SWIV - Tuesday

Today was another no-alarm-needed day.  I signed up for a group ride to Mount Washington, but first we rode to the Laconia Harley-Davidson dealership for a sponsored lunch of burgers and dogs.  At very Shark Week I’ve attended, the local Harley dealer has stepped up and sponsored breakfast or lunch for the riders.  It’s a win-win for them because many riders load up on shirts and other goodies.  Even with the additional discounts these dealers offer us during their event, they make out like bandits on motorclothes.  I rarely buy shirts at dealers anymore because I have a closet full of them already.  I bought shirts in Alaska, the Yukon Territory, and in Key West, but I can live without a H-D of Dubuque t-shirt.  But I digress.

The Tuesday morning rides were well orchestrated to have groups of riders traverse different scenic routes and yet wind up at the Laconia H-D location for lunch within an hour of each other.  My group was among the first to arrive (a bit early, actually) and I was thinking this might be one of those iconic H-D dealerships from which it would be worthy of buying a shirt.  The Laconia Rally is one of the larger annual motorcycle events in the country, but the dealership was just another cookie cutter H-D floor plan.  A cookie cutter H-D floor plan with free hotdogs and burgers, that is.  Group after group of Road Glides rumbled in as the smoke from the grill lingered across the parking lot.  As my group was saddling up to head out, it appeared as is all 175 Road Glides who had signed up for Shark Week had made it to Laconia H-D.  Arriving early proved to be beneficial to an ADD guy like me who doesn’t like lines.

We headed out from the dealership and made our way to the Mount Washington Auto Road in Pinkham Notch.  This would be a scenic ride through the twisties, over and around assorted mountains, in and out of shade, and most notably, over some of the worst road surfaces I’ve ever experienced.  I’ve ridden some extremely treacherous roads over the years, but they were hundreds of miles from civilization.  The roads we rode in New Hampshire and Maine were connector roads between the seemingly unlimited numbers of small towns that dot the New England countryside.  Undoubtedly, it’s the harsh winter conditions that make maintaining the roads difficult.  Nevertheless, knowing the reason the roads sucked as they did didn’t make negotiating them any easier.

Anyone who is accustomed to group riding knows the importance of maintaining a rider’s lane position.  This is especially important when riding through twisties because the riders behind me are counting on me to uphold my position relative to the riders in front of and beside me, and the riders to my rear expect me to signal them as to any road hazards that might lie in their path.  Signaling is as simple as pointing to the ground using the hand or foot on the same side of the bike as the obstacle that lies ahead.  Most rides require only an occasional signal to indicate a piece of shredded tire tread or maybe a piece of roadkill.  These New England roads made us look like epileptic mimes weaving seemingly uncontrollably in an uncoordinated attempt to avoid the seemingly endless array potholes and uneven sectional joints.  Eventually, most of us abandoned signaling altogether in favor of holding on to the handlebars for dear life and keeping both feet on the floorboards for added stability.  Dodging obstacles was only half the battle because some obstacles simply couldn’t be avoided.   Just as swerving tests one’s agility and riding prowess, plowing over the asteroid belt-like bumps was a bone jarring experience that tests one’s patience, stamina, and bladder control.  This is true even on bikes equipped with the most sophisticated suspension systems.  I found myself mentally reviewing the available group rides and hoping there might be one to a dental college so we could have our fillings and bridges reset.

Mt. Washington Road Entry

As rough as getting to the Mount Washington Auto Road was, this privately owned toll road was mostly smooth and well maintained.  Mostly.  The road is an eight winding mile stretch that climbs 4,618 feet from an altitude of 1,527 feet at the bottom to 6,145 feet at the top.  About six miles in, the smooth pavement gives way to a mile long stretch of gavel that winds along the mountain’s jagged edge with no guardrails whatsoever.

Brief Reprieve from the Fog

Riding up these mountain conditions on a bike in sunny, clear weather and with no

We Don't Need No Stinkin' Guard Rails

oncoming traffic would provide a significant degree of butt pucker to some riders.  Riding up with the conditions we faced was an entirely different story.  Rounding blind corners with cagers rapidly approaching on the wrong side of the narrow road raised the excitement a bit.  Add crosswind gusts exceeding 40mph, and dense fog and the butt pucker compression increased to a degree that would make Dr. Robert Oppenheimer envious.  I wasn’t bothered by the conditions