limited. There is, however, an old timey, red, wooden phone booth for emergencies and aside from its practical purpose, is quite picturesque.<br /><br />The plan to camp for two nights, take in the sights and attempt a formidable hike are cut short as the weather report rolls in behind my two wheels, and carries a more sour tune than what I’ve grown accustomed to tonight. Just like the Clash, a mental battle of should I stay or should I go plays itself out in catchy repetition. Heeding the advice of a friend, I go with my gut and make the decision to leave in the morning. The question begs to be answered “is my gut telling me to go because of some 6th sense intuition?” or have I been alone too long and, looking ahead to how long it will be before I see someone again, “am I just longing for laundry, easy conversation, a shower and familiar faces?” Riding sunup to sundown has finally taken its toll, physically and mentally and my tightly knit mind starts to fray and unravel rapidly. Only being on the road for 3 weeks is the weapon I use to battle a sliding depression tonight, as it doesn’t seem a long enough time period to be justified. My only companion has been the deafening rushing of the wind around the helmet, with some days the sound being loud enough to wake the dead. Every day, I wish that it would. Isolation is an efficient predator, raking its claws of solitude and gnashing its teeth of self-doubt. For me, being a social creature, I fall easy prey to this carnivorous beast and the only defense is to kick my own ass. Recognizing that it is way too early in my adventure to have a thought like this, and realizing the extremes of the rides undergone to date, the tent beckons and argument is futile. Getting up to prepare for a night’s rest, warnings of bears and mountain lions have left me on further edge as I back into a camp chair and squeak a half-scream like a little girl. It’s bed time. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhajloRcqDeuHYY4KINTcw1VNKxQUuNnlLFwZ-V1oapad0f6XkwM4hqxhD2e3RDZ-gkpxcz6uNcPuuxKz1DgQAk1yVQVyb-3hObAFtmVR48znxHs6XOtx3eTyRZUSXwSZUn-mmWAPvxRQa7/s1600/IMG_2920.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhajloRcqDeuHYY4KINTcw1VNKxQUuNnlLFwZ-V1oapad0f6XkwM4hqxhD2e3RDZ-gkpxcz6uNcPuuxKz1DgQAk1yVQVyb-3hObAFtmVR48znxHs6XOtx3eTyRZUSXwSZUn-mmWAPvxRQa7/s200/IMG_2920.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465378165135112066" /></a>The morning sun brings new light to the canyon and to my perceptions. The previous days’ big rides have the internal clock set for a 6.30 wake up call, cracking my eyelids; they’re shut just as quickly and slumber remains until 8. The past 24 hours of experience have left me with the hard lesson regarding the importance of adequate food and rest. It’s an absolute necessity. If you, the reader, take anything away from any of my ramblings, take this. You are shite without either or both. Take time to properly care for yourself in rest and food. Being a student of all Discovery Channel survival shows, you’d think I knew this. Well. The only way I learn is the hard way; this has been proven repeatedly over the course of the past 33 years. <br /><br />Morning may have brought a refreshed perspective, but not a revised forecast and the decision to leave still holds strong. A breakfast of tasty oats and coffee is eaten silently and motionlessly while the beauty of the canyon walls and all surrounding is devoured along with my vittles. Invisible to the world around me, a red fox comes trotting into my campsite, within 10 feet of my Folgers and there’s not enough time for me to move unnoticed and grab a camera. Sly fox trots fearlessly but cautiously on his way past my legs to more important adventures and the resemblance between the two of us does not go unnoticed. For the rest of breakfast the camera is lock, loaded and ready to take aim, but there is no more quarry, except for a little bird who decides my oatmeal is tastier than cactus seeds and promptly perches on my cup for a bite. I am Snow White of the desert and dare not put out my arms for fear that flocks and herds will perch and nestle against me. The marqueed bear and mountain lions do not make a cameo on this trip and relief infused with disappointment simmers.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM5bvNwTXiV9F7Kk1geqq9diVoie-SK_XFC3t3cxLHViCvilAbZdtsMBHXQ2jtYznvH6QxNRqPrsmaB1dyp-oxhPv1hOx1BcWl3241PGNYp4CuAvYiJ7rcOmtbySexivEpr24JknY8ET-8/s1600/IMG_2921.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM5bvNwTXiV9F7Kk1geqq9diVoie-SK_XFC3t3cxLHViCvilAbZdtsMBHXQ2jtYznvH6QxNRqPrsmaB1dyp-oxhPv1hOx1BcWl3241PGNYp4CuAvYiJ7rcOmtbySexivEpr24JknY8ET-8/s200/IMG_2921.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465378711591210162" /></a> <br /><br />Packing completed, the campsite is scanned one last time, and once again there is absolutely no footprint of any existence. Like an apparition floating on the desert heat waves, there is no sign of me outside of the few hours spent hunkered in each camp. The gypsy in me takes pride in this knowledge and the former night’s feelings of melancholy are painted over by a gratified, mischievous revelry in the fact that only I know where I am at any given moment. Enter sh!t eating grin.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6GQZ3WUHeJeHyd9pyZ0_Ryzbg7S_seti0lEDiyonimojW7g9wUFzXohlChwnNe8e1ZGXIeOzXgj1jodZjxOItJ0_Zp7GmdGpxeQAhZP8EQfRQTt2KArvjWAMnPvFm2MA_RA-X8ummV3JF/s1600/IMG_2909.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6GQZ3WUHeJeHyd9pyZ0_Ryzbg7S_seti0lEDiyonimojW7g9wUFzXohlChwnNe8e1ZGXIeOzXgj1jodZjxOItJ0_Zp7GmdGpxeQAhZP8EQfRQTt2KArvjWAMnPvFm2MA_RA-X8ummV3JF/s200/IMG_2909.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465374584109195522" /></a> <br /><br />Geared up and rearing to go, 1st gear once again kicks down as Betty purrs back through fog enveloped switchbacks at a blistering 10 miles per hour out of the canyon. Not happy with the current state of atmosphere, pressing on releases me into the cactus valley floor that is bright, sunny and clear of any rain, for the time being. This is the World Cup of mental games and while riding the lone highway, reflections of last night’s struggle and the swiftness with which it overtook me read like a newspaper in my head. Ink smudged and dirty fingers, I wash my thoughts in the faith of what keeps me going. As if to prove the point, the Devil rears its horns out of the desert floor to ensure I do not forget he's always with me. Family, friends, followers. Your comments, calls, texts and email are the biggest propellant of my psyche, frame of mind and success of this adventure and I thank you. Knowing that you’re still out there and I’m not forgotten means more than you could possibly fathom.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYjDJXk3ekMoVU1NNDCHYaTmhBlYata9aY3g3CqZcWKhIoHpXEfXj21ZXxJsnS_OpEMJ4zWbGdgb4ZegdvovoKuWsdxOVG11I611qEy4dgV02WtRWiBdD8ATl4x_b12e8XOI0m-tTIRWWB/s1600/IMG_2901.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYjDJXk3ekMoVU1NNDCHYaTmhBlYata9aY3g3CqZcWKhIoHpXEfXj21ZXxJsnS_OpEMJ4zWbGdgb4ZegdvovoKuWsdxOVG11I611qEy4dgV02WtRWiBdD8ATl4x_b12e8XOI0m-tTIRWWB/s200/IMG_2901.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465379848737262754" /></a><br /><br />On March 6, 2010, in the border town of Del Rio, Texas, the Muscle is emptied, covered and the disc lock is pinned into place. Dirty, exhausted, aching for real food, a bed and a shower an America’s Best Inn (not the best, by the way) will be tonight’s Four Season’s and the Sirloin Stockade buffet will serve as Gibson’s Steakhouse. Food can be eaten with a fork and knife, isn’t prepared with 2 cups of boiling water and there is dessert. Oh sweet dessert! Cakes, cookies and pies dance on my tongue like a pack of Oompa Loompas, as they’re carried off into an eagerly awaiting stomach. Back at the motel, the only thing dirtier than the stories the walls would bleed if poked, are the dingy, used-to-be white sheets that I’ll slip into after a luxurious, flip-flopped shower. <br /><br />Thoroughly enjoying a night’s sleep on a mattress that doesn’t involve my elbows knocking into the ground, morning preparations for the big push are made. This perhaps will be the biggest push of the trip, attempting an estimated 600 miles through the Texas desert, along a most disconcerting border. Apprehensions are reignited and the success of this part of the trip is unconstructively debated. Perceived biases, countless warnings and multitudes of advice received from all angles tumble heavily through thought as the desert ride begins. It’s going to be a long ride.<br /><br />The morning is drenched in rain; the storm I had so determinately avoided has finally found me. Rolling out in full rain gear, I look like the Michelin Man’s north woods cousin, puffed out and dripping head to toe in blaze orange. This is not the look of a biker. I do not care. I am dry and safe, tough guys be damned. The Muscle skates along the border, breezing through towns as if they don’t exist. They may as well not. Marked on the map, but little else, most of the towns ridden through look as though nobody has occupied them for quite some time. Until I get to Roma. A cool little big town, Roma has all the necessities needed for a town to survive, restaurants, shops, car washes, an unexpected oasis in the middle of nowhere. Outside of the town a hand painted billboard boasts a phone number and touts promises of mole and tattoo removal. No thank you, I’ll pass. What they don’t tell you is that their primary instrument for said removals is a belt sander. The respite and civility of Roma and its people start to pave a transformation of perception. These towns are not the looming holes of death that have been dug into my mind and I can feel fear turn to apprehension which morphs into a chrysalis of caution and the real view of small town people and their hospitality finally emerges. <br /><br />The border welcomes me now, if no one else, as I push past Laredo and my mind opens like the road before me. The only current threats being rogue goats, cattle and wild horses that feel they need to share the road with all travelers. Dogs run loose in towns and the country, feral as the countryside they call home. Dodging the local fauna, the road takes me to Brownsville’s port of entry, where the line to get into the U.S. seems endless. Through steel bars and red and white gates I see droves of people, on foot and in cars, strive to enter the land of the free. The line going into Mexico is completely empty, a nauseating reminder of previous cautions and our current state of affairs. Leaving Brownsville, I once again roll on the throttle with the promise of the gulf of Mexico close at hand. <br /><br />It feels as if I’m literally on the road to nowhere. A desolate (it is 7pm) two-lane highway bordered by sand dunes and the distant blinking of offshore oil rigs, the water is not yet visible. My body tenses and shakes at the thought of finally seeing the gulf after so many miles spent traversing, what could have been, an unforgiving desert landscape. I call this the road to nowhere and it gives me my first taste of the bug army as I pull over every 5 miles to clean my face shield. The anticipation of reaching Boca Chica state park builds like a static charge and my excitement is ready to explode into a frenzied smile, but the water remains elusive. Constantly pulling over and checking a now-working GPS, Betty and I inch closer to the blue on the screen. Convinced the gulf will cleanse all my fears of the previous 1,400 miles and the waves will drown any bias or prejudice I may have had, we continue to roll on. I see the sign: Road Ends 500 Feet. Cautiously rolling up, the asphalt begins to turn to sand and when riding forward is no longer possible, I set the kickstand down and walk the remaining 100 yards. There it is, the gulf of Mexico crashing into the surf and cascading into my eyes. It’s not the most scenic view, but this is my Rembrandt, my Van Gogh and I have never set my eyes on anything so beautiful. A renewed energy explodes in my soul after a grueling 13 hour ride. I was right. I am cleansed. All is good.<br /><br />Never foregoing common sense, caution and observation, had I been a more seasoned traveler or less susceptible to the media frenzy and misguidance of others, the ride along this border would have been spent with more time and exploration. Fear was based on lack of knowledge and now that I’ve experienced this beautiful part of our country, shame settles on my shoulders for succumbing so deeply to this prejudice. My ideas of this leg of the journey are akin to the small town kid that has never been to Chicago or New York, that replies with “you live in Chicago?! People get mugged and shot there!!” With every place in this world, there is going to be a shameful underbelly that gets reported on and sells the most papers. This is, unfortunately, the word that will be spread and with it dangerous stereotypes. Even though the border ride is complete and I breathe a breath of comfort, I would like one day to bury those biased notions for good, taking my time along this uniquely gorgeous landscape, getting to better know the land and its people.<br /><br /><em>"The bike may break me. The road may take me. I'll forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart."</em>The Tributehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10743853433112763375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5115176089524902569.post-41300570318173792602010-04-19T18:54:00.007-05:002010-04-19T19:51:59.568-05:004.19.10 - The 2nd Month Anniversary of Ride the Edge Update:It’s the Danniversary! 2 months of Harley and road living, so I thought that you would like to get some quick stats:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZDNX5VG8EyDQgVaMMxg7om1LXOAhb5jB2QhIHmdtKfLcyAxFXyYMoxn7hKxCwKn1wHr9Cdb2fU_2HXBCvAnr2coNoau4sFQeB47GVD2Cwl5yNIgbDR_1Li5lDr1DT3y6C37BkQkoPLVR8/s1600/IMG_0101.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZDNX5VG8EyDQgVaMMxg7om1LXOAhb5jB2QhIHmdtKfLcyAxFXyYMoxn7hKxCwKn1wHr9Cdb2fU_2HXBCvAnr2coNoau4sFQeB47GVD2Cwl5yNIgbDR_1Li5lDr1DT3y6C37BkQkoPLVR8/s200/IMG_0101.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462005466868127410" /></a><br />Days on the road: 60<br />Miles traveled: 7,244<br />Pairs of Sunglasses: 5<br />States: 9 (currently Georgia)<br />Temperature variance: 63 degrees<br /><br />There comes a point, I assume, in the career of every biker when the stark dividing line between man and machine begins to blur, if not completely dissolve into an innate fluidity of motion. This defining moment, where the relationship between bike and rider becomes harmoniously united, happened to me when the odometer read around 6,000 miles (4,800 of this trip). Until this point, my motions had been rigid, text-book, mechanical, methodical and lacking the “feeling” or the “touch” that makes for a truly pleasurable riding experience. The safety course instructors’ words all still echo in my head and riding now is not simply done on instinct or feel alone, there is now a symbiotic relationship between the technical and the natural. Riding has now rolled into a smooth symphony that flows intuitively through me, Betty and the road . Those of you that ride, you know what I’m talking about. The melding of skill and confidence in you and your bike is one of the greatest feelings and recognitions that can be experienced by a biker. Those riders that have not experienced this yet, and it happens at different times for each rider and bike, get out there and start making some miles. Your time will come too, an epiphany on the road awaits you. <br /><br />Thank you to all that have given me food, shelter, company and your generosity. Thank you to all that have followed and supported me along this journey, you help to keep me going. I will ride on and keep you all with me.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikGeuQQ_FKRkrLsbj6PvRoIGFsbOS9_dA0Ocme3c6xpV0yuRrTvelNsew3qU_zi0uT25LdrlBON6iI4rkaY2eQTTFpp0x5HYzzVYPn0HRSDR6C5go2lRpHuLsTFTovwzP5EC95AJ5pIPf6/s1600/IMG_2792.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikGeuQQ_FKRkrLsbj6PvRoIGFsbOS9_dA0Ocme3c6xpV0yuRrTvelNsew3qU_zi0uT25LdrlBON6iI4rkaY2eQTTFpp0x5HYzzVYPn0HRSDR6C5go2lRpHuLsTFTovwzP5EC95AJ5pIPf6/s200/IMG_2792.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462006303038206082" /></a><br /><br /><em>"The bike may break me. The road may take me. But I'll forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart."</em>The Tributehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10743853433112763375noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5115176089524902569.post-89099074686797309492010-04-16T10:46:00.001-05:002010-04-16T10:49:59.566-05:00Interim Post - Why We RideThis is an article to appease the masses, while awaiting the second half to the Tex/Mex border post. My dad sent me this article and I thought that it definitely needed to be shared. American Rider - please don't sue me. If you are going to - please ask me to take down the post first, and I will gladly comply.<br /><br />As valuable as “time” is, once it is gone you cannot get it back. Here's something I thought you might enjoy. An article by Reg Kittrelle entitled <em>Go Away</em> from American Rider magazine, reproduced here from a copy I received. It is why we ride.<br /> <br />Welcome to American Rider. Now go away. Leave. Put down the magazine, move away from the couch, pick up your helmet...and go. Yes, it's that important.<br /><br /> <br />I recently spoke before a group of older retired men on the subject of motorcycles and, in particular, enjoying them. This was a non-riding group who had made their marks in the world. They had arrived in expensive cars, eaten a too-costly dinner and, in general, looked as if they were enjoying the fact that their major battles in life were past them. This was a free-form sort of thing; I spoke, answered questions, offered up an embellished anecdote or two and generally talked of the pleasure that decades of riding a motorcycle has brought to me. While my speech will not survive the ages, it did elicit responses from some that were a bit unexpected.<br /><br /> <br />As things moved along I noticed a wistfulness of sorts creep into the comments from some of the audience. This became even more evident afterwards in casual conversations. I heard stories of the motorcycle "I had as a kid", of “the Harley I wished I'd bought," and of "the Indian the guy down the street had". What I didn't hear, of course, were stories of great rides, adventures on the road, or seeing sights from the saddle that they'd never forget. Things that to me, and many of you, are an integral part of our lives, and maybe even the fabric from which we're woven.<br /><br /> <br />Certainly many of these accomplished people had led interesting, exciting lives, and had done things that could fill volumes. But often when you hear of these things you find that they are special events, long planned and soon over. Such as that trip to the Grand Canyon, the hike up Mt Shasta, or maybe that white-water raft trip that the family so enjoyed. All good and worthy endeavors, but when they’re over, they’re over. Normalcy returns and the minivan once again becomes the focal point of transportation. Contrast this with our lives as riders. Every commute, every short hop is an adventure of sorts requiring skill and heightened awareness, and featuring the opportunity to enjoy life, rather than just endure it. Yes, we have our planned trips, but they’re the icing on the cake we eat daily, not just during two frantic weeks a year.<br /><br /><br />Thoreau wrote (in Walden, 1854), “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” In part he was referring to how we spend our time devoid of real joy. Read that again: “…devoid of real joy.” That’s what came to mind while listening to my audience. Had they led lives of quiet desperation? Probably not, but maybe their lives had been so structured, so planned out that the idea of enjoying their time on the planet might not have made the cut. They saw in me a man who was enjoying life, principally because of motorcycles. While Thoreau might not agree that motorcycles fit within the Walden world, he might be convinced that a late spring ride over Lolo Pass or an afternoon on the Big Sur coast is as good a cure for desperation as anything he had to offer.<br /> <br /><br />Running from your problems is never recommended. However, riding from them temporarily can be very therapeutic. It always impresses me how much more suited I am to attack the day when I approach it after a motorcycle ride. Sitting around, wallowing in the sweat of the numerous battles that constitute today’s life, I have a tendency to blend them together to the point where my little problems take on the trappings of major ones, and the biggies go supernova on me. Enter the motorcycle. Within a handful of miles the onion-like layers of stress and worry get peeled away, shoved into proper perspective and richly scolded for taking control of my mind, if not my life. Replacing them are the basics—the motorcycle, the road, and me, leaving precious little time to bother with the battle du jour. <br /><br /><br />So just go. Leave. Take a ride. Go make another hundred miles worth of memories so that in your dotage when you’re sitting listening to some smart-ass guy talk of his adventures you can just smile and say to yourself, “If he only knew”.The Tributehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10743853433112763375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5115176089524902569.post-82649042457419573102010-04-08T20:21:00.014-05:002010-04-08T22:26:27.494-05:00Texas-Mexico Border: 3.4 - 3.9 PART 1<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJS8QDUPxOeUvteQ5Apq-D700jKl_NCsfan_m65kP_wHwWEO_A6YTAoG4hclN4oPZ7XLXzoSi3W1zHRHJbM4SgBZlsfo3CtIyd3L-DMn0IkUFEBjzoj8pSh9WF3Mpc8k5ghe5haKodtpij/s1600/IMG_2853.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJS8QDUPxOeUvteQ5Apq-D700jKl_NCsfan_m65kP_wHwWEO_A6YTAoG4hclN4oPZ7XLXzoSi3W1zHRHJbM4SgBZlsfo3CtIyd3L-DMn0IkUFEBjzoj8pSh9WF3Mpc8k5ghe5haKodtpij/s200/IMG_2853.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457944602921954498" /></a><br /><br /><br />Route: I-10 out of El Paso to 375 loop (Caesar E. Chavez border highway – riding fence) to Hwy 20E to I-10E to 90S/E (at Van Horn). 90S/E to Hwy 17N (Marfa). Hwy 17N to Balmorhea State Park. 17S to 67S (Marfa again) to Hwy 170E (Presidio). 170E through Big Bend Ranch (best ride yet) to Chisos Basin in Big Bend National Park. Took side road to Rio Grande (unmarked, just west of Chisos Basin at Santa Elena Canyon). Out of Chisos Basin to 385N to 90E to Del Rio (overnight). 277S/E out of Del Rio to farm road 1021 (Eagle Pass) to farm road 2644 (El Indio) to 83S (Carrizo Springs). 83S to 281S (Pharr) to 4E to Boca Chica to end of the earth. 4W back to 48E to South Padre Island (2 days of rest, laundry, people and a bar)<br /><br /><strong>"Success is not found in the destination, but within the journey itself" </strong><br /><br />The prejudice surrounding the Texas-Mexico border is definitely grounded in fact. The mere speak of it brings images of drug cartels, thievery, murder, rape, abduction and chaos. Aside from the ever-present human threats, Javolinas, Mountain Lions and Rattlesnakes are also contenders that could step in my ring. Perilous thoughts swarm in my head as I prepare to battle the biggest threat that has yet reared its ugly head. Nerves on edge, muscles permanently tensed and aches in my gut, this is the part of the trip that has plagued my thoughts, emotions and general state of well-being since deciding to make this journey, well over two years ago. This is not part of the trip I have looked forward to, but glad to get it over with, and awareness for my personal safety is on high alert. Contemplations of bringing firearms, stun-guns and other forms of self protection have battled ferociously internally, leaving nothing but a feeling of trepidation after the decision to avoid weapons that could be used in poor favor is made. El Paso, Laredo Nuevo and other border towns spill stories of drug cartels kidnapping Americans and creating a chaotic state of lawlessness. Mexican law enforcement has been gunned down and their blood spilled, in some of these American streets. This is not a leg of the trip that is to be taken lightly and it sits like a scale full of lead in my gut. My goal: get through this as fast as humanly possible.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg99BP0TxXpVKDVua0x-LaRH9alNFgNVAkMAxJeMp5WDB5cSG-MzONHmyaLjDF2tJTeeXvzk7G1qO9bA6Yjgzo8mLUkI7kAWyps1VIrPEIllpGiN5QZpe0SoYtEIxhf9DadYLxcIYZ2gUJT/s1600/IMG_2854.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg99BP0TxXpVKDVua0x-LaRH9alNFgNVAkMAxJeMp5WDB5cSG-MzONHmyaLjDF2tJTeeXvzk7G1qO9bA6Yjgzo8mLUkI7kAWyps1VIrPEIllpGiN5QZpe0SoYtEIxhf9DadYLxcIYZ2gUJT/s200/IMG_2854.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457945654604155474" /></a>This is it. This is what I’ve come for. The HD Muscle twitches, as do I, while the wheels roll through El Paso and onto the 375 loop, almost knowing what she’s about to ride into. The fence separating "US from them" guides the road; rusty, a menacing metallic tower that is covered in concrete and razor wire. No one in, no one out. This is our government at its finest, constructing a fence line hundreds of miles long that run along rivers, cut through mountains and tear through farmer’s fields. The wall is formidable and demanding, a clear sign to those that would like to cross it to think twice about their upcoming endeavor. The U.S. had better be worth it. Apathy? Sympathy? Fear? Security? A ride along the fence evokes all these feelings, none of which bring a positive state of mind. I guess it’s doing its job. Debate around this protective line is frenzied and elementary. The 9-11 attacks brought about a greater rationalization on the part of homeland security, and that I can agree with, but it strikes me as odd, that, littered with shrines that have been spoken of before, the border between life and death are not even as closely fortified as the border between our so-called neighbors.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjXYgJxmSUiGmBNIlPGw9qWGqUYxR8teqgrjl5CIIBSQWlItemZm15OJpvnS7Xwan-1kQTRZDQaVxkn-CIR7g8zqIw4q40RzohV0CPPfTPH4qYD1cAAYr7tqW0HIIXDMsBxQ8vHTQEG5cC/s1600/IMG_2858.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjXYgJxmSUiGmBNIlPGw9qWGqUYxR8teqgrjl5CIIBSQWlItemZm15OJpvnS7Xwan-1kQTRZDQaVxkn-CIR7g8zqIw4q40RzohV0CPPfTPH4qYD1cAAYr7tqW0HIIXDMsBxQ8vHTQEG5cC/s200/IMG_2858.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457946344041157490" /></a> <br /><br />Highway 20 takes me as close to this fence line as possible, without resorting to rudimentary farm roads that would bring on an inevitable break-down. 20 passes through small border towns, mainly agricultural and it’s conflicting to notice that as the wall channels its way through the fields, gates gaping, allow the farmers to drive in and out at will, the gates do not close, my curiosity is peaked. Apparently there is litigation in progress, to halt some construction of the wall that has ravaged some of these local farmer’s livelihoods. These are American farmers. The road is dusty, but very reminiscent of Midwestern farms, lacking the lush green surrounding forests and the black and white cows that dot a Wisconsin landscape. A slight ease comes in for a landing and rests on my shoulders. They say that familiarity breeds contempt, in this case, it breeds antacid. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnNidSzw_rFidIBcF8CDHUhZMEB_FqbhDNRd_vbbh-G_c57sA_1vnBLz7fPZWVxyRuTMxX2RuN-eo8vd-9aDkCqTeYh5yw3QWGYYRquKUs7mm7AqjungII5kkDtQpWejskTyDTamR2l1Ok/s1600/IMG_2884.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnNidSzw_rFidIBcF8CDHUhZMEB_FqbhDNRd_vbbh-G_c57sA_1vnBLz7fPZWVxyRuTMxX2RuN-eo8vd-9aDkCqTeYh5yw3QWGYYRquKUs7mm7AqjungII5kkDtQpWejskTyDTamR2l1Ok/s200/IMG_2884.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457947014270694322" /></a><br /><br />The dusty back road ends as it meets up with I-10, so the decision to gas up and eat at Fort Hancock is an easy one. Angie’s restaurant offers up a crazy menu, deliciousness flows through its pages which are in direct contrast to its hole-in-the-wall ambience. I roll in just before noon and the place is packed with locals, local law enforcement and the crowd greets each other with hugs, smiles and handshakes. Here in the middle of the prejudicially outcast part of the country, I may have just found the friendliest place on earth. The locals help themselves to drink, help to bus tables to alleviate the strain of the lunch rush and chat amongst themselves. Like a drifter, I was born to walk alone and the clientele know this. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi__xMAtbnGv0b9qhyFscTv85utP7XSHuO_WISQKoro50X1ZVxXlQvGc8UwyWHdLsQgwfYBK40PptPX5AV4eqjer6f4AyjiL7O0UEgOOlqyq9wyxQufXibPnplCFZ8P9Sg4gscPKZ0Dc4Zx/s1600/IMG_2857.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi__xMAtbnGv0b9qhyFscTv85utP7XSHuO_WISQKoro50X1ZVxXlQvGc8UwyWHdLsQgwfYBK40PptPX5AV4eqjer6f4AyjiL7O0UEgOOlqyq9wyxQufXibPnplCFZ8P9Sg4gscPKZ0Dc4Zx/s200/IMG_2857.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457947817888661586" /></a>They pay no mind to the scruffy outsider as he eats some delicious white corn tacos, while eyeing the Constable sitting next to him. Only stories and fables of the old west have brought me the knowledge of the “Peace Officer” and here I sit next to one, although rather rotund and jubilant. I’m sure his money is no good here. <br /><br />The crossroads of I-10 and Hwy 90 intersect me with the lives of three dingy, worn and sun-beaten travelers. About 20 years old, he asks me to buy him some chicken. I say no and offer him a cliff bar. After talking with this modern-day hobo, it comes to pass that he is a wanderer, a true nomad of our century. Taking after histories of yore, hitching and box-car riding are not a dead art. They are alive and well and he, his sister and best friend are exploiting free transportation to its fullest. Having served time in town and county jails to think about what they’ve done, the railroads have never prosecuted to the full-extent and these trios of travelling spirits press on. A mission to travel the country, listen to music and receive handouts, two thoughts spring to mind. They are poor, despondent or running from a very bad place. OR, they are rich kids out to break the rules, fleeing from their mundane lives of country clubs, tennis lessons and everything they could possibly want. Immediately another lead ball is dropped in my gut as I think of a relationship past. She had been the latter of the two options, succumbing to a heroin addiction that she was never able to shake. One of the darkest points in my life, that experience has shaped, molded, defined, you name it, the way I look at relationships and interactions with people. Never really trusting until given reason to, living through it snapped me out of a naïve shelter that I still carry with me to this day. I really hope these kids make it through unscathed. I toss them some more food; he was a nice kid for the moment, despite any demons that may be haunting him.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOYGiMfzomzlmqHlMLHOolCt0_-HZiKZYLiKLL4orC9fJOegCUEMVrT6TwEMQE0Kd-wHdpa3JUf1LQOZwzVZAfWqGrbq1szO4ovE7y5XUJaDrU-BYlJt6P3Mhm63MkDzG6bcVlIzeDV9C4/s1600/IMG_2859.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOYGiMfzomzlmqHlMLHOolCt0_-HZiKZYLiKLL4orC9fJOegCUEMVrT6TwEMQE0Kd-wHdpa3JUf1LQOZwzVZAfWqGrbq1szO4ovE7y5XUJaDrU-BYlJt6P3Mhm63MkDzG6bcVlIzeDV9C4/s200/IMG_2859.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457948131083477634" /></a> <br /><br />A memory of a friend’s shout for “Prada Marfa” echoes in my head and I have no idea what he was talking about, back in my life formerly known as Chicago, until the roads less traveled take me to Marfa, where my next turn to camp for the night will lead. Just outside of Valentine (a city that bears an unfortunate name to an unfortunate holiday), there is just that. Prada Marfa. Sitting solemnly, abandoned and isolated like a foster kid forgotten at a bus station, in the middle of the desert there is a Prada Boutique, complete with display windows. This still shocks me as I’m not yet accustomed to the odd, unusual and wonderful things that will inadvertently come across my path on this journey. <br /><br />Rolling through Fort Davis, the road to Balmorhea state park twists, turns through a gently rolling canyon that seems to have been carved out of the earth by the designers of the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Monumental cliffs, round, tall and independent, yet bound together line the highway and this road is a must see for any biker, let alone tourist. The beauty draws my focus and attention as I pull over to take some pictures. At the same time, a well camouflaged herd of deer make an appearance as the Muscle rolls to a stop to act as my temporary tripod. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL2DBpMH1CF4zzPr87ZJog4BvS1uR-_8D3r1Zd9V1ANwyfpCKlVLzz34uJR7FldNhFCDO7M0EztBG62TBdMmm7zDnEL51pY2qT-zwpmQrs_sVWciEtzW9-ajlg2OsE9jM6cA6O-oN9gq4F/s1600/IMG_2869.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL2DBpMH1CF4zzPr87ZJog4BvS1uR-_8D3r1Zd9V1ANwyfpCKlVLzz34uJR7FldNhFCDO7M0EztBG62TBdMmm7zDnEL51pY2qT-zwpmQrs_sVWciEtzW9-ajlg2OsE9jM6cA6O-oN9gq4F/s200/IMG_2869.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457949412760998418" /></a>The deer scatter while I idle on the roadside and they run across the road and gracefully bound over a barbed wired fence with an ease so apparent, it looked practiced. <br /><br />Balmorhea is not an overly visually impressive state park, but it will do for the night. Situated far enough from the Mexican border to be comfortable, it gives me my first trial of sleeping in the foldable hammock that was brought for just these types of situations. Knowing that morning will come quickly and the push to get to Big Bend is urgent in my mind, the hammock serves as an easy set-up and pack for the night, even though I string it between two support posts of a shelter. Aside from the lackluster grounds, the park has some great people, who just happened to be from…the Chicago area. Kevin and Kathy from Tinley Park are also riding across country on their bikes, although navigating the opposite of my current path on their way to Los Angeles. Nestling into the hammock, the stars envelop me in a night sky that, like a precocious 3 year old, does not end simply because a horizon tells it to. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEl7DXKVFsbevXlHs8PmQJW3OAoGQzTDQDz1RZo-dxJYQZhbJbYB2S-TiB4KfRmkVZua0m9TKa3s2PHyu9YKrQ-nOB3bQE2MJCW9FRw_KiPg4fCx1xKkDPzp9cPssPwFCvT9CroWiEFPjU/s1600/IMG_2866.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEl7DXKVFsbevXlHs8PmQJW3OAoGQzTDQDz1RZo-dxJYQZhbJbYB2S-TiB4KfRmkVZua0m9TKa3s2PHyu9YKrQ-nOB3bQE2MJCW9FRw_KiPg4fCx1xKkDPzp9cPssPwFCvT9CroWiEFPjU/s200/IMG_2866.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457949934288178546" /></a><br /><br />Rest should come easy, but it’s not expected and I find that the non-expectations are right on target. The comfort of a down sleeping bag only works when given the proper loft above or padded underneath by a sleeping pad. Hammocks…they don’t have this sleeping pad and the night wind whips below me, chilling me bum. Obdurate as I am, this is not dissuasion and I am thoroughly convinced that exhaustion and my stubbornness will win out in the end and the remainder of the night will be slept in peace and comfort. Wrong again. Tossing and turning all night does nothing but prove that stubborn does not equal a win and the tent should have been set up at the first gust that blew my eyes open. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizyqITTFUELIjMJqLZFGEKWMxND8mYIrKTY1LDFWRxuHc_WQzzJGqKJyV7jQxLe5l67EE-NWoPnF8xB86UtGB07fERgBFwebOLzv-PtQ8fJZovz_4KCS-Mi0jacunOPPFOP-HDUUBYSG5m/s1600/IMG_2875.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizyqITTFUELIjMJqLZFGEKWMxND8mYIrKTY1LDFWRxuHc_WQzzJGqKJyV7jQxLe5l67EE-NWoPnF8xB86UtGB07fERgBFwebOLzv-PtQ8fJZovz_4KCS-Mi0jacunOPPFOP-HDUUBYSG5m/s200/IMG_2875.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457953574461768242" /></a><br />Morning comes and with it brings grump and grog while the ritualistic packing of camp occurs. In the midst of the daily chores, an older gentleman from Manitoba approaches to make small talk. The conversation meanders like these border back roads and seems to go nowhere, when abruptly he farts and sounding like a leprechaun doing a John Wayne accent, says “well, I better go make breakfast” and walks away. Roses paint my face as I turn my back to him with shoulder jerking, silent, belly laughs. As soon as he’s out of earshot, a full-out wail ensues. A big ol’ Canadian cowboy, his flood pants are permanently shackled by his designer fish suspenders that undoubtedly thwart any attempt at escape.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx0xniqHIZJbU1FXTtK08FHh6fPaMs83CKYCqghw1I2z4d6vS5RLakyRZlNP-zqHQGaIIlIcoeb1hgW2zPuK-mO6iatZwt5cZoa-_X2KWZ2UG863YKKYNGO28gf6cXbrCNsCtrW1dMh-bn/s1600/IMG_2871.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx0xniqHIZJbU1FXTtK08FHh6fPaMs83CKYCqghw1I2z4d6vS5RLakyRZlNP-zqHQGaIIlIcoeb1hgW2zPuK-mO6iatZwt5cZoa-_X2KWZ2UG863YKKYNGO28gf6cXbrCNsCtrW1dMh-bn/s200/IMG_2871.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457950825934643538" /></a>The road back south is uneventful as promises from the prior day’s ride for breakfast, at a diner in an old caboose, are broken. The next several hundred miles are, like all the rest, foreign and beg me to ride on. Presidio presents itself and we hang a southeast to continue along the border through <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsUMZ2j8Y6XwukwrJyAia_QkaY0iuJJdGuWSJF-V10ikAyQ7LbzaQyhaEahez2ENwaPfTwYzmflP48qQVz-bewQL5pX51qi7qmJGNlm_iknKNkMOUoOujRS2_aqwinueA_MVxXWrw1Qvab/s1600/IMG_2889.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsUMZ2j8Y6XwukwrJyAia_QkaY0iuJJdGuWSJF-V10ikAyQ7LbzaQyhaEahez2ENwaPfTwYzmflP48qQVz-bewQL5pX51qi7qmJGNlm_iknKNkMOUoOujRS2_aqwinueA_MVxXWrw1Qvab/s200/IMG_2889.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457952515123350418" /></a>Big Bend Ranch, just west of Big Bend state park – the next destination and camp ground. Hwy 170 revs me up as the landscape unfolds and uncurls in a beauty unknown, with enough curves and bends to make pin-up models look like their two-dimensional posters that get tacked to garage walls and above urinals in bar bathrooms. If this highway was not designed by, for or with bikers in mind, whoever did it missed their calling in life. An easy 35 miles per hour massage the Muscle through dips, turns, bends, curves, hills that run parallel along the snaking Rio Grande. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLQy1rKUrD5nwhNHwFwrVKQCZ-u86f3PqgP_jHNDFjyduFkgJQXbB5qfc4VaizIv1pOhm9v7bk5KxtWkPwurd94JSQwHkaUYh-CcKaMeyivRbj5dWfl2GrVDKJoKwZS1ICqI4C3xA7VaVw/s1600/IMG_2878.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLQy1rKUrD5nwhNHwFwrVKQCZ-u86f3PqgP_jHNDFjyduFkgJQXbB5qfc4VaizIv1pOhm9v7bk5KxtWkPwurd94JSQwHkaUYh-CcKaMeyivRbj5dWfl2GrVDKJoKwZS1ICqI4C3xA7VaVw/s200/IMG_2878.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457951385098910802" /></a>Speed is not needed nor wanted cruising through these mountains with rock formations that seem to not only span geologic eras, but entire worlds and continents at the same time. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIfUhIQQPiS3ClEH7Jj-KpjaqZcxQBGBArqpjlL0D0-zqTXIZ_SHppiB7M0KxrjnVaiSqY1GULRw5kokYyeWXC_5YWbmoN_C3nRWVdp2oJjYit5KRP9GSmpppPvuvNKDuw0EZciy94D4K-/s1600/IMG_2877.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIfUhIQQPiS3ClEH7Jj-KpjaqZcxQBGBArqpjlL0D0-zqTXIZ_SHppiB7M0KxrjnVaiSqY1GULRw5kokYyeWXC_5YWbmoN_C3nRWVdp2oJjYit5KRP9GSmpppPvuvNKDuw0EZciy94D4K-/s200/IMG_2877.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457952011659305650" /></a>I’m giddy. I’m like a 12 year old on X-mas eve, albeit dressed in head to toe in leather, wearing sunglasses, a helmet, bad ass boots and riding a 1250cc/120 horse power Harley Davidson VRSCF Muscle through the Texas desert. Eat it Mad Max, this is my Thunderdome. One Dan enters. One Dan leaves.<br /><br /><em>“The bike may break me. The road may take me. I'll forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart”</em>The Tributehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10743853433112763375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5115176089524902569.post-87961853384456178702010-04-02T21:45:00.001-05:002010-04-02T21:48:27.372-05:00Soundtrack to Ride The Edge; Disc One:(Don't forget to read the New Mexico post below)<br /><br />1. Only the Good Die Young – Billy Joel <br />2. La Grange – ZZ Top <br /> For gear up, strap down and ride off<br />3. Everyday People – Arrested Development<br /> Appropriate after the people I’m meeting<br />4. Redemption Song – Bob Marley<br /> Fitting as I look for personal redemption from things that don’t matter in life<br />5. Here I go Again – Whitesnake<br />6. Ridin The Storm Out – REO Speedwagon<br />7. Desperado – The Eagles<br />8. Journey Agent – Pnau<br />9. Wasted Days Wasted Nights – Freddy Fender<br />10. Turn the Page – Bob Seger<br />11. Free Fallin’ – Tom Petty<br />12. Breathe – Alexi Murdoch<br />13. At War with the Sun – The Big Pink<br />14. Simple Man – Shinedown or Skynyrd<br />15. Empire State of Mind – Jay-Z feat. Alicia Keys<br />16. Careless Whisper – George Michael<br />17. Cheeseburger in Paradise – Jimmy Buffet <br />18. None of Them Knew They Were Robots - Mr. Bungle<br />19. Love Spreads - The Stone Roses<br />20. I Wanna Be Sedated - The RamonesThe Tributehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10743853433112763375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5115176089524902569.post-22439422953250794122010-04-01T19:26:00.024-05:002010-04-08T21:09:19.886-05:00New Mexico 3.1 - 3.4<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj34cDN_dEbvNlZklkt_Zr-wf2_JBqOP592LXA9ujSj-ViZ44SakzPfu00B_xwn6J2LxRE4ZzENWncZta5pzWV7fomfYKVzqgx80cdAtCzXKFPG-G-hrmOQTDcuguIUhECLO0mtfzQnFmHP/s1600/IMG_2812.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj34cDN_dEbvNlZklkt_Zr-wf2_JBqOP592LXA9ujSj-ViZ44SakzPfu00B_xwn6J2LxRE4ZzENWncZta5pzWV7fomfYKVzqgx80cdAtCzXKFPG-G-hrmOQTDcuguIUhECLO0mtfzQnFmHP/s200/IMG_2812.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455331457857214594" /></a><br />Route: 80E in from Arizona to Hwy 9E to 338N (took wrong turn which ultimately saved me from running out of gas) to I-10E to 146S to Hwy 9E to 11N (stayed in Rockhound S.P.). 11S to 9E to I-10E (El Paso, TX) to 54N to Oliver Lee S.P. 54N to Alamogordo to 70S to Whitesands National Monument. Back 70N to 54S to I-10 out of New Mexico, into Tejas.<br /><br /><strong>“The fool wanders, a wise man travels.”<br />-Thomas Fuller<br /><br />“I travel and I get lost, wisely foolish.”<br />-Daniel Rutter</strong><br /><br />They have undoubtedly got my back. The guardians that follow me once again save me from an inevitably inconvenient and potentially dangerous situation. Cruising up Hwy 80 from Arizona leads me to Hwy 9, a wide-open, flat, desolate road that surprises me when it crosses the Continental Divide as it mimics the Mexican border. The map reads perfectly. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSuti3D6JL1QQykwVKMgRjVTjevKHZ4xApoIRXVr9fc1l7PncIzhCgHPzFf8T6u2xkCZ8e3qxxU_EMSPDxmCOXTYps2Air_hMkFIqnYGczBnXalBKolUGUoJzcoGdhGyQkFYsF6C4EyPVy/s1600/IMG_2813.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSuti3D6JL1QQykwVKMgRjVTjevKHZ4xApoIRXVr9fc1l7PncIzhCgHPzFf8T6u2xkCZ8e3qxxU_EMSPDxmCOXTYps2Air_hMkFIqnYGczBnXalBKolUGUoJzcoGdhGyQkFYsF6C4EyPVy/s200/IMG_2813.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455336838303361970" /></a>Towns along the route are distant and sporadically placed, but the spans between them are nothing that would leave me aching for anything more than small drink of petrol. Or so I thought. Mere dots on a map, these safe-havens are primarily a few dilapidated houses, seemingly abandoned in disrepair, vulturing around what used to be a lively desert crossroads. Now as dead as the baked and jerkied road kill that take up temporary residence, the life from the towns is no more and has returned to the desert. Thoughts of what these kinds of towns used to be like in their prime turn in the space between my ears as the turn to continue my correct route along the border whizzes by. I’m as oblivious to the missed fork as Carrot Top is of my existence, but the situation proves fortuitous and predestined. 338N leads me directly to a gas station, just as Betty’s tank becomes as dry as the dust she’s been riding through. Had the correct turn been made, I would have ridden deeper into the desert and rolled to a stop in fits of sputters and conks as the last drops of fuel are consumed by the Harley’s engine. No hope of a filling station and not much more hope of a passerby would have left me stranded as night washed over and put a serious dent in my mental well-being. The three that ride with me are looking out for me today in this rock laden no man’s land, I firmly believe this. Recognizing the potential disaster and the rescue that averted it, I throw my thank you to the wind with hopes that my appreciation is carried along and floats down onto the right places.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEildMIB77w7_J7ki4aVf_1KzTl17GFue2yXb5eUaO2xFrqdhMqaNS6sra9fVRcafH8tRMoIOrk79Qs8vXDRhbF4d7_zSSAxtFoHpXHcHp6De6OArIStC9EbeJurWX1qj64oTbBa58A_e3SX/s1600/IMG_2819.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEildMIB77w7_J7ki4aVf_1KzTl17GFue2yXb5eUaO2xFrqdhMqaNS6sra9fVRcafH8tRMoIOrk79Qs8vXDRhbF4d7_zSSAxtFoHpXHcHp6De6OArIStC9EbeJurWX1qj64oTbBa58A_e3SX/s200/IMG_2819.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455342259126093138" /></a> Darkness is preparing, once again, to claw and clamber over the desert mountain landscape and nestle for the night on the roads that I ride. Already noticing an abundance of road kill in New Mexico, the decision to push to the nearest state park and throw down camp for the night is an easy one. The Harley’s two wheels meticulously navigate the gravel drive around the campsites waiting for a clear spot to drop her kickstand. The campground is standing room only and I find myself late to the party once again, as RVs have already eaten the best appetizers and the keg is nearly dry. A quick trip over to the camp host, George from Pennsylvania, followed by some friendly chatter and a deal is brokered. Chawing on a mouthful of tobaccy, he quickly offers up a piece of unclaimed property off the side of the main road for a mere eight bucks and payment comes with a smile, knowing state parks need help, there is no problem in paying to sleep in the breakdown lane. Ease replaces tension, knowing there is a place to set up my ever-vanishing footprint, and I kick it into first gear to roll over to the make-shift site. Not bad for a Steelers’ fan. Thanks George. Now if an Eagle’s fan and a Steelers’ fan can get along and work together so cordially, the issues and conflicts of our world leaders should be able to be tackled with grace and poise.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1eyi7gD56lDdFeER_PGlOWEgb2f1oYIvk4F96UNPBXum0luHBa1ZQkaw3gAxn466y-r7xe0O2K4QABUOwHLO-9CJhp77i2BFmqHL5zhsbb1efIY0ZUYk5FPhIC41MxobZPjYwXQu0zeRL/s1600/IMG_2824.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1eyi7gD56lDdFeER_PGlOWEgb2f1oYIvk4F96UNPBXum0luHBa1ZQkaw3gAxn466y-r7xe0O2K4QABUOwHLO-9CJhp77i2BFmqHL5zhsbb1efIY0ZUYk5FPhIC41MxobZPjYwXQu0zeRL/s200/IMG_2824.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455342901920549074" /></a> <br /><br />Unfurl the tent, fit and extend the collapsible poles, make sure the corners are taught, stake it to the ground and layover and clip in the rain-fly. A process that will undoubtedly reserve a permanent table in my brain, setting up the tent is only momentarily interrupted as a park ranger pulls up alongside and rolls down his window. Perfect. Great. I’m going to jail for squishing a cactus or rare desert flower. Thanks George. Conditioned response takes over at the sight of the ranger and my skin goes cold, eyes narrow, voice becomes lower, muscles tense and I prepare to do battle. <br /><br />“Good evening, sir”<br /><br />“Good evening” (cautiously)<br /><br />“How are you doing tonight?”<br /><br />“Fine” (anticipating a verbal throw down that makes UFC look like Smurfs)<br /><br />“Just saw you setting up your tent and figured I’d unlock the bathroom at the <br />visitor’s center for you. Normally we lock it, but since you’re camping right here, I figured it be easier for you to use this one throughout the night.”<br /><br />“Oh wow, thank you, that’s very nice of you, I appreciate that.”<br /><br />Touché, nice park ranger. You win this round. I don’t know what your angle is, but I’ll be watching you like a hawk. Like a hawk I say.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioEvIicPjvxs9VK2nGp7zpQEy0lR-0Vdvu0SIydH5CXrErDMpi3qqiAykTZ0QE6AD3NFGTL4LzGAFXmXlhbYEJ_X5rWU6SeLrkbo-mFy8k_e5WjZUlsIizwbYEPw0cEpDb5qEBqxKqFFqj/s1600/IMG_2828.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioEvIicPjvxs9VK2nGp7zpQEy0lR-0Vdvu0SIydH5CXrErDMpi3qqiAykTZ0QE6AD3NFGTL4LzGAFXmXlhbYEJ_X5rWU6SeLrkbo-mFy8k_e5WjZUlsIizwbYEPw0cEpDb5qEBqxKqFFqj/s200/IMG_2828.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455345200330039106" /></a><br /><br />The last few remnants of the day’s sunshine highlighted the minimal territory that Rockhound state park occupied, but as the sky turns black, the space around me begins to triple in size and it feels like I’ve been put in the dinghy and cast out to float in the desert, far from the main ship, and in coyote infested waters. The coyotes begin to circle and grow louder, with snarls, yelps and earsplitting howls that make my blood run cold. Clutching my knife and bear spray like a well-worn wobbie, the carnivorous din grows wearisome after 30 uninterrupted minutes of continuous programming and the blood flows back into my knuckles while annoyance commandeers the fear. Sleep comes, no effort required, immediately after I snuggle into my sleeping bag.<br /><br />Ok. This is the desert, I get it. The variance between high and low temps is understood, as is the fact that it’s February, but COME ON! Another arctic desert morning, that only Tauntauns would feel comfortable in, numbs my fingers during the deconstruction of a camp that has been up for less than 10 hours. Frozen finger tips during my morning chores are simply a diluted foretelling of the ride to be. The start to my travels is an early one and Betty roars into gear just as the new sun crowns between two mountain peaks. I’m not happy. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdZQUJpak6UK2ipxI-zB7PzdROgNA6xYqv62fAMz8AhE5cdoc0p1linH6QAR_YKKTFDb1CUwb-CCut5Cr8JgZcslrngV645eGwiHETtTZ68vVJATUcs37pAFe7s8Y10I7bBAhr4xf52GWQ/s1600/IMG_2846.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdZQUJpak6UK2ipxI-zB7PzdROgNA6xYqv62fAMz8AhE5cdoc0p1linH6QAR_YKKTFDb1CUwb-CCut5Cr8JgZcslrngV645eGwiHETtTZ68vVJATUcs37pAFe7s8Y10I7bBAhr4xf52GWQ/s200/IMG_2846.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455354944430644450" /></a>This is cold, deceptively so, proving that temperature is not determined by sunny skies and beautiful conditions. Riding through November in Wisco should have prepared me for this. It did not. Every 25-35 minutes, the intolerable cold and pain in my fingers forces an unwanted pit-stop. Pressing my chaps and boots to the mufflers warms them up to a comfortable point and allows me to thaw my claws on the toasty leather without burning my hands to a charred mess. A trick just figured out now, I’m delighted by my cleverness and give myself a well deserved high-five, which neither hand can feel. It’s a tactic that will be employed over the next several chilly morning rides, and yes, I’m really proud of myself.<br />Highway 54 etches a straight line through the Fort Bliss missile range. The distorted contrast between the fort’s name and its purpose do not escape me, nor does the exit sign, after the successful completion of the 60 or so mile adventure. The sign reads:<br /><br />“Now Leaving Fort Bliss. Hasta la Vista.”<br /><br />Of course the Arnold accented version immediately sounds in my skull and laughter bounces around inside my helmet. Then, contemplating which of three culprits will have the most damage on my shivers and timber; riding fully-exposed through a missile range, the prolific use of a laptop or 25,000 miles of successive vibrating motorcycle, my laughter blows itself out of the helmet, no longer able to be contained. <br /><br />The road beneath the bike shifts and transforms immediately as the signs that mark each county line come into view. Just like the miles behind me, the roads come and go, sometimes riddled with potholes and sometimes smooth, new, black asphalt with freshly painted, glowing yellow lines that provokes pleasurable grins every time I bump up onto the surface for a ride that feels like gliding on a cloud. The highway changes suddenly, without a county line sign and up ahead is a border patrol check point. There will be many more to come, but this one proves a valuable lesson. When passing through a B.P. checkpoint and asked if you are an American citizen, an answer of “Si” is not among the list of recommended or wise responses. The checkpoint is at a inconvenient place and the line is long, forcing a slow idle. Fuel is running low, gas stations are sparse, but worries of being marooned on this desert trail are plentiful. The arrow points straight down to E as I head out of the check point, straight north on the only road through this missile range. Luckily, there is a station that provides relief for the second close-call in as many days and I head to K-mart to buy a 1 gallon gas can.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ6xV0V7DIIIXYP63qMJu0UlJ7is-drIwfqnl0xDKFQit9UngXr4E5uaKahEev-0prRRIfofj11YAX8t4x8YEclbULHtSG3FS8sfyf6VWBEpKjPuFWWtWNjku5BBZCGetwP_LMWIYoUmi_/s1600/IMG_2863.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ6xV0V7DIIIXYP63qMJu0UlJ7is-drIwfqnl0xDKFQit9UngXr4E5uaKahEev-0prRRIfofj11YAX8t4x8YEclbULHtSG3FS8sfyf6VWBEpKjPuFWWtWNjku5BBZCGetwP_LMWIYoUmi_/s200/IMG_2863.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455715273651500354" /></a>Aerosteps hover above the landscape like a seasoned account executive awaiting a deliverable, a protective cloud doing their best to ensure security for the homeland. An unmanned, albino blimp, tethered to a post, aerosteps are used to detect low-flying aircraft to help dissuade drug cartels, terrorists or any other form of illegal activity from trying to “fly under the radar” over the border and into the U.S. Used only on days where the wind is light or non-existent, it’s yet another step our government provides to give us all a feeling of ease so that we may sleep safely in our beds at night. The world down here is a dark contrast to the relatively sheltered atmosphere of the Midwest. Perpetual efforts of homeland security, military personnel, border patrol and the numerous other agencies exist in a public secret, so that millions of American’s daily lives may go on uninterrupted.<br /><br />The ride this far is an interesting one. Most of the wildlife seen has been on the side of the road and not moving very fast. On the short ride from Rockhound to Oliver Lee state park, a road runner in the middle of the lane nearly misses becoming a temporary part of the Muscle’s headlamp. A defining half second all that separates the road runner’s trademarked “meep meep” from being permanently silenced and me being a glowing idol in the sinister eye’s of Wyle E. Coyote. Alas, I, as the coyote so many times before me, is thwarted and the roadrunner lives to “meep” another day. Aside from an actual coyote crossing the road in front of me and a jackrabbit in the desert, the only other wildlife I’ve seen are the plentiful blue-haired arrveers. Often travelling in pairs, they emerge from their white, fiberglass cocoons at dusk, to witness the sunset with their favorite prey in hand – the cocktail. Checking into Oliver Lee state park, once again delivers me to the flocks of the blue-hairs and I start to wonder if the elusive tentcamper has been placed on the endangered species list.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimgJ3Nma3Q66-E7RG9ER3KFlqNXpTjBySZgfzub_WXvtLldw987BGV3aBH-v2GdOiFEJPS7AcfPnH3w-hSGoqR4t4IQXta6ZorI42XKTXf_T03trYcBRAftUmhBTOyTejBod8WjiMrv7gq/s1600/IMG_2850.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimgJ3Nma3Q66-E7RG9ER3KFlqNXpTjBySZgfzub_WXvtLldw987BGV3aBH-v2GdOiFEJPS7AcfPnH3w-hSGoqR4t4IQXta6ZorI42XKTXf_T03trYcBRAftUmhBTOyTejBod8WjiMrv7gq/s200/IMG_2850.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455351593150132738" /></a>Oliver Lee state park is an absolute gem. Rolling through the winding road and across the cattle-guard, I find a campground nestled at the base where two towering mountains meet. The beauty of the park, as well as the beauty of the forecast (no rain), sweeps me up in a wave of happiness and camp is set up in the site with the best sunrise view. Campers past leave remnants of firewood in their pits and an easy pile in my camp is formed. YES! Finally, I get to have a campfire tonight. Until now, all state parks have banned them due to safety precautions. Getting there early with camp set up, I decide to waste some gas and head to Whitesands National Monument.<br /><br />I ride into Whitesands to find the park closed for the next three hours.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmF6lBXJiMrB5-6IFC7QcUiaYL0hDSQx319ShkW9m6gVsQak78HaoI3u5ldv3LCMSvFctOzYFaJ2TmFbGVN5JvPugil5Wi_HTJ42wy9-WB3L_PoEnUJ0ZqeAw5mctatGdCD6GSlr_UJ2ZC/s1600/IMG_2839.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmF6lBXJiMrB5-6IFC7QcUiaYL0hDSQx319ShkW9m6gVsQak78HaoI3u5ldv3LCMSvFctOzYFaJ2TmFbGVN5JvPugil5Wi_HTJ42wy9-WB3L_PoEnUJ0ZqeAw5mctatGdCD6GSlr_UJ2ZC/s200/IMG_2839.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455349956339150098" /></a> The potential harm that could befall the tourists due to fallout from the missile testing apparently outweighs the need for revenue. Who knew? Taking the opportunity to charge my phone, I plug into a soda machine outlet, hide the phone and go into the visitor’s center. A movie has just started, projecting the history of the park and the formation of the white sand dunes on a small screen surrounded by carpeted seats that disruptively squeak when one moves the slightest bit. The movie takes up some time, as does the waiting for my phone to charge. Given that Whitesands is just the right amount of mileage away from the park I’m camping at, so leaving is not really an option, I’ll wait it out for two and a half hours. The “all clear” comes over the radio and the gates fling open to a conga line of RVs, vans and SUVs. I’m the only one on two wheels, I’ll soon find out why.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwImI82olKSWm0fe1b_dqATWQMLGNb_Hy2emRXFuiTLddTLNrsE4piMKbsa-lefBbIifKBc1VNHh9bHe12y46BiAF0I13lX1HuTHm6KTFTI07KOKr4Wt2d00v_UKOSApVBLrVgxqkxS5dK/s1600/IMG_2834.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwImI82olKSWm0fe1b_dqATWQMLGNb_Hy2emRXFuiTLddTLNrsE4piMKbsa-lefBbIifKBc1VNHh9bHe12y46BiAF0I13lX1HuTHm6KTFTI07KOKr4Wt2d00v_UKOSApVBLrVgxqkxS5dK/s200/IMG_2834.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455349486920021634" /></a>The tour is short, but what lacks in acreage is more than made up for in astonishing beauty. Formed when the lake bed is filled and then dries quickly, gypsum crystals pop up from the lake bed and slowly erode into sand. The wind pushes this white sand across the desert flow, forming dunes and ultimately Whitesands National Monument. The dunes are breathtaking and the overtaking landscape and my uniform make me feel like I’m in a sci-fi movie. The paved road ends with that termination brings a first experience for Betty and me; driving on unpaved roads. Tenuous at first, the gypsum underlay has been firmly compacted by the myriad of travelers before me and it’s an easy ride with much to see. A common viewing area is littered with vehicles of all kinds and a couple from Illinois, Dick and Maren offer to take my picture on the bike with the ivory backdrop. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpL0ppFTYp39gR1VLZj4qq8V_DwrsOSfXwDkTFu1JsEteBoQzorK45gEz51-v_71p3LrSNLAH4tvZCMwRMTDCQM22Br7HHQrAyih-85JvGb1egBQW_37asZ7u2KsEQEONLG4Koo7Jh50Se/s1600/IMG_2829.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpL0ppFTYp39gR1VLZj4qq8V_DwrsOSfXwDkTFu1JsEteBoQzorK45gEz51-v_71p3LrSNLAH4tvZCMwRMTDCQM22Br7HHQrAyih-85JvGb1egBQW_37asZ7u2KsEQEONLG4Koo7Jh50Se/s200/IMG_2829.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455350522596643442" /></a>In turn, they get their own picture together with the blanched dunes behind them and some small talk brings a recommendation of Chisos Basin, in Texas’ Big Bend National park for camping. It’s a suggestion that I will take, and with thank yous said, the ride continues. <br /><br />The tour of Whitesands over, the starter’s gun clacks out as I once again race the sunset to get back to the campground to witness the nightly fire in the sky. While the sun is backstage preparing for the show, I scrounge up some more firewood and the camp host generously offers up 3 prime chunks of timber for the collection. The sun sinks into the mountains on the other side of a wide valley and I am surrounded by 300 degrees of sunset. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTIdK6Nt-4rbLZ4syotj56rhVbVQIpRYaexl1Hg1B1Ixi01ajTLXJqxrXuJ0ARfch9lRyRkOlI4psSw-wl9LV2_8ROPOVYqhCtcvLNx75KTgBv5JgjQefK78iBwSarjQ1xFqV00mW_Adbp/s1600/IMG_2842.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTIdK6Nt-4rbLZ4syotj56rhVbVQIpRYaexl1Hg1B1Ixi01ajTLXJqxrXuJ0ARfch9lRyRkOlI4psSw-wl9LV2_8ROPOVYqhCtcvLNx75KTgBv5JgjQefK78iBwSarjQ1xFqV00mW_Adbp/s200/IMG_2842.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455348770147129538" /></a> Facing the epicenter of nature’s morphing artwork; I look straight off my left and right shoulder and stare directly into the amber fringes as they finally fade to black. Night brings with it campfire, beef stew, Canadian Club (what? Your dad drank it) and a peaceful slumber occupied by dreams of the next day’s hike through up the mountain gorge. The weather finally changes and brings a front carrying dry, warm, welcome conditions.<br /><br />7am presents itself courteously and slowly escorts me into a relaxing routine of coffee and oatmeal. Looking up at the mountain and excited for the hike that is about to happen, ample time is still taken and nothing is rushed. Breakfast finished and dishes washed, the visitors’ center provides welcome as well as fresh water for the camelback and a trailhead. The hike starts at 9.30 and by 9.40 the burning starts to set in the fairly vertical climb (not really). It’s been a while since my feet, legs and lungs have embarked on this type of exercise and I start to feel pretty good about myself after getting into a rhythm. The hike is supposed to be about 6 miles and is well plotted and groomed. Exertion pays off as the navigation of purposefully placed, stepped rocks carry me closer to my goal – an old stone cabin from the 1800s. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWH9WOQSfvBx_-mKjgELl7thHKdRkRs1fdRpy3mtB8Ov5J_VmvWewSneygMv2C1xESYDGAzgrBcqJryzkMYD0ovEIBaejgfsl5mwhg1yuIKZ8-g0X0ko2La2usaBFRP0T87jj3o7vitYZ9/s1600/IMG_2848.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWH9WOQSfvBx_-mKjgELl7thHKdRkRs1fdRpy3mtB8Ov5J_VmvWewSneygMv2C1xESYDGAzgrBcqJryzkMYD0ovEIBaejgfsl5mwhg1yuIKZ8-g0X0ko2La2usaBFRP0T87jj3o7vitYZ9/s200/IMG_2848.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455356292209914882" /></a>It feels like I’m making good time as my heavy breath becomes more paced, my legs burn and sweat drips down my sides. At this point, a Harley Davidson t-shirt doubles as a bandana and sunshade and I just know that I’m getting close. Have to be. This much pain does not come without reward. Wrongo bongo. A distance marker slaps me in the face with the astonishing number of .5 on it. Crap. Time to start jumping rope again. Superman, I am not. Achieving the cabin is now in question.<br /><br />Plowing on, the trail twists, turns and climbs forever higher, bringing me closer to the sun with every step. Multiple breaks and rests are taken for gorgeous, natural “photo ops.” Every drink from the camelback tastes like plastic and is a constant reminder of the line from The Goonies:<br /><br />“It’s wet, ain’t it? Drink it.”<br /><br />Realizing that the cabin is now out of the question, I perch myself on the top of the highest peak in the area and look across the canyon to the sister peak on the other side. Expecting a pivotal moment, with a Puma sitting on the other side, staring back in Mufasa-like pose and roar, the only sounds are the breeze and silence. Hakuna Matata, I’m still having fun. The threat of blisters prompts a quick retreat and my feet, legs and lungs invite the decline in terrain with open arms and the distance back flows twice as quickly. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbL66Ip_z7ARg9MeSoAaHzz6J5c-egB_yP1cUJ27lK2XT9Nmy5sJgBQC3waVGc27PrAttqP8WA7fisw0zAI125gyslj5tIIm5p4UbsHBH90y_6VL-TFBBFTOx28Tqk7SPQuDFVYIQuriFg/s1600/IMG_2847.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbL66Ip_z7ARg9MeSoAaHzz6J5c-egB_yP1cUJ27lK2XT9Nmy5sJgBQC3waVGc27PrAttqP8WA7fisw0zAI125gyslj5tIIm5p4UbsHBH90y_6VL-TFBBFTOx28Tqk7SPQuDFVYIQuriFg/s200/IMG_2847.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455357393907530450" /></a>Getting back to the visitors’ center sparks interest in spending another night, so I pay up and move camp. Not a fun task, but a known possibility when the initial set up happened. It’s park policy and my nomadic home is carried three sites down. The last few days of rain has left Betty one dirty Muscle. The trip to the car wash is spiced up by an RV that I cruise alongside for a bit. The entire passenger side of the vehicle is dedicated to a parrot and is adorned with sticks, perches, cuttlebones and bells. The driver’s travelling companion perched playfully in the shotgun seat. Only a glimpse of the types of characters I’ll meet of the next 5 months, I’m sure. <br /><br />Back at camp, another relaxing night ensues and I finish my first book of the trip. Genome by Matt Ridley. It’s been a bear of a book as it attempts to playfully map out the genome in 23 chapters, based on the 23 pairs of chromosomes that make it up. A tough, but fascinating read, it is a pleasure to finally be able to put it down after a nearly 6 month read time. I write an inscription inside the front cover, describing my travels, what this book has been a part of, and the request to pass it on. Also included is the blog of my URL with hopes that it will touch a stranger’s eyes that I might have the pleasure to meet one day. The next morning camp is packed, locked and loaded on the bike and the book is left on the counter in the men’s bathroom. Heading towards El Paso, riding the same way I came in and only seeing a sliver of New Mexico's unparalleled beauty leaves me wanting more.<br /><br />Next stop, Texas.<br /><br /><em>“The bike may break me. The road may take me. I'll forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart”</em>The Tributehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10743853433112763375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5115176089524902569.post-63956999453553312692010-03-24T08:54:00.009-05:002010-03-24T10:14:16.402-05:00Arizona II: Lone Desert 2.26 - 3.1Route: Backtrack I-10W to 85S to 86E to 286S/E to Arivaca Sasabe Road. I-19S to Nogales; 82N/E to 90N to Kartchner Caverns State Park/Benson, AZ. Stay a few nights. 90S to 92S/E to 80W for nostalgic stop in Bisbee. 80E into New Mexico.<br /><br /><strong>“I’m on a roll; it’s time to go solo.” - Vanilla Ice</strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWizHg9FC296HvhFfljUf6s-qiLiJO3IwVXMSvUc-VOLBer6-IgpcbE-CkNWHGn66LLRRiKHhRLhsZSzSR5APgJPh7nOVK-hmM5uX89xlNUyDcVs5ePYoTVHbXMLN3JYnMNooZnKIqS_Vd/s1600/IMG_2702.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWizHg9FC296HvhFfljUf6s-qiLiJO3IwVXMSvUc-VOLBer6-IgpcbE-CkNWHGn66LLRRiKHhRLhsZSzSR5APgJPh7nOVK-hmM5uX89xlNUyDcVs5ePYoTVHbXMLN3JYnMNooZnKIqS_Vd/s200/IMG_2702.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452201341296382210" /></a>The 6.30 alarm rings out uselessly from across the room and an odd sense of guilt comes over me for stealing its sole purpose for being. Already lying awake for about 30 minutes, I listen for the shuffle of those getting ready for work, as not to disturb. Whether the anticipation of the upcoming solo voyage along the border desert, the ceiling fan or the realization that this will be my last morning arising from a bed for a substantial amount of time, the past night’s sleep was anything but restful. The alluring smell of freshly brewed coffee allows me to pry myself from the sheets and start to gear up for a 7am departure. The ride will be long and the first hour will be spent peddling back the way I prematurely rode into Phoenix, in order to stay true to the trip’s intent. It’s a mistake that will not be made again.<br /><br />Riding down 85S I pass my friends the metalsaurs at Gila Bend and wave as they stand there with corroded looks upon their toothy, rusted half-grins. The desert is empty except for a few randomly scattered cars and the road heading south is mine for the taking. Thanks to Grandparental advice, the next stop of the ride will be Kartchner Caverns State Park to take a tour of a living cave. Near Benson, AZ, the snaking route takes me through the Arizona desert, which is absolutely freezing and transforms my hands into mangled, immovable claws that form a death grip on the handlebars. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ALtiIuYbZVCymAw-15-HvIgNqGdBny7zZUeHFsZTj3zDKjyCAYnLBDkGabsyqsV9Xdt31ApmcSxSCBGivqhnn9GBfXYWYNF3Z35Iqn4lQGoRu2_XS7srE7egxbRt78rKF9vOjhoIMOxz/s1600/IMG_2750.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ALtiIuYbZVCymAw-15-HvIgNqGdBny7zZUeHFsZTj3zDKjyCAYnLBDkGabsyqsV9Xdt31ApmcSxSCBGivqhnn9GBfXYWYNF3Z35Iqn4lQGoRu2_XS7srE7egxbRt78rKF9vOjhoIMOxz/s200/IMG_2750.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452203034440780098" /></a>The town of Why presents itself and a chortle rolls through me at the thought of...Because. This is a trip of many questions with many answers that lead to more questions with potentially no answers and to have the big one thrown out in the form of an entire town, this early in the trip, brings back that sh!t eating grin. <br /><br />The Tohono O’Odham Nation Reservation spans the distance between Three Points and Amado and the grin that was just so pervasive takes a grimacing downturn when I notice that the only thing more prevalent than the saguaros, broken bottles and exploded truck tires on the sides of the roads are the shrines to fallen loved ones. This holds as a universal truth for the entire desert and many of the shrines erected are monumental, beautiful and beg to be photographed. Superstition is interwoven throughout this trip in many forms, including: guardians, routines and gut checks. The thought of capturing some bad juju and carrying it with me is one that will not be left to chance. No pictures. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguG9o6M-w2mDRakdjXafzg9nGp7SiM16jDTEt0u0_mDttcAcqMvjc-bZtiN-B6ITm4JdSpheT02hvLY7l-yJ1lczWocIlgRXHx3Szj-Ql1wKKdtlyb_FvNF1SfUKNFQywcQsKZFoNdqVUg/s1600/IMG_2762.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguG9o6M-w2mDRakdjXafzg9nGp7SiM16jDTEt0u0_mDttcAcqMvjc-bZtiN-B6ITm4JdSpheT02hvLY7l-yJ1lczWocIlgRXHx3Szj-Ql1wKKdtlyb_FvNF1SfUKNFQywcQsKZFoNdqVUg/s200/IMG_2762.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452203744328826818" /></a><br /><br />Arivaca Road laces itself through the bottom of the desert mountain basket and looking forward, appears to dissolve into the desert in a ripple. Over the hill and round the bend pops up Amado, AZ, housing the Outlaw BBQ and the Longhorn Grill. One reads of biker, the other has a twenty foot high longhorn skull with horns, boasting an entrance through the nasal cavity. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzw3sMdWKR0N4SCj92b9olQYSQ33CUJpZZDkKAEsG645um8Ykuf2LnALr9FEs-EcxsyCiVcaj09dWBOkOd4sizj5-0VAJSPWboi4k-dOGy8cq7sOU3cRNUPpGVZ5sRGSkZTbJUtiZYHS_V/s1600/IMG_2765.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzw3sMdWKR0N4SCj92b9olQYSQ33CUJpZZDkKAEsG645um8Ykuf2LnALr9FEs-EcxsyCiVcaj09dWBOkOd4sizj5-0VAJSPWboi4k-dOGy8cq7sOU3cRNUPpGVZ5sRGSkZTbJUtiZYHS_V/s200/IMG_2765.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452204568068839506" /></a>What is a man to do? Both options scream testosterone and promise to satisfy the growliest of stomachs. Since I’ve yet to go into any type of biker bar or restaurant, Outlaw BBQ wins by a nose, but thoughts of walking into a joint through a gigantic skull will be forever tempting. I swallow no regrets, only delicious BBQ brisket, served by a cute, friendly waitress, enjoyed in a booth dedicated to Harley Davidson memorabilia. The waitress recommends some local sites and chats me up, given I’m the only customer and have come in long after the lunch rush finished.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpl5kTVwhcnRB4Tefqp7FbmxVDwE3tbpNTjnErG7mqCxuHGNri_TzoaVVRJPT7MbtgHYcaj10c8LTBpcF3nlh3qBkKkuBP528vuJdIZn5Bz8P0URdbRs9y81ybjU3r3x3UsBn2T_sjzQZm/s1600/IMG_2766.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpl5kTVwhcnRB4Tefqp7FbmxVDwE3tbpNTjnErG7mqCxuHGNri_TzoaVVRJPT7MbtgHYcaj10c8LTBpcF3nlh3qBkKkuBP528vuJdIZn5Bz8P0URdbRs9y81ybjU3r3x3UsBn2T_sjzQZm/s200/IMG_2766.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452206000767720178" /></a><br /><br />Gas tank and stomach full, I-19 opens up to the right, showing that the Mexican border is not far away. A quick south on I-19 and north on 82 puts Nogales at the crotch of the cartographic V. An easy navigation on the map, the trip proves troublesome when poorly marked roads and my internal deficiencies in direction combine forces to thwart expedience. Tales of murder, kidnappings, drug cartels and other American misfortunes flood my head as sweat starts to roll down my brow and the GPS crawls obstinately into action. Sitting in a broke-down gas station lot while waiting for the phone GPS to start up and load my current location cause the first real thoughts of potential jeopardy to my personal safety as two guys pull up in a dented, rusted and limping pick-up from the Nixon era. They stop and squint to eye me and my bike. Two thoughts simultaneously race: they are admiring the bike or they are about to abduct me, sell the bike and throw me into the underground sex trade. Oh boy. Time to leave. Go with my gut. Just because you’re paranoid…<br /><br />The GPS eventually points the direction to HWY 82,with ass-saving accuracy and once again the Harley Davidson Muscle is eating up desert highway like Kobayashi eats up hot dogs. The day is starting to expire and Kartchner Caverns State Park offers a very welcome crash pad, after a quick set up of the tent. But…not tonight, no soup for me. A victim of circumstance, late arrival, no reservation and my own “fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants” attitude, the campground is full and there are no sites available. Instead, I set my sights on nearby Benson with hopes of a hotel. The cross-roads town delivers the sanctuary of yet another glowing blue light representing my road home, the Motel 6. The 11 hour ride has produced as much exhaustion as it has mileage and my creative juices are as dry as the sandy lands of which I’m beginning to become accustomed to. No writing tonight, 9.30 equals bedtime and the bed catches me as I collapse into a slumber that will last until 8.30 the next morning. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnhPbJ0VGEsWv5X3J0ufhkLOQuL3kx-x5abrNMqfLrzLaj0vMOCWN_DXo93653cBVw5Af9MrbzeF6hSjfmGlVeRS7fmEZGtMHDDSCKxliyM1QiY8btE8fzN8RzGDMZvqy-loWh-quj7X4I/s1600/IMG_2770.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnhPbJ0VGEsWv5X3J0ufhkLOQuL3kx-x5abrNMqfLrzLaj0vMOCWN_DXo93653cBVw5Af9MrbzeF6hSjfmGlVeRS7fmEZGtMHDDSCKxliyM1QiY8btE8fzN8RzGDMZvqy-loWh-quj7X4I/s200/IMG_2770.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452208448884558018" /></a>Morning equals breakfast and there is a Mickey D’s across the highway from the hotel with those salty, greasy, flakey, tasty, sausage biscuits that have become tradition on morning rides. Licking fingers and sipping coffee, I see a kid roll up on an old BMW and he walks in for some road chow of his own. Dreadlocked and lip-ringed, his dyed hair, patch-work denim jacket and rocker style are a colorful contrast to my black-on-black Spaceball uniform. A nice kid on his way to El Paso, he’s not much for chatter and spends his breakfast memorizing the route he’ll take on yet another very chilly desert morning. I wish him safe travels and saddle up for Kartchner, fingers crossed that there are sites available. Lucky day, lucky day. Not only are there campsites open, but the cavern tours are not sold out either. A quick swipe of the credit card ensures that I’ve secured my place in both and once camp is set up, an exploration of the visitor’s center and museum is mandatory, while waiting for the tour to start.<br /><br />Following a breakdown of the big book of cave rules, the tour group enters through a series of airlocks and a mist de-linter (to prevent lint droppings), designed to preserve the cave’s integrity and seal in the balmy 80 degree air that will soon leave me saturated and wondering if the smell is coming from my days on the road or the cave itself. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9AJUJefvsjR0PAQAmmHUYvPdzeMMyv7P0tO5ukvTtjziyUlWd2ecUu-Fxvp6mUxvN4fla7CD4KHv0z_9nZq3RuLdTpiDnpyh74hH8HFC8wNoubSVDqqgvp4YCWJDXLFGA33bzIoUlCeTT/s1600/IMG_2780.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9AJUJefvsjR0PAQAmmHUYvPdzeMMyv7P0tO5ukvTtjziyUlWd2ecUu-Fxvp6mUxvN4fla7CD4KHv0z_9nZq3RuLdTpiDnpyh74hH8HFC8wNoubSVDqqgvp4YCWJDXLFGA33bzIoUlCeTT/s200/IMG_2780.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452209676510339090" /></a>The tour of the Throne Room and the Rotunda, two of the secondary caves, are led by Pat, a volunteer from Washington state and Dan, a lifetime caver with a PHD in…caving? Pat initially seems the yin to the Dan yang, with Dan’s attitude towards visitors smelling of pretention and arrogance. It is not. I hang back and chat with him about the “real” rules of the cave and Dan lightens up a bit. No pictures are allowed (due to flash), but he says that there are no rules against video without light, so the shoot begins. Pat, the friendly yin at the start of the tour, is less than enthusiastic at my amateur journalistic exploits and video for the remainder of the tour is shot incognito with my finger over the red, record light and a devious delight fills the muggy, cavern air. I am the James Bond of cave filming. Double-O dumbass. Video is shot of stalactites, stalagmites, soda straws, the ever tasty cave bacon and the Holy Grail of the Throne Room – the Kubla Kahn. Talking with Dan at the end of the tour is enlightening and disheartening as he recommends the best natural sights to see in the area, but also tells of the suffering economy’s impact on state parks nationwide as many shut down due to lack of funding. Dan’s face reverses step and lights up as he tells of Picacho Peak and other geologic attractions that Arizona has to offer, but they’ll have to be caught on my way back through Route 66, when they’re the opposite of my opposite path of travel.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy_BfgwTLtcxuLJuB9ZnpPha-A5mnO8fipM95J5SVvMVdE8gmA4rMCkhO5J6qxJQ9FwqJdS6txUBM9W9NRQkKKTUM8lO9itGiTGkhDAXU-8M4AIo_9sVMID_XBQ8YPj89tpbPpRZCmK-WB/s1600/IMG_2789.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy_BfgwTLtcxuLJuB9ZnpPha-A5mnO8fipM95J5SVvMVdE8gmA4rMCkhO5J6qxJQ9FwqJdS6txUBM9W9NRQkKKTUM8lO9itGiTGkhDAXU-8M4AIo_9sVMID_XBQ8YPj89tpbPpRZCmK-WB/s200/IMG_2789.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452210679638158882" /></a>The early afternoon tour leaves plenty of time for relaxation and some reading. Emerging from my nylon cocoon at dusk and unfolding my limbs from the cramped quarters, the albino sunset shines brilliantly along the bordering mountains, leaving the landscape drenched in a blanched pink that is an unbeknownst foretelling of the morning view that is to come. Other campers ooh and ahh when the realization of their surroundings hit and they slowly step from their RVs, rubbing their eyes when the natural light hits, trying not to stumble over rusty metal steps while descending to the gravel below. The experience is brief, yet powerful and the night sky comes more quickly than expected. It is clear and crisp, framing a landscape lightening moon that offers the first look of the desert stars which will provide a twinkling canopy for weeks to come. It’s a peaceful beginning to a night that will harbor anything but peace. Howling winds, pounding rain and arctic temperatures rouse me from my sleeping pad slumber and force a full-headed retreat into the warmth of the down sleeping bag as the drawstring is cinched leaving only my nose thermometer peaking out.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL1vAvM0HNh2s29rnj4mOQaUZSg_0BN3dOCWW_RLNGZRlrTvsQayVGF5CsZ8pwGSbb1zBY2rnXVfYKPF6Ous-W5YXwZsW_02aiMqEQ-BEJaXa_vsZPpleqgrwdqii8geD3RPaWtF4nqSbZ/s1600/IMG_2791.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL1vAvM0HNh2s29rnj4mOQaUZSg_0BN3dOCWW_RLNGZRlrTvsQayVGF5CsZ8pwGSbb1zBY2rnXVfYKPF6Ous-W5YXwZsW_02aiMqEQ-BEJaXa_vsZPpleqgrwdqii8geD3RPaWtF4nqSbZ/s200/IMG_2791.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452211420123303730" /></a><br /><br />My nose wrinkles while trying to gauge the temperature outside of my goose feathered haven and my ears listen to the first sounds of daybreak and the rustling RV-ers. The tent unzips, revealing a half-moon doorway and I’m blinded by eyefuls of white, snowcapped mountains now surrounding the park. Seriously? Really? Enough already. This is the desert and I’m on vacation-ish. Time to check weatherbug. All rain and no sun make Dan a something something… The coin is flipped a few times, but ultimately the decision to stay an additional night is easily made due to the impending rain, the lack of desire to pack up wet gear and my resolve to have at least one nice night in a campground. Bring it nature. Expectations of a very long day and tent fever set in as I hunker down to spend the day reading, writing and literally chillin’ out in the tent. Finding it suits me, the day is spent inside the thin skin that separates wet from dry and coming out is not an option. It’s necessary to go to the station to pay for the extra evening as a guest of Kartchner Caverns state park, and the rangers are unusually glad to see me. This is not a treatment that I am used to, but apparently they weren’t sure if I was actually still alive inside my tent and I had been the topic of some discussion. That crazy biker with Wisconsin plates. I wonder who had the over… <br /><br />A momentary break in the weather offers a bit of reprieve and an opportunity to spread my increasingly contortionistic wings, which turns me into the direction of my neighbors from Colorado. A little, old, seemingly harmless couple offer friendly salutations then spews poisonous froth that is steeped deeply in pro-American ideals and their blatant racism is like a blind-side round-house to the jaw. My Jedi mind tricks to politely steer the conversation into alleys of travel and landscape, rather than that of politics and economy are easily thwarted by these Siths in Yoda’s clothing. Old and tiny, yet strong and powerful, their resolve is undeniable and I am easily defeated. Mrs. Evil-Yoda’s socially degrading, dehumanizing and morally reprehensible tirade eventually peters out and she invites me to a nice dinner. I choose ramen, my tolerance and my dignity. <br /><br />Tomorrow, I will take that tolerance, dignity, open mindedness, and human decency, load it onto my bike, and make tracks for New Mexico. Rising slowly, I meticulously pack the bike and efficiency in this area still hasn’t seemed to find its way into this part of the program. Surrounded by snowy mountains and opaque breath, I wait until just before 10am to head out, with aspirations of warmer weather as I travel further south and east. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0IXFovxlbrV4H6Yyf-dKcL_Jp3lPxu1dILjBK0Fo3T_qvGMr5T_0uyRgeVknWjhb_gPNdWF8MAJlfVj50A7zWOQmHaMTmmZy1eqlQF867TA5G5DZIE14MAe-_DSN22s249HOXwOQQfTHB/s1600/IMG_2807.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0IXFovxlbrV4H6Yyf-dKcL_Jp3lPxu1dILjBK0Fo3T_qvGMr5T_0uyRgeVknWjhb_gPNdWF8MAJlfVj50A7zWOQmHaMTmmZy1eqlQF867TA5G5DZIE14MAe-_DSN22s249HOXwOQQfTHB/s200/IMG_2807.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452217118392807362" /></a><br />My path today takes me on a nostalgic pass through Bisbee, where the need to stop and look at some familiar establishments and the Lavender Pit Mine forces me off the bike and onto past thoughts of unfortunate circumstances. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgta1ir_uJKQpr5PK65OOK8tWXJhYwoQxc_A-5BNUO0PJX22gri4xEAiKmGiu3xObtJtPCIObvvoFW1M0X8rk3bmfIYzMX1Uy_LezWVxb8MF4MZYOU9x0CPY8dxPSAGIIhm9YS2ztapRg-r/s1600/IMG_2800.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgta1ir_uJKQpr5PK65OOK8tWXJhYwoQxc_A-5BNUO0PJX22gri4xEAiKmGiu3xObtJtPCIObvvoFW1M0X8rk3bmfIYzMX1Uy_LezWVxb8MF4MZYOU9x0CPY8dxPSAGIIhm9YS2ztapRg-r/s200/IMG_2800.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452215725170527298" /></a>Sentiment aside, I brush it off, saddle back up and ride into Douglas for a quick lunch and then more QT with the baking asphalt. Pulling up to a swagger and saddle saloon, I smirk at the appropriateness of the joint, but it’s closed, so I eat at the hotel next door. It’s an old timey western place that smells of a history filled with miners, whiskey, cowboys and brothel.<br /> <br />Lunch is ok.<br /><br />New Mexico… look out. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYAmdgtvCtzwnAf26x1PqLeW2_RZQcHLM6sTbE9wRStTkOGMYX7bScDrs6FWJBgsuZ45IsRcUBnxNCRio6CAvx3z6DT_mfrbGYMAKMtTgpUe_Gr3I-20OIGQtpbtiKZ7ICvL50aXK8Pf3N/s1600/IMG_2801.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYAmdgtvCtzwnAf26x1PqLeW2_RZQcHLM6sTbE9wRStTkOGMYX7bScDrs6FWJBgsuZ45IsRcUBnxNCRio6CAvx3z6DT_mfrbGYMAKMtTgpUe_Gr3I-20OIGQtpbtiKZ7ICvL50aXK8Pf3N/s200/IMG_2801.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452218846480111282" /></a><br /><br /><br /><em>"The bike may break me. The road may take me. I'll forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart."</em>The Tributehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10743853433112763375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5115176089524902569.post-48007077302951254792010-03-10T11:59:00.011-06:002010-03-10T17:38:48.301-06:00Arizona: Friends and Family 2.22 – 2.26<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE87Uqgm_ALhKdNIaFay16klO9Wbve_MWUxni64M-3a_xMK5nwgHRH9HuJ26w6VUEPA0YmWsE7vtoEAE5RDh2kJbkXst3-n1dHbWGjo1RceA-DVfuNDqdO0kz2_8JlKfG9vcXIert1q-kw/s1600-h/IMG_2692.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE87Uqgm_ALhKdNIaFay16klO9Wbve_MWUxni64M-3a_xMK5nwgHRH9HuJ26w6VUEPA0YmWsE7vtoEAE5RDh2kJbkXst3-n1dHbWGjo1RceA-DVfuNDqdO0kz2_8JlKfG9vcXIert1q-kw/s200/IMG_2692.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447066957489954018" /></a><br />Route:<br />I-8 from Yuma to Gila Bend; 85N to I-10E to I-17N into Phoenix. Around Phoenix area for a few days. <br /><br /><strong>“Hume’s Fork: Either our actions are determined, in which case we are not responsible for them, or they are the result of random events, in which case we are not responsible for them.”<br /> -Oxford Dictionary of Philosophy</strong><br /><br />When faced with a literal fork in the road, it can be guaranteed that due to my complete lack of a sense of internal direction, undoubtedly the wrong way will be taken. Even if playing the opposite of my initial guess, trying to psyche out the fates, so to speak, there is no conceivable way that the correct direction will be chosen and my own personal map is doomed to look like that of Billy’s from the Family Circus. Maps, the sun, GPS, written directions, Google maps on my phone and my compass (which I recently discovered does not work) are the line of defense with which I work. There is nothing internally wired to ever point me in a correct path of travel. Funny, right? Not when you’re trying to circumnavigate the perimeter of the United States on a motorcycle.<br /><br />Awakening to the sunrise and an internal clock (which I apparently do have), in Yuma’s famed and renowned Motel 6 (there is only RV camping in Yuma, apparently). The balcony overlooks a refuse littered street, a Mexican restaurant, a few gas stations and a plethora of power lines and transformers. This would be one of the most beautiful sunrises ever seen by human eyes, if it not pock-marked with the scars and filth of a seemingly uncaring population. The night before, asking the locals and scouring some tourist pamphlets, I had found that there really wasn’t a whole lot that interested me in Yuma. That and that fact that some Phoenix buds, dating back to high school have off of work, makes for a quick (in jest) escape and foregoing of the pleasure of meeting Mr. Pappagiorgio and his multitudes of Vegas winnings. Packing up the bike after a night at a hotel still moves at the speed of snail and the term Volado seems perfectly suited as I have to continuously revise my efforts once realizing items forgotten (volado is a colloquial term from Chile, meaning something in the ball-park of absent-minded).<br /><br />Flicking on some Pandora and leaving the room to make a quick pit stop for a couple cups of coffee before hitting the road, I groggily shuffle to the lobby. Two cups, two hands. This scenario doesn’t exactly make door opening a likely occurrence. Luckily, there is an elderly woman coming in for presumably the same reason that I am there and holds the door for me. Point: common courtesy is not dead. It’s been so long since experiencing an actual act of kindness from one stranger to another, my face resembles Sloth from The Goonies, due to the momentary confusion. Sloth love coffee. A few quick steps and the door to my room opens with Pandora blaring some well-suited tunes. Pandora has decided it situation appropriate to play Arrested Development’s Everyday People. Proper.<br /><br />Java chugged and bike packed, it’s time to see what this Arizona desert has to offer. An RV Mecca, the exit out of the city is lined with RV parks, sales lots and gas stations with space big enough to accommodate the big rigs. Scenes from the movie Independence Day are made more realistic as having seen it first-hand and visions of a drunken crop-dusting Cousin Eddie bring on a chuckle. Roaring out onto I-8, it is bitter cold, but dry and sunny, the arid desert air sucking every last bit of moisture that it possibly can. Hangnails are as common an annoyance as mosquitoes on a Wisconsin camping trip and cracked skin across my hands resembles the desert floor , as if all meant to be one. For miles, not a car is seen, but there are the rampant reminders of human existence seen in the multitude of abandoned trailer parks, rusty cars, broken bottles and shredded truck tires that line the roads. <br /><br />The Harley-Davidson Muscle flexes as it screams across flat desert plains and cuts through canyons like an ancient river. Suddenly a rock the size of a golf ball comes out of oblivion and decides to pay a visit to my inner knee-cap. Wincing, it’s a small price to pay for an experience like this. Bringing the scream to a low growl, I down-shift as my first experience with a Border Patrol checkpoint looms. Slowing down and expecting the unexpected, the encounter is all bark, no bite as the B.P. officer waves me through with a look of disgust.<br /><br />“Why did you even bother to slow down, you average and legal looking white guy?”<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQhMPmryzg9I0UD0k26yNfEmTDXE3BaSJGel38RbfwFi58rwpOTtWzULkLnWmWORITSuX6Da4zFtWSVSbJBqRxv5X-xujEst6gHaha0wvtFnTTtogFY3UlCTjYoxnz_svjI1J4azy6CRij/s1600-h/IMG_2706.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQhMPmryzg9I0UD0k26yNfEmTDXE3BaSJGel38RbfwFi58rwpOTtWzULkLnWmWORITSuX6Da4zFtWSVSbJBqRxv5X-xujEst6gHaha0wvtFnTTtogFY3UlCTjYoxnz_svjI1J4azy6CRij/s200/IMG_2706.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447067888262075298" /></a><br />The non-event leaves me feeling disappointingly uninteresting looking. No fear, checkpoint experiences to come would gladly welcome this response. Moving on with competing feelings of dejection and elation, I-8 leads to Gila Bend, a sleepy town with some hot eats, cool treats, metal dinosaurs and a very elusive space museum. Shadowing from the north, storm clouds have been hovering and threatening to take me out of the game for the last 50 miles, watching me like a judgmental relative at a family reunion. Checking the weatherbug, the Doppler shows a massive rain cloud to the north and west, approaching with ferocity. No kidding? So that’s what I’ve been looking at the whole time. Thanks weatherbug. The path dictates that the storm will pass quickly, so I decide to take shelter and hang out with my friends the metalsaurs. Giving a call to my buds in Phoenix to let them know of the delay, I’m answered with “we’ll be here, don’t sweat it, ride safe brother.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf9aOI73uRwa-2TgbDvOei0eCrJ3YnVS-Od2C3FkyaocYjdf7Tp9gLKW0l2WBxZEd3bH_ssYeshqWHKPJAwzT5QLQvrC_XNkGONSbpeLXPUl1_XcyxdcY88-ZwQJCoNcBOIF4IPGRMa2yT/s1600-h/IMG_2704.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf9aOI73uRwa-2TgbDvOei0eCrJ3YnVS-Od2C3FkyaocYjdf7Tp9gLKW0l2WBxZEd3bH_ssYeshqWHKPJAwzT5QLQvrC_XNkGONSbpeLXPUl1_XcyxdcY88-ZwQJCoNcBOIF4IPGRMa2yT/s200/IMG_2704.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447068426063389650" /></a>An hour and a half go by, weatherbug reads “good to go” and once again, this time with preemptive rain gear, I hit the road to ride the storm out up 85N to Phoenix. The trailing winds of the storm greet me with a smile as dust devils swirl in the distance and meet me for some fun and games. Batting me around like a kitten with a ball of yarn, the Diablitos work like a crow-bar, as they try to pry me from my seat. Apologies little Lucifers, there are no souls for sale here today; we’ll talk again when we meet at the crossroads. Finishing up the last of 85N, turning onto I-10E and then I-17N, I arrive, low on gas, at the front door of some long-awaiting amigos. <br /><br />The house of Dan and Hilary has an unexpected surprise waiting. Yoonil, another long-time friend and small-town cohort is spending some time there as he awaits the coming of his own adventure. Dan and Yoonil greet me with hugs, handshakes and familiar smiles that have been too long missed. “My home is your home” is the norm here and the openness with which they welcome friends is yet just another reminder that courtesy and humanity may sometimes be sidetracked, but is far from missing. An ice-cold brew, some great conversation, catch-up and a couple hours pass by before we decide to head out to Thunderbird Park for a quick hike. The park is post-storm chilly, but as we reach the top of the hill, a full end-to-end rainbow that would make a leprechaun excited appears in brilliance. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_9swR919mbTQO2l2lpYG518R5tEEH-1hACvLTlYdW9qL8U73fZjLCVeLoUO-OqzJO0GHbwLbWcNbhioFNgZsiwE5GBbALs3sYTedaFG6a1UZLRf9DFW_Ppyhjo6_fE7pIjX8ibNTPfMu0/s1600-h/IMG_2716.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_9swR919mbTQO2l2lpYG518R5tEEH-1hACvLTlYdW9qL8U73fZjLCVeLoUO-OqzJO0GHbwLbWcNbhioFNgZsiwE5GBbALs3sYTedaFG6a1UZLRf9DFW_Ppyhjo6_fE7pIjX8ibNTPfMu0/s200/IMG_2716.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447069172220515570" /></a>Ending the hike with growling stomachs, Little Saigon beckons us with temptations of beef and shrimp spring rolls and Pho Tai. Mmm…Vietnamese food. Delicious. The Pho Tai is a delicious beef broth based noodle dish with hints and undertones of anise. The subtle, flowery taste of the anise is complimented well by the fresh parsley and basil that one plucks from the stems and sprinkles into the hot broth right before eating. Being my first experience with Vietnamese food, aping and mimicking Dan and Yoonil’s experience, I leave full, satisfied and ready for some cocktails and Scene-It. Dan wins, hands-down, everyone else is just there for show. <br /><br />Morning comes and Yoonil and I are on our own and he graciously offers to run me around Phoenix for some errands. Stop one – leather jacket. Due to a mishap in Yuma, a broken zipper on the current jacket nearly took my ears off my head as I wriggled and wrestled out of it before realizing there was a release clasp that could be undone with a multi-tool. Scouring the streets for a biker shop, a billboard advertising Joeta’s Leather magically appears, it’s a sign. Literally. Following the figurative as well as the literal, the 30 mile trek is made to Mesa to check it out. We are greeted by Kim, a growling biker cougar who is more than helpful. The race was close between two styles, until Yoonil secretly texts me that the old guy standing next to us is looking at one of the options and that picking the jacket an old man is contemplating may be socially detrimental and cause the cool bikers to laugh at me on the playground. After careful deliberation, a purchase is made of a real biker jacket, complete with Kevlar plates, vents and front gun pockets with lanyards (perfect for cameras and notepad). Slipping my arms into the sleeves and zipping up, the elevated level of protection is immediately felt. <br /><br />Yoonil and I have contemplative talks about life, destiny, corporate America and working for “the man,” as bear spray, a Bosnian bakery and spy shop purchases interrupt the conversation. Though we had not hung out on a one-on-one basis for 15 years our incongruent paths had wandered in drastically different directions and the realization that we both have arrived with the same philosophies is mind-boggling. Walking into the house, Dan is roped into the continuing deliberations and now there are three in agreement. Something bigger inside each of us drives us forward, unsure of what the future holds, but very sure of the successes that will befall each one us. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkgJeiPNa2I0G7cGX2LbFUg76MoiRAbOWByWrcSuHEHam_149U6h3klCCBmnXUZkIrKbGYvxxJUugOGIiNCvY0Me4c7uXPsX-1YWjR9vHHXmqBN13PrzFYICz7xm9NkmKZ30Pxf5OWuOgw/s1600-h/IMG_2720.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkgJeiPNa2I0G7cGX2LbFUg76MoiRAbOWByWrcSuHEHam_149U6h3klCCBmnXUZkIrKbGYvxxJUugOGIiNCvY0Me4c7uXPsX-1YWjR9vHHXmqBN13PrzFYICz7xm9NkmKZ30Pxf5OWuOgw/s200/IMG_2720.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447073223215035234" /></a><br />An afternoon of great conversations leaves me with two schools of thought regarding extended travel that impart lessons of intense preparation for personal safety. Recognizing the need for preparation and caution, but also, that life literally is a highway and a certain amount of spontaneity and unpreparedness is needed, the ideas both compliment and combat one another. All hungering for some grub, the dinner coin is flipped, landing on brats, beer, asparagus and potato salad. A quick stop to the grocery store and soon our stomachs are full as the sipping of white Russians begins. The night leaves me reminiscing about old high-school times as I fall into one of the most content sofa slumbers that I can remember. All of us have the friends that made high school a bearable, pleasant and a memorable experience. These are just a few of the friends that carried each other through; it’s good to be back around their familiar faces.<br /><br />Yoonil is preparing for an inspirational and emotional adventure of his own. Having been adopted as a child, he prepares to leave the comfort and complacency of his banking job in the U.S. to live in Korea in search of his birth parents. The trip is for an indeterminable amount of time, but his determination knows no definition. He will be going cowboy style, with an idea, the drive, the hope and the cajones to make such a leap in life. Encouraging him to write about the impending experience, I look forward to reading about his own inspirational adventure and wish him the best of luck.<br /><br />Morning of the 24th arrives quickly and with it comes promise of a bed at my Grandparent’s house in nearby Peoria, a suburb of “The Nix.” Trials and tribulations administered by the road have been coming quickly on this trip and today is no exception. Pulling onto the ramp for the highway that leads to the Grandparents, a wicker couch bounces off of a truck trailer just to say “hello.” Swerving to avoid the sinister sofa, a 4x4 also offers greetings and salutations from the right side of my lane. Counter swerve, a few deep breaths as well as more deeply grounded expletives and the debate is served up as to which city holds the worst drivers. As of right now, it’s a close race between Los Angeles and Phoenix.<br /><br />Traveling solo, erring on the side of caution is often the expected and accepted practice. This leaves great opportunity for second guessing one’s self and for these opportunities, I pass up none. Stopping to check the GPS and directions repeatedly, the trip turns from 45 minutes to 75 without hesitation as the Muscle rolls into the Grandparent’s driveway. As I unbuckle, unstrap and unharness all the varying degrees of security and storage on me and the bike, Bob and Luann realize who’s in their driveway and walk out with open arms and smiles that stretch across their faces. I follow suit. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis4W794-vAdXR8MqtA8Sq6gFCdRCdx1a36CMoF6m9vzbtfd9zI016iEqAx_z3VUmkAdxGIXlglBJBmobkZnCHy8FqncZ-8Jeg5Uma8nEtv4VlfsmnpkME0ErYloIa2OEHZScl9KRfZh_Xx/s1600-h/IMG_2737.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis4W794-vAdXR8MqtA8Sq6gFCdRCdx1a36CMoF6m9vzbtfd9zI016iEqAx_z3VUmkAdxGIXlglBJBmobkZnCHy8FqncZ-8Jeg5Uma8nEtv4VlfsmnpkME0ErYloIa2OEHZScl9KRfZh_Xx/s200/IMG_2737.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447070210002957458" /></a>A cold beer is offered and accepted, as well as some queso and chips. After a quick tour of the house, we settle into the couches and catch up. I tell stories of the road thus far and ask questions about lives past and present. They regale me with tales of the Navy, world travel experiences, relatives whom I may have met a handful of times as a child at best and of course golf. There is so much history, experience and adventure that have been had in the family that the stories have me gripped in wonderment. Dinner is filled with continued conversations, except now there is the added bonus of hummingbirds buzzing in to feed outside the windows around us. Never in my life have I seen so many hummingbirds with blazing patches of red and orange, shining swaths of green and blue, each one unique, each one amazing as their wings flap impossibly. <br /><br />It is sooo good to have a bed again. Soft sheets, a comfy mattress and a ceiling fan drive me to the land of nod, lickety split. Breakfast comes as a night of uninterrupted sleep closes as new day opens and salivation suggests I’ve been recently lobotomized as smells of coffee and Swedish pancakes dance in my nostrils. Delicious. Great way to start the day. Living in the boonies of Phoenix has its benefits. Say, such as being able to take a desert walk for around 2 hours after breakfast. Gramps and I stroll, talk and get to know one another a bit more on this hike. He’s a lean, fit, laughing and smiling 78 year old and you wouldn’t guess his age by looking at him. The desert gardens lining the walking paths are filled with ocotillo, teddy-bear cactus, prickly-pears and host lizards, birds, squirrels and a family of quail. Noon reveals itself as we walk back up the driveway, and my short but fulfilling time with the Grandparents comes to an end as I pack up to visit “Uncle” Dave.<br /><br />Being mid-day, during the week, one would think that the roads would be fairly absent of traffic, making the route to the southwest suburb of Gilbert a quick one. A quick stop at Dan and Hilary’s to get my gear, followed by a lunch at Chino Bandito’s, puts me back on the road. Previous thoughts of a quick ride to Dave’s devoured as quickly as lunch had been and I’m putting my foot down at a standstill, next to a 65mph sign on Phoenix’s 101 freeway. Dropping the kickstand in the driveway, Dave’s wife Ronnie (whom I’ve met only once and briefly) opens the door and welcomes me in with smiles and hugs as if we go way back. An icy beer and some conversation go smoothly as we wait for Dave to come home from work and after our conversation leads to some burned butter, I excuse myself to follow-up on some phone calls and eliminate distractions. Walking out onto their back patio feels like south Florida more than Phoenix. A man-made waterway and palm trees flow and sway along the neighborhood giving me my last non-desert view for a while. The breeze soothes and refreshes while I make my phone calls and sip my beer. <br /><br />Alexi Murdoch and Freddy Fender sing us through dinner, cocktails and conversation and I realize that these two are a lot of fun. Too bad it’s not the weekend and it is unfortunate that I’m leaving tomorrow. A night out on the town with Dave and Ronnie would be a fun time, thinking we all speak the same language. A quick visit, but a good visit, work will come knocking for them tomorrow, as an early and lengthy ride will for me. Anticipation of the wild west, the ceiling fan, the last minute preparations racing through my head or the realization that this is my last bed for quite a while keep my eyes fixated on the ceiling, refusing to close and deliver that much needed rest. Whatever the reason, I spring awake to the 6am alarm, take my morning dose of coffee and start packing the bike. Their hospitality cannot be appreciated enough and we say our “goodbyes, thank yous and ride safes” and then go our separate ways. <br /><br />The time spent with friends and family has been great, but I am itching and antsy to get on the road and it shows. Now begins the true adventure. Now begins the ride that has declared martial law on my mind since the thoughts and preparations began. The Mexican border will test my resolve as solitude becomes my friend, the fence line and Rio Grande become my traveling companions, a tent becomes my hotel room and I push the limits of the Harley in the expanse of deserts speckled with cactus, coyotes and ghost towns. First stop: Kartchner Caverns State Park. Time to ride.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWSVpmOhka7mMveyMu_RlZs5vkkJwD2hiqstOt935ohKAGwUmf2InRkzuEJWRE-hMh8HNz5sDxXFgLMObPBavFKu_X0TKs9ymZzm4khyxAwj5Vx66mt398U9WiKZmeid9Tu3xsf8au9dGh/s1600-h/IMG_2794.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWSVpmOhka7mMveyMu_RlZs5vkkJwD2hiqstOt935ohKAGwUmf2InRkzuEJWRE-hMh8HNz5sDxXFgLMObPBavFKu_X0TKs9ymZzm4khyxAwj5Vx66mt398U9WiKZmeid9Tu3xsf8au9dGh/s200/IMG_2794.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447071380237142802" /></a><br /><br /><em>"The bike may break me. The road may take me. I'll forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart."</em>The Tributehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10743853433112763375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5115176089524902569.post-43597623402603065212010-03-06T21:08:00.007-06:002010-03-14T20:10:46.553-05:00Gear List<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivOWxQhJLsjKi4dmooADQzKQEsszFjoH3JnqxoJcROy5fH-KevtkZZxDp-i2pmG6qfM-y79rED1_4jNavS2kaTjDOh4NWCE-4icu8GilSlPRwQesMSptfV1LudkBCdMD13L7SCOwwMfbnu/s1600-h/IMG_2843.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivOWxQhJLsjKi4dmooADQzKQEsszFjoH3JnqxoJcROy5fH-KevtkZZxDp-i2pmG6qfM-y79rED1_4jNavS2kaTjDOh4NWCE-4icu8GilSlPRwQesMSptfV1LudkBCdMD13L7SCOwwMfbnu/s200/IMG_2843.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445729583453281778" /></a>(Arizona Post Coming Soon)<br />Arizona was filled with many friends, family and days. The post is taking a bit longer to put together than anticipated (especially when riding for 8+ hours a day with no electricity). But no fear, the work is in progress and you will have an update soon. Until then, here’s a little of what I’m working with, to tide you over. And just in case you happen feel like gearing up to join me.<br /><br /><strong>Miles to Date:</strong> 3,145(as of 3/7/10) <br /><br /><strong>Gear List</strong><br /><br />Bike:<br />-2009 Harley Davidson VRSCF Muscle. Black. Stock, with saddle bags<br /><br />Bike Gear:<br />-Shoei full-faced helmet<br />-Sunglasses (4 pair to date - don't ask)<br />-Xpert Leather riding jacket with Kevlar plates <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi47tQOUjFqY5sU5n9RHP7hIJQ09mphAy2bXlCqHQdAkrqLUKczkMQwxfaNyi5OCxuQWgqTvLW5OwxOWd3ft1FMYdMVCuJxWDcm2ybWwHhZXs1uDQi471DBObS63GTGu3-3DkA7qz0HCuR4/s1600-h/IMG_0033.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi47tQOUjFqY5sU5n9RHP7hIJQ09mphAy2bXlCqHQdAkrqLUKczkMQwxfaNyi5OCxuQWgqTvLW5OwxOWd3ft1FMYdMVCuJxWDcm2ybWwHhZXs1uDQi471DBObS63GTGu3-3DkA7qz0HCuR4/s200/IMG_0033.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448660624524547346" /></a><br />-Chaps and leather gloves(x2 pair)<br />-Double H riding boots<br />-Harley Davidson rain suit<br /><br /><br />Camp:<br />-Eureka 2-person, 3-season tent<br />-Sierra Designs 20 degree 600 fill down sleeping bag with compression sack<br />-Thermarest 3-season, self-inflating sleep pad and compressible camp pillow<br />-Foldable hammock and fold-up camp stool<br />-Jetboil backpacker stove with fuel, Zippo<br />-9x7 foldable nylon tarp<br />-Backpacker first-aid kit and back-up poncho<br />-USMC pack shovel, Gerber sport axe, multi-tool, Buck lock-blade knife, bear spray<br />-Collapsible mini-fishing pole with mini tackle box<br />-Backpack with camelback bladder and Kleen Kanteen water bottle<br /><br /><br />Tech: <br />-Asus netbook. 11 hr battery life 250GB memory with Toshiba external hard drive and thumb drive<br />-Motorola Droid<br />-Canon Elph and FlipHD video<br />-60 lumen Petzl headlamp and 120 lumen Fenix pen light<br /><br />Clothes:<br />-4 t-shirts, 2 base layer shirts, 1 long sleeve tee<br />-3 pairs jeans, 1 base layer pants, 1 athletic pants, 1 athletic shorts and swim suit<br />-Socks and undies<br />-USMC hoodie<br />-Ethan’s old camp flannel<br />-Running shoes and flip flops with jump rope<br /><br />Miscellaneous:<br />-Maps, Harley Davidson road atlas, VRSC Service Manual, Books, journals, pens, vitamins, oatmeal, backpacker meals, ramen and cliff bars, toiletries, tie downs, straps, S-biners, towel<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh8JiVgGLaC18-8PSUnu7JyZAzTqoPhxh08xX2JsDZ2TNqBjuviwzLWXMo9LgOWaTJWoMgK9PoC0N-9R5txoLlQo-yWVjHThPwEW2K4qyv3WygNHv0IPW-FkG0C-gEMHYXzAf9MM-m2WOo/s1600-h/IMG_2692.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh8JiVgGLaC18-8PSUnu7JyZAzTqoPhxh08xX2JsDZ2TNqBjuviwzLWXMo9LgOWaTJWoMgK9PoC0N-9R5txoLlQo-yWVjHThPwEW2K4qyv3WygNHv0IPW-FkG0C-gEMHYXzAf9MM-m2WOo/s200/IMG_2692.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445730130525914914" /></a>The Tributehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10743853433112763375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5115176089524902569.post-55268089291026454422010-02-28T20:49:00.016-06:002010-03-08T14:09:37.043-06:00California II: L.A. to Yuma (LONG)<strong>“Our doubts are traitors, <br />And make us lose the good we oft might win, <br />By fearing to attempt.” <br />-William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure</strong> <br /><br />Friday 2.19 - the plan is to leave at 10am. That was the plan. The reality is that Ethan’s memorial celebration lasted a lot later than anticipated and sleep did not come as quickly as thought. I’m glad it didn’t. After the party had moved from the house in Burbank and the crowd migrated to The 5th, I had made a last minute decision to join the crew for one last toast. I was going to go to bed. I was going to get some sleep. Ha. The decision to stay a bit later and get a bit later start on the road is one that will never be regretted. There is a lifetime to get enough sleep, to be 100% of your game. Opportunities that are meaningful to one and one’s friends don’t come around as often as they should and most of us pass them up, taking the opportunities for granted. No more. <br /><br />Eventually I leave at 11…ish after saying thank yous and goodbyes and having a cup of coffee that Juliet diligently brews every morning at 8 o’clock. Juliet, you have been my savior. On to the first stop: San Diego. Staying off the L.A. super-slabs(Interstates), I cruise a couple of side streets until reaching Sepulveda Boulevard, which delivery me to <A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVnvAj-7ebLycDTYFB0OLSbP1rSk0mIGCuR3I_dXIJEg6Cx3RiQx4qcz3Jag8WgBbu70awN7uhPYAvIXy8tqdfQE0A5Nrp18-g3NfFbSam1A4wo-jYOxs1-s58EqZtMGlbv17KkSqo38wW/s1600-h/IMG_2574.JPG"><IMG style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443495559852477618 border=0 alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVnvAj-7ebLycDTYFB0OLSbP1rSk0mIGCuR3I_dXIJEg6Cx3RiQx4qcz3Jag8WgBbu70awN7uhPYAvIXy8tqdfQE0A5Nrp18-g3NfFbSam1A4wo-jYOxs1-s58EqZtMGlbv17KkSqo38wW/s200/IMG_2574.JPG"></A>Santa Monica Boulevard and the Santa Monica coast line at the Pacific Coast Highway. This is the start and will be the end point of this adventure (little did I know that it’s also the beginning of historic Rte 66, which will be the final chapter of this saga after I’ve completed the perimeter) and I take a moment to reflect and grab a picture of the intersection where dreams collide. <br /><br />Water on the right… Cruising along the coasts, the Pacific rides as my sidecar. A Salty breeze floats gently into my nose as I finally get it. This is the beginning. This is what it’s about. The PCH winds and wiggles its way down the California coastline giving it an endearing and innocent outline, much like that of a child trying to fill in a coloring book. There’s no hurry here, no place to be. The first stop is San Diego, but there is only a timeframe, no deadline. A smile creeps in. This is what I’ve been looking for. Overused phrases and corporate jargon start to shift and transform into more appropriate meanings. Touch base means that I physically put my hands on the Alamo or some other national monument. Circle back is what happens when I miss my turn (this happens often as all my senses are overwhelmed by the complete inundation of stimulus surrounding me). Parking lot is the place I will drop my kickstand. Clarity are the moments I have while being surrounded by 360 degrees of sunset in the middle of a vast desert. This initial leg of the journey is going to take a while, even though it could be done in 3 hours. <br /><br />Wanting to stay true to PCH, I have bouts of infidelity as roads closer to the ocean deem more attractive. Riding down Pacific Avenue to Venice Beach, the bridges have too much history to pass up a photo op. Calling these side-quests delays would be a misnomer as on this trip there is no such thing as a delay. Jumping back on the PCH, LAX goes by in the obnoxious blur that it is and it’s time to stop for gas in El Segundo. Rolling out of the station, I touch my leg several times as I span the next few miles, making sure my wallet is back in my jeans pocket. It is.<br /><br /><A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-qQgqCKa9BhIzL6SfLNk9u91e8O6QOtpubxK11jgbkMOPsg6WIolvoNySJm9LDCoo8D3v4Kqdhaku5XgTl31JAZrh99PyEQaC-A23DMGXXNaRtIoLyvrvNkvkCyq6XOluuvuPjPUQH51T/s1600-h/IMG_2587.JPG"><IMG style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443496386188251170 border=0 alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-qQgqCKa9BhIzL6SfLNk9u91e8O6QOtpubxK11jgbkMOPsg6WIolvoNySJm9LDCoo8D3v4Kqdhaku5XgTl31JAZrh99PyEQaC-A23DMGXXNaRtIoLyvrvNkvkCyq6XOluuvuPjPUQH51T/s200/IMG_2587.JPG"></A> Here’s that wandering eye again. PCH, you know I love you, but I think we should see other people. Departing the one that should be guiding me, Palos Verde Boulevard bats her eyelashes and beckons me to ride the ocean’s overshadowing cliffs. For those of you that have seen the movie “What Dreams May Come,” the ride is as if I’ve stepped into an artist’s rendering. More beautiful, lush and brilliant than real life could possibly be. Bluff Cove offers up a vista worthy of any camera, but only few cameras are worthy of it. Mine, not so much. Looking down the cliffs at the surfers hundreds of feet below, nothing can pollute this picturesque moment. Wrong. Taking the last of my snaps and hearing a ruckus behind me, I turn around to find a couple of oily bohunks in denim flexing their pharmaceutical grade biceps while being photographed by a very eager photographer. Gay porn? Wrangler’s 2011 Calendar? Or the next batch of a 13 year old girls bedroom posters? The answer is it’s time to ramble on. Sorry ladies, no pics… next time, I gotchyo back. <br /><br />A historic lighthouse (take a pic), the San Vicente bridge (take a pic),<A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiObf9WiMFpoOPy9B6SNizpVRkwiGKS3GP2Nbu4OGU6ikVmxCJKVr2zCaFar2ZF6unDkZ0G5Q_0zjhScvgF9t-IB7Fds8i8QMjwmvVHq06lhTbdsZYag5Cog0JPh5mXnfPP7mAjvYzewsgi/s1600-h/IMG_2591.JPG"><IMG style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443497191039845074 border=0 alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiObf9WiMFpoOPy9B6SNizpVRkwiGKS3GP2Nbu4OGU6ikVmxCJKVr2zCaFar2ZF6unDkZ0G5Q_0zjhScvgF9t-IB7Fds8i8QMjwmvVHq06lhTbdsZYag5Cog0JPh5mXnfPP7mAjvYzewsgi/s200/IMG_2591.JPG"></A> a flock of seagulls (take a pic), an oil field (take a pic), roll with a Ferrari for 10 miles (no pic), getting turned around more times than P-Diddy’s identity (GPS phone is a LIFE SAVER) and five and a half hours later brings me to Oceanside, where the PCH is under construction (No Road Through) and it’s getting dark. Given there is still about 50 miles left in the day, I-5 looks mighty inviting, so I roll the dice to quickly get to Mission Trails/Kumeyaay Lake campground outside of San Diego. <br /><br />Come on. Test me. I dare you. Just kidding, you don’t have to call my bluff. Sh!t. To say the I-5 at night is a hellacious experience is an understatement, but proves to be a necessary one and I’m glad to get this under my belt early in the trip. Nearing the highway that leads to the campground, I decide to pull over for a quick fill. When I pull up to the station, there is an extremely friendly kid of about 25 selling some sort of auto polish. Miguel is a former serviceman/motorcycle rider, but was discharged due to an unfortunate accident involving a wheelie at 55 mph and a rogue gust of wind. About to be shipped to Afghanistan, Miguel was perhaps spared a worse fate. He is a mere glimpse of the unique and intriguing individuals that will cross my path on this journey. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtbJmo1libxti1QGc6zQ5Ujgn6Bily1amU3VdoBJKK43jARWnXgaheurBTg89QDkGCBFkviCVoTdUX1n8k4QMtnzZCs0lamvXSzgRkLUwuw6J6RGYZBhVWIhGR4d8SMozFo7k3hPKrCTK6/s1600-h/IMG_2610.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtbJmo1libxti1QGc6zQ5Ujgn6Bily1amU3VdoBJKK43jARWnXgaheurBTg89QDkGCBFkviCVoTdUX1n8k4QMtnzZCs0lamvXSzgRkLUwuw6J6RGYZBhVWIhGR4d8SMozFo7k3hPKrCTK6/s200/IMG_2610.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443507108304656578" /></a>Rolling into the campground at Mission Trails, I am greeted by a friend that reaches back to middle-school extending a much needed cocktail. Rustie and I exchange hugs and smiles and then it’s to the dirty task of setting up camp in the dark. This proves to be a fairly easy task, as the tent is a 2-pole set-up with a rain fly. Very simple, very roomy (surprisingly), very nice, I like. The tent works out perfectly as its misleadingly spacious interior leaves room for my Thermarest and sleeping bag, a corner for my duffle with gear, a corner for boots and shoes, an office to hold a backpack which doubles as laptop stand, with enough room left over for a the jetboil kitchen. Surprise doesn’t even begin to cut it. Thanks for the tent dad, nice work. <br /><br />The fire crackles as conversation flows as smoothly as the rum and cokes do and before long, tales of the past, present and future all intertwine into a great night. The stroke of midnight comes quickly and with it drops of rain that serves as a warning that they’re bringing reinforcements. An easy decision to rack out for the night, we go to our respective tents and welcome the sandman. The static-like sound of raindrops on the tent begins to hasten and intensify and worry of a leak sets in. Wet gear is no fun, as any camper will tell you. Fortunately for me, the tent’s defenses hold. Rustie isn’t as lucky as her tent crumbles like the Alamo and she retreats to the sanctuary of her car.<br /><br /><A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXwjiAo8ginjnZ2t4Z6mAX4bZ9rcJ-okvsfrhXONjuXvsKso_ryjUCmEUzcHJAfrQn7pPKJZqu4xETEKZPoFsi2vXw629or43HrG0_FroCNY9jUL_LHlB3DsE0rQu2JQnaAgkMfrbB53By/s1600-h/IMG_2614.JPG"><IMG style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443499110050139762 border=0 alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXwjiAo8ginjnZ2t4Z6mAX4bZ9rcJ-okvsfrhXONjuXvsKso_ryjUCmEUzcHJAfrQn7pPKJZqu4xETEKZPoFsi2vXw629or43HrG0_FroCNY9jUL_LHlB3DsE0rQu2JQnaAgkMfrbB53By/s200/IMG_2614.JPG"></A> Tap dancing across the rain-fly, the drops lift me out of a deep slumber and I lay there looking out the door for a solid two hours taking in the breeze, the mountains and the beauty. Once the weather breaks (or so we think), it’s determined that a quick hike around Kumeyaay Lake is a must. A muddy hike complete with overflowing river, the views warrant a deep breath and a gasp escapes as icy rain drops fall down the back of my neck. Back to camp and then on to lunch with my bro before he ships to Afghanistan. <br /><br />When on a journey of this magnitude and having the last lunch with your brother for an easy six months, where do you go? Dave N Busters, of course. Arriving a bit late, I meet with Jon, who is eagerly awaiting my arrival for some grub. We have a great lunch, catch up and then say our “see you laters and good lucks” as we both turn and walk towards two experiences that will burn deeply within us for the rest of our lives. USMC Jon Rutter – we’re proud of you, thank you for all you do for this country. <br /><br /><A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgywDpNwU9gRxq62DKZz15vjweUV5xTXLrzVWtO2xaNUVXqC1KrZx0WWnW6nq0Ns4L-Nm7FcdLPk8TWbHkhLOPvwc9UxdOh0pH6O0vWpJB7Atf6xllQ0hOmS8H6UVz09i44p1SYXghud-ti/s1600-h/IMG_2625.JPG"><IMG style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443500163671909730 border=0 alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgywDpNwU9gRxq62DKZz15vjweUV5xTXLrzVWtO2xaNUVXqC1KrZx0WWnW6nq0Ns4L-Nm7FcdLPk8TWbHkhLOPvwc9UxdOh0pH6O0vWpJB7Atf6xllQ0hOmS8H6UVz09i44p1SYXghud-ti/s200/IMG_2625.JPG"></A> The Philly cheese steak settling in for a nap, we make our way over to Balboa Park in San Diego to meander through gardens, art, culture and architecture. Starting out at the Big Tree and strolling through pathways that resemble a Candyland board, flora seems to reach out to try and engulf you to make you an everlasting part of their natural beauty. Passing stone work on the sides of ornately carved Spanish architecture, faces glare out grimacing and twisting at passersby eternally etched and never changing. The buildings, statues, art and culture take one to a place beyond this country’s borders. <A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7hZSwupu8KgpeE6QaG3tkUJAVqwGU-CnjSBocu1PFBfuiGXv7zuhgk3ecIn10lgW5PXji3H64NwB0SYS2fbVAIde5D3LnXbb1odNaO4j0NlX8TmJw0nlbYfBP-cSAn4tUa3W7J4qIGNjM/s1600-h/IMG_2640.JPG"><IMG style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443501053932221170 border=0 alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7hZSwupu8KgpeE6QaG3tkUJAVqwGU-CnjSBocu1PFBfuiGXv7zuhgk3ecIn10lgW5PXji3H64NwB0SYS2fbVAIde5D3LnXbb1odNaO4j0NlX8TmJw0nlbYfBP-cSAn4tUa3W7J4qIGNjM/s200/IMG_2640.JPG"></A>El Cid hovers above all, mightily raising his flag as his stallion snorts and lifts a hoof in courage and pride. Walking away in the path of his gaze, I round a corner to find an old saxophone player under a street light. The jazz is smooth and delicious and immediate recognition of reasons for this trip are noted as the music melts into the air around us. Each note is an alarm clock for another goose bump. This is America at its best. The last image seen while leaving Balboa Park is a towering and undeniable banner of Darwin. Proper. This is the evolution of me. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijUK5rNcBAo9lXJM2jpNuk4gQznSkjlWLBZa04dFhVVWP8MgfoU_7bnvfL2PWOy4BtwP3AyijMvx_TEF8LibDshFDbiSKPpRQTRRQ8uIZR1Mg-R6IfjZHeCiTOKWz9TbuCAGnWg0pOmh4l/s1600-h/IMG_2636.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijUK5rNcBAo9lXJM2jpNuk4gQznSkjlWLBZa04dFhVVWP8MgfoU_7bnvfL2PWOy4BtwP3AyijMvx_TEF8LibDshFDbiSKPpRQTRRQ8uIZR1Mg-R6IfjZHeCiTOKWz9TbuCAGnWg0pOmh4l/s200/IMG_2636.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443508615961665698" /></a><br /><br />The day ends with a trip to a friend’s house for some cocktails (of which I pass on) and board games. The games never took off, but the conversation between myself and a couple name Mark and Emily did. Having been travelers since 2007, after selling all their possessions and giving up their corporate way of life, they packed up an RV and started touring the country. Eventually the been-there-done-that thoughts around the RV began to creep in and they decided to purchase a sailboat and make the waves their home for 6 months. A travelers inspiration, they have sage advice, a warm attitude, but never forget common sense and safety that is needed for such adventures. Roadslesstraveled.us will take you on their journey, should you care to get on board. <br /><br />It’s time to get on two wheels again and an 8am wake-up is met with drying out tents, tarps and other gear. The going is slow and I vow to become more efficient in both time and space while packing. One stop remains between me and the open road: REI. After getting lost for around 45 minutes and just about as many miles, REI peaks its logo from around a turn and all is good. Picking up some jetfuel, fire starters I walk out of the store to find a bratwurst stand. An old hippie had a tent outside of the store and welcomes me under it to dry and warm myself by the grill. “Get under the tent and grab some fire, it’s cold and wet out here today.” Taking down the sumptuously grilled cased meat, I wash it down with a Pepsi and walk over to my bike. Given my turnarounds, misdirection and wasted time, I opt not to ride down to the places I’ve seen before (Pacific Beach, Coronado Island and Tijuana), but rather kick it into gear and get on I-8 to ride east. The rain cloud that seems to be perpetually following me, checks in with a wink and I suit up. Now, the only thing standing between me and the desert are the mountains of I-8. <br /><br />I’m riding south and east…the weather will get better. Wrong. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju1Kql6GA1lJy6e45he989_5sxSNml6QBe3M54kVOVOtrBg_maRuUBifYflAio3ZDa4IW-VRSkybITsXLxLQpAKusNtz6rMxuCpybQYUfqRqTmvslnAuTE3zcwuaiH3SrBt3ixRoTh310u/s1600-h/IMG_2669.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju1Kql6GA1lJy6e45he989_5sxSNml6QBe3M54kVOVOtrBg_maRuUBifYflAio3ZDa4IW-VRSkybITsXLxLQpAKusNtz6rMxuCpybQYUfqRqTmvslnAuTE3zcwuaiH3SrBt3ixRoTh310u/s200/IMG_2669.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443510022221726290" /></a>I-8 leads right into a rain cloud, making me feel as if I’m going into the lost city of Shangri La. No such luck. Instead of gold, prosperity and other mythical enticements, I find rain, cold and yes, even snow. With the narrow mountain passes giving no leeway for a pullover, I’m forced to fight it out to the next exit and the rain settles in and my clothes soak up the water like a Trekkie soaks up the aroma of Captain Kirk’s dirty unitard. Wet, wetter, wettest. Cold, colder, f@cking freezing. Finally the small town of Pine Valley shows itself and allows me to not only change my clothes and put on my rain suit, but also to capture the previously elusive Zippo fluid, so that like all men, I may make fire. <br /><br />Climbing further into the mountains brings a dense fog that Scooby Doo would take pleasure in making tasty donuts out of. Yet another test of the obstacles that will be thrown at me, I fight the fog with extreme caution, the visibility no more than 100 yards. Knowing there are only a few miles left until I descend and reach the desert floor, an end is in sight. The helmet’s face shield collects rain eagerly and it gives me a sense of relief when I figure out that when moving my head left or right, the wind acts as a natural windshield wiper. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3uENRulTYZKowK8joKQuM9AFzd7QhOPlK4fhLKmBbD8r982eQu5qIC-Pm07mPPG13GH4ouEqepicp1qvgrDaEGJ5Nu5cUPBgtS4sC7Sl1YlzdKZ71OvnDKZMx3q1Fc7OBRr2j54RwsfoV/s1600-h/IMG_2676.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3uENRulTYZKowK8joKQuM9AFzd7QhOPlK4fhLKmBbD8r982eQu5qIC-Pm07mPPG13GH4ouEqepicp1qvgrDaEGJ5Nu5cUPBgtS4sC7Sl1YlzdKZ71OvnDKZMx3q1Fc7OBRr2j54RwsfoV/s200/IMG_2676.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443511090902125042" /></a>The mountains belch me out into the Yuha desert and I am immediately slapped in the face by a gust of hot, dry air. A welcome respite as I take off the rain gear and prepare to dry out. The Yuha desert is a beautiful wasteland, arid and sunny, seemingly endless. Goodbye hypothermia, hello warmth. Cruising along at a comfortable speed that only a desert highway can allow, every last drop of moisture is sucked into the awaiting atmosphere. Ditching I-8 for Hwy 98, to ride closer along the California-Mexico border, the feelings of angst and ambition for a better life reach out from the south, an undeniable presence. Border patrol is everywhere, storm troopers on a sea of sand, they post every ¼ mile or so scouring the land below us for those that dare to become like us. Passing through Calexico is non-eventful and some miles later, I enter a place very much resembling Tatooine. The rest area sign says “Welcome to Imperial State Park.” Oh yeah…where they filmed Star Wars (hold for nerd applause – my own included).<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnmzKo6StlQZg4TLjWgnh2OgIXlxd-NRU7BTzVMV-OjKsngo4mzMpPaGnTv4CEpJzGdPIj4m1YUaWPKK2Jt1X4fBjmL6l-MMWyrISDVmCEz3zUC1-y0eL7xVjoz35Ptu10GwWXPTZwwgHF/s1600-h/IMG_2683.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnmzKo6StlQZg4TLjWgnh2OgIXlxd-NRU7BTzVMV-OjKsngo4mzMpPaGnTv4CEpJzGdPIj4m1YUaWPKK2Jt1X4fBjmL6l-MMWyrISDVmCEz3zUC1-y0eL7xVjoz35Ptu10GwWXPTZwwgHF/s200/IMG_2683.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443511834147095858" /></a> <br /><br />Making my way through the final miles of the desert to Yuma I’m sand blasted by winds strong enough to resemble an aged Buster Douglas; not so much scary, but one would still rather not have to deal with it. Yuma’s entry comes late and I smile at the Welcome to Arizona sign. One thing unknown is that Yuma is an RV Mecca and tent camping seems nonexistent. Given the hour and limited options, Motel 6’s inviting blue sign lures me in for some much needed rest. <br /><br />Next blog post: Yuma to Las Cruces, Arizona travels. <br /><br /><em>“The bike may break me. The road may take me. I will forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart.”</em>The Tributehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10743853433112763375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5115176089524902569.post-86142347473575609952010-02-27T18:21:00.011-06:002010-02-28T20:48:42.673-06:00California 1: Reunited and The Memorial 2/14-2/18<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1-KZvAVCSKRVKBe0ybdJMSqsLAk_KSvn9S4iGv5lJ-W182jAtw9IK9McMEDORfA7JnN5iSStSNSFxaILnOBPlHITqsYQ3lQJ1vA25oKje0t6M_LpFkzkDllsnScuZVQ-2auv_acrPN0MO/s1600-h/LAfeb2010+005.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1-KZvAVCSKRVKBe0ybdJMSqsLAk_KSvn9S4iGv5lJ-W182jAtw9IK9McMEDORfA7JnN5iSStSNSFxaILnOBPlHITqsYQ3lQJ1vA25oKje0t6M_LpFkzkDllsnScuZVQ-2auv_acrPN0MO/s200/LAfeb2010+005.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443085669963394834" /></a><br />The flight to California has a layover and a transfer in Phoenix. During the first leg of the trip finding that I am unusually inspired to write the second of many-to-come blog posts and the clacking begins. It is an emotional one; writing about my farewells to those back home. The total of this experience is unusually heavy and often leaves me watery eyed and red faced. It’s bad enough to have these episodes in the comfort of my own home with my dog watching, but it’s an entirely different animal to breakdown on a Southwest flight – that isn’t even direct.<br /><br />As the baggage carousel brings my luggage around the corner, I pick up enough bags to look like I’m smuggling Imelda Marcos’ shoes into southern California. In the long-forgotten stranger known as sunshine, I stand on the curb at Burbank airport and await my ride, Dylan. He’s graciously offered to pick me up and entertain me for the day. Seeing as it’s Valentine’s Day, we obviously go up to Runyon Canyon for a romantic hike (his girlfriend is graciously loaning him out for the day to keep me company)and a spectacular view of the L.A. valley below, smog included.<br /><br />Will leaves me a key and an open invitation to the house so I drop off my baggage (if it were only that easy) and Dylan and I head out for pizza and a flight of beer. The flight was mine, Dylan is playing a most appreciated host and chauffeur. By luck of coincidence, that night I get to meet up with two former co-workers, now friends, at the Oak Fire Pizzeria off of Sunset. Seeing how I had just eaten at a microbrew/pizzeria a few short hours before hand, I stay for Carey and Anna’s company and of course the cocktails.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEXDXvsg3nRG-9VIIg08bkZ7EKK4wkogfbUp_vDbfgZXa-SaVP5rq5ZRj6HaFMeYft8fIwWEM69iCZajlkNz9d_7jySNVdWoSqURwaNVZub3USwpHB4e7SQ0FDbirAXuFbI00pZpWis4x2/s1600-h/ds_hb_3.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 139px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEXDXvsg3nRG-9VIIg08bkZ7EKK4wkogfbUp_vDbfgZXa-SaVP5rq5ZRj6HaFMeYft8fIwWEM69iCZajlkNz9d_7jySNVdWoSqURwaNVZub3USwpHB4e7SQ0FDbirAXuFbI00pZpWis4x2/s200/ds_hb_3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443088707978776162" /></a> On Tuesday, I hitch a ride with Will and Adam over to Glendale Harley Davidson, near Burbank. Having shipped “Black Betty” over there through Daily Direct from Milwaukee Harley Davidson, I find she has arrived in as perfect condition as the service, advice and guidance I had gotten throughout the entire process had been. (Quickly – Big thank yous go out to the whole Milwaukee HD team, Amanda & Gary at Glendale HD and Sara & Shelly at Daily Direct). Without the collaboration and professionalism that was given to get Betty from the Midwest to the West coast, I shudder to think what would have become of her. And yes, I’m well aware of the lyrics and the meaning behind that song. C’mon. It’s me. Now you’re thinking about it, aren’t you?<br /><br />Polish. Leather protector. The obligatory HD t-shirt or two... to give a little back for storing my bike at no charge, I pick up a few necessities and a few unnecessities from the Glendale shop. A few quick chats with the owner, one of the shop guys and the cutie working the merchandise counter, it is time to get reacquainted with my girl. Butterflies barn-stomp in my gut and it seems as though we were a married couple going on a first date after a trial-separation. As soon as I start the bike up, listen to the purr, give her a little gas and pull out onto the road, we fall into our old rhythms and grooves – ahh newlyweds. <br /><br />Dodging L.A.’s epileptic drivers as they jerk, twitch and spasm from lane to lane, we safely arrive for the first time in Ethan’s old driveway. And for the first time ever, the real preparations begin as I fully load the bike with the gear and bags that will be my life for the next 5 months. Barring a few bone-head moves on my part, the gear eventually fits as comfortably and securely on the bike as I do. <br /><br />Wednesday brings an unexpected scenario that was chock full of video shoots and interviews that leaves me as vulnerable as a Barbara Walters victim. A quick ride up to Griffith Observatory was the perfect setting to shoot some riding footage and get a brief Q & A on camera. Los Angeles below, with iconic Americana landmarks popping up across the vista such as the Capitol Records building and the Hollywood sign, seemed a fitting beginning for a motorcycle tour across this great country. Now if only I could have gotten Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper to ride along with me. Wait. Scratch that. That movie ended…poorly.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq6chUJfqXL9W9_n8JOduAEBCMwBxIttfY92kzgLvS4DcF8Km7i8kz8hwalSHe9hpqD6h9lBXvhg5LQUgDJJ-WxZBaafxa3b_Pj2kpUiU5-xDtyuyWtn-TXzJEyCu4z_xfxlHmHjTA8GZq/s1600-h/LAfeb2010+007.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq6chUJfqXL9W9_n8JOduAEBCMwBxIttfY92kzgLvS4DcF8Km7i8kz8hwalSHe9hpqD6h9lBXvhg5LQUgDJJ-WxZBaafxa3b_Pj2kpUiU5-xDtyuyWtn-TXzJEyCu4z_xfxlHmHjTA8GZq/s200/LAfeb2010+007.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443086779296008002" /></a> <br /><br />Wideband Entertainment calls it a day, well they call it a for now. Next comes some actions shots as I ride over famed Hollywood Boulevard and the Sunset strip. Under usual circumstances, I would have been giggity all over, but given the tumultuous nature of the L.A. driver and lack of street space, the concern fell more into the pockets of safety and defense, rather than oohs and ahhs. Not a bad first couple of days. In N Out burger – always sinfully delicious. Hollywood Blvd, Sunset Strip, Griffith Observatory, Runyon Canyon, Ethan’s old pad. Perfect.<br /><br />Thursday morning is sobering as I navigate boxes and bins of Ethan's old clothes on the anniversary of his death. Finding hoodies and shoes, seemingly never worn, I meticulously select items that hold meaning as well as they held him. An old Adidas soccer jersey, Horace Pinker t-shirt and Doc Martens are just a few of the items that will be shipped back to Wisconsin for the guys to have. I take Ethan's flannel that he used to wear camping. Expecting it to smell like cigarettes and Azarro, slight disappointment sets in when I realize someone did the laundry. The rest of the clothes go to the Weingart Center for donation as Will and I drive down to L.A.'s skid row to drop off some badly needed clothing. The clothes are now in good hands (some never worn, with the tags still clinging) and we go to lunch at Cilantro. A hole-in-the-wall restaurant, just 5 minutes from Weingart, some of the most tantalizing white-corn tortilla chicken and steak tacos ever eaten are welcomed into their home on waves of horchata. <br /><br />The memorial that evening is much more than could have ever been expected. The warmth and sincerity from all the cats in L.A. that knew Ethan leave me with my jaw on the floor. The tremendous outpouring of celebration for Ethan’s life is a refreshing change from the mourning that has seemed to dominate the last 3 years of my life and I watch my perceptions change for the better. Will, Juliet, Dylan and the rest of the crew throw an amazing memorial celebration that seems to funnel more people through the doors of that house in Burbank than a line at Six Flags. <br /><br />The pop and sizzle that can only mean the sound of beer-n-onion bratwurst on the grill tickle my cochlea and put a huge smile on my mug. Following right behind the brats is their partner-in-crime, the pony keg of Leinie’s Red. Ahh Wisconsin, you do things right (aside from serial killers). A slab of tri-tip grilled to perfection and a mountain of grilled vegetables top off the meal. Ethan’s friends, mentor, co-workers and protégés eat, drink and swap barbs as only old friends can do. Once the last bite of brat is taken down in style, we’re ready to walk to Cheesy-E and the boys’ old haunt – Studio Suites. Disagreeing with the former clientele’s ideas that barstool peeing is a perfectly acceptable form of public display, new owners had closed down the Suites, renovated to a lounge-type atmosphere and is now more suitably called The 5th. Beer and bourbon flowing in and out of cohorts that don’t often have the luxury of reuniting, there are multiple toasts, smiles and saluds in Ethan’s honor as old pictures float amongst the crowd. There is no sadness, only celebration. Cheers to you all for taking me in as you did Ethan. Your generosity will forever remain true and unchallenged.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglWr1LvKr_LiBxDee9hVIQ0pB7I0cKIYpwKy4FmTbarjhAPim1fHB1CaqIrSvevqgfDxZxo5iUCM2h2Peh7ejCsywm0DH1M8vscw9SOKrpvDI0npYXKFRhJNPLpSm-lf87sPWQhfORJf0E/s1600-h/LAfeb2010+023.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglWr1LvKr_LiBxDee9hVIQ0pB7I0cKIYpwKy4FmTbarjhAPim1fHB1CaqIrSvevqgfDxZxo5iUCM2h2Peh7ejCsywm0DH1M8vscw9SOKrpvDI0npYXKFRhJNPLpSm-lf87sPWQhfORJf0E/s200/LAfeb2010+023.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443086208198816178" /></a><br /><br />Next post: Santa Monica to Yuma<br /><br /><em>"The bike may break me. The road may take me. I will forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart."</em>The Tributehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10743853433112763375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5115176089524902569.post-10348256726922430872010-02-18T20:59:00.012-06:002010-02-19T12:15:57.460-06:00Exit Chicago<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyfh-9_wpjRhmkVq-5S6cMYWTB1drd87sx5ShBqxZlA6zinT63uclkbfy5hCR9irLuSl05hUiCwDg0D4CUQ4KxmvXmLJ_8AOukJ-b9yzAp-Wb2dcAhhx6RCni4A7n7W0HKavZeG8QA08V2/s1600-h/Misc+09+001.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyfh-9_wpjRhmkVq-5S6cMYWTB1drd87sx5ShBqxZlA6zinT63uclkbfy5hCR9irLuSl05hUiCwDg0D4CUQ4KxmvXmLJ_8AOukJ-b9yzAp-Wb2dcAhhx6RCni4A7n7W0HKavZeG8QA08V2/s200/Misc+09+001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439794019473255426" /></a><br />Bittersweet. It may be clichéd, but that is the most accurate and appropriate word I can use to describe leaving my ‘life’ behind. Friends, family, my dog, work and the routine that I’ve known for the last 10 years in Chicago have made a greater impact on me than I could have ever imagined. While around others, deeper emotion ran at a stand-still and was seemingly non-existent. However, as I began saying my “see-you-laters” spanning a week of constant interaction and swarming with good times, great friends and tremendous support, it was the alone time at which the feelings began to cat burglar their way in. Stealthy and uninvited, for a self-proclaimed (and thoroughly convinced) stoic, it was almost a relief when the emotions began to swell inside me. It was as if the area behind my face was flooded with every possible feeling. Like a sponge that had been sitting in the desert sun then dropped into a bowl of water, it began absorbing and expanding until every inch of space was filled, leaving no room for air. Stuffy, tight and uncomfortable, but as necessary as a full-faced helmet in an Arizona sun.<br /><br /><strong>Leaving Friends:</strong> <br />“HE’S LEAVING, LET’S THROW A PARTY!..” or five. You know who your true friends are when you are preparing to leave your normal, daily life behind for any extended period of time and they try to pickle you beforehand. The week…no two weeks prior to my departure were fantastically exhausting. I was wretchedly tired, red-eyed, mentally reduced to gravel and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Starting with one of Chicago’s best cover bands, Tributosaurus, I kicked off dos semanas of imbibing with Prince’s “Sexy Mother F@cker” gyrating its way out of Martyr’s sub-woofers. A most proper way to rev-up for the upcoming days. Finishing a stellar performance of a myriad of other Prince tunes, including my personal favorite “Darling Nikki,” the show left me hailing a cab with my soon-to-be ever-present sh!t-eating grin.<br /> <br />Following my last day of work on Friday night, friends who happen to be co-workers delivered me into the skillful hands of bartenders for perpetual cocktailing at a joint called the Emerald Loop. Arriving to find that the management had given our reservation away (even though confirmations had been made), we strategically placed ourselves in the most intrusive and obnoxious of places. As wait staff, bussers and servers slalomed through buzzed partners-in-crime to reach their tables, we talked, laughed and refused to let one man’s incompetence spoil our good time. On to the next bar(s).<br /> <br />Over the next few hours and next few days, I had the pleasure of visiting and revisting Chicago haunts such as: The Twisted Spoke (bikers welcome), The Brehon (where my Chi-town drinking career started), Kuma’s Corner (metal and burgers) as well as the Felts Microbrewery (soon to be known). Each night - a little heavier to lift than the last. Each morning - a little more unwelcome than the previous. My friends, you did it right. You are amazing. Deep breath. Choke back the emotion.<br /><br /><strong>Leaving Family:</strong><br />Anti-climactic. It shouldn’t have been, but for the most-part, saying goodbye to my family was just that. It wasn’t until I began to write about it that a wave of emotion came rolling in. Despite their love, support and consistent encouragement, the farewell was surprisingly devoid of fanfare.<br /> <br />Perhaps it was because the night before I left my mind was consumed by thoughts of what-ifs, what haves and what needs. My mom, with husband Steve and sisters Emily and Alyssa, came for dinner from Evansville, WI. It’s a sleepy little Wisco town that boasted little more than 2,500 people when I moved there from Milwaukee in 1988. Now a thriving metropolis, at a population just over 4,000, Evansville has a stop light, a McDonalds, a mechanical bull, Nickelback in the jukebox and displays billboards at the edges of town proclaiming itself as the “Soybean Capital of Wisconsin,” and I love it.<br /> <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7jIeC7J-qx3SKe8lWl9LK5L7oPd4Df00ZgYAyOdsuEiQBcDaaXCmxP-hlrT5_PXGhWUvUTdJ05R_LBwlDgcjGcgiDzzFfJNQx66QAB-dnOEhfetDoB93O2-bDC3HpyYF0vAwTYdWQn_lU/s1600-h/scarola.png"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7jIeC7J-qx3SKe8lWl9LK5L7oPd4Df00ZgYAyOdsuEiQBcDaaXCmxP-hlrT5_PXGhWUvUTdJ05R_LBwlDgcjGcgiDzzFfJNQx66QAB-dnOEhfetDoB93O2-bDC3HpyYF0vAwTYdWQn_lU/s200/scarola.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439794281942571746" /></a>Via some rather sage advice from my aunt, who splits time living in St. Louis and Chicago, we had a reservation at La Scarola. A quaint, yet always bustling Italian restaurant that is favored by celebrities and locals alike, La Scarola is a highly sought foodery. After a 45 minute, alcohol-free wait for a table (this is not the fault of the restaurant, my family is notoriously tardy for any appointment and there was no exception for our 5.30pm reservation on Valentine’s Day), we sat down and feasted upon the specials offered up by the kitchen. Dinner was delicious, as expected and the only thing filling me up more than the entrees was a healthy helping of tension and anxiety.<br /> <br />“No, I don’t possibly have room for dessert, but thank you.”<br /> <br />The night was filled with all the usual questions, answers, advice and caveats of caution. Back at my apartment, regrettably, I was noticeably preoccupied with preparations to leave the next morning at 5.30. This unfortunately pushed my family into hurriedly finishing their raspberry cheesecake brownies that my mom had brought with. Slurping down some remaining drops of coffee, they opened up their arms for the good-luck hugs. We said our “see you laters,” hugged, took the obligatory group photo and they walked out into the icy cold of a Chicago winter. A bitter cold that, in 10 short hours, I would be bidding a shit-eating grin farewell to as my plane taxied and took off from Chicago’s Midway airport.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH4OaLYhaGwPaNoRRitFfTDH4_e4DtNNNEI7esne629uKP6w0OIx5JHxPsm97IhIrVoLGzO-CwZfd-gEFMtH52JrFlVbZ-8TNRzJIbxNy609hmJkXyI82X6wrQGaffXR0Kohn07Y80xYNP/s1600-h/122605_14161.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH4OaLYhaGwPaNoRRitFfTDH4_e4DtNNNEI7esne629uKP6w0OIx5JHxPsm97IhIrVoLGzO-CwZfd-gEFMtH52JrFlVbZ-8TNRzJIbxNy609hmJkXyI82X6wrQGaffXR0Kohn07Y80xYNP/s200/122605_14161.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439791615678276386" /></a>Or perhaps it was because earlier in the week, I had driven from Chicago to Milwaukee to drop off my best friend of the past 5 years, Pete. Pete is a beautiful red and white boxer/lab mix and my constant, if not somewhat spoiled companion. “Shotgun Pete” wouldn’t be riding with me on the journey that is to come. Instead, he’ll be living with my dad’s family until I return to the Midwest. Through white-out conditions and the false sense of security often received while kicking in the four-wheel drive, I crawled up I-94 at a blinding pace of 35 miles an hour. Cars spun, swirled and crashed around me, but hey, I was from Wisconsin, this was nothing. After a grueling three and a half hour ride (ufdah), Pete and I arrived safely at my dad’s house…just in time for dinner. After grappling with common sense and the driving urge to get back to Chicago to finish up my last prep efforts, I arose at the decision (with the protective prodding from my family) to stay the night and avoid the rest of the blizzard. Point: common sense.<br /> <br />After watching Zombieland with my brothers, who’s appropriately repeated line of “time to nut up or shut up” hits home, I racked out on the couch with Pete beside me at about midnight-thirty and proceeded to get no sleep. 6.30am brings a buzzing from down the hall that sounds like an emphysemic car alarm, and a shuffling of feet. Sleep? Who needs sleep? I’ve got the energy of life to keep me going. Wrong. As my dad and step-mom get ready for work, I try to wrangle and corral any last wink that is within lasso shot, but in the end, I’m just holding my rope. Exhausted and half-asleep, we say our goodbyes as I barely rise from the couch. Perhaps the family goodbyes would have been more note-worthy if I had left the night before. My step-mom gives me a hug, some encouragement and requests for stories upon my return. I hug her back and say thank you. The attention, even in my immediate family, still leaves me uncomfortable and embarrassed. Dad strolls over, extends his hand and says “keep the shiny side up.” Simple, but with an underlying and unspoken sentiment that only the two of us can recognize. I give Pete a hug and leave. Deep breath. Choke back the emotion.<br /><br /><strong>Leaving Chicago:</strong><br />Awakening at 5am, for a 7.35am flight out of Chicago’s midway airport, I nuke a cup of coffee and get ready. I had had a fairly restful nights’ sleep despite the repeated attempts of sabotage by my mind and being awoken to the sounds of my roommate and his girlfriend reuniting after a week apart. Good for them. I unplugged everything in my bedroom, closed the heat vent, turned off the light and locked the door and silently shut the door.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnZ74N_50RDg35p7p4VrpSFxwFcTl23vQYXhauJrdmAUmMSsrxfN4NEUlu_EnNZet46ipX56CqixBmejdVr0k7kdQPCAlMiooEOGIrfRXB80GU95_cp0i9MMthDCO-AhriQaf4mPTPr-n8/s1600-h/LAfeb2010+002.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnZ74N_50RDg35p7p4VrpSFxwFcTl23vQYXhauJrdmAUmMSsrxfN4NEUlu_EnNZet46ipX56CqixBmejdVr0k7kdQPCAlMiooEOGIrfRXB80GU95_cp0i9MMthDCO-AhriQaf4mPTPr-n8/s200/LAfeb2010+002.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440019740372277058" /></a> <br />Lain out in a clinically methodical order (that only a project manager can love) on my coffee table was a duffle bag full of camp gear; a USMC Sea Bag filled with clothes, books, saddle bag liners and other items; a backpack full of my tech gear (netbook, camera, flip) and a very inconvenient camp pillow (it just didn’t fit anywhere, kind of like the eccentric Aunt that you have a hard time seating at a holiday dinner or a wedding). Stepping into my boots and sliding into my leather, I strapped on my backpack with helmet firmly attached. Slinging the duffle over my shoulder, the weight of the reality of what I was doing and the gear dug in, in an affirming pain. Picking up the sea bag, I bump and bumble my way out the door, lock up and take one last look at the darkened apartment. As I walk to the corner to hail a cab, it hits me again. <br /><br />The cabbie pulls up as I drop my gear into the trunk, we exchange the only pleasantries possible at 5.30am. “Good morning. I’m going to Midway airport, please.” “Good morning sir, which way would you like me to take?” “LSD to 55, please.” I want to ride the lakefront and inhale the view of the Chicago skyline. It will be 6 months before I see it again. Today is Valentine’s Day and my only reminder of this most heinous of holidays is the top of the Chicago skyline illuminated in tones that would make Pepto Bismol nauseous. The city is asleep as we wind our way down Lake Shore Drive. We are the only ones on the road. The trip is quick and peaceful, a complete contrast to the environment that will be in an hour. Feeling as if I’m sneaking out of the city as I would tip-toe out of a girl’s apartment the morning after meeting her in a bar, the metamorphosis from the idea of this trip into a reality emerges. The realization of this manifests itself physically and an audible, involuntary rush of breath escapes me. I look at my hands to see if they are trembling, but astoundingly, they are not. Snaking around the turns and passing the pink neon that proclaims the Drake hotel, we glide between Lake Michigan and the Loop. The darkness pierced by and twinkling with the lights of Chicago’s corporate mountains give me pause. Deep breath. Choke back the emotion. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiglcsgEfbSL3dF1hM5cyeo8Whe_27zv10FR3hvC-tBLGKwzqTDjOp4UOAyoQERgJloqwxld1l1EBhR32RI3b-sR5hTVNpSVWTV-TSKkrA_OoQYXKYCgfKvXt_6SpKp8USDwDBBeLaQOrEx/s1600-h/chicago+skyline.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 131px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiglcsgEfbSL3dF1hM5cyeo8Whe_27zv10FR3hvC-tBLGKwzqTDjOp4UOAyoQERgJloqwxld1l1EBhR32RI3b-sR5hTVNpSVWTV-TSKkrA_OoQYXKYCgfKvXt_6SpKp8USDwDBBeLaQOrEx/s200/chicago+skyline.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439788381346554130" /></a><br /><br />Get ready for an adventure. Tomorrow I saddle up.<br /><br /><em>“The bike may break me. The road may take me. I will forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart.”</em> <br /><strong></strong>The Tributehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10743853433112763375noreply@blogger.com0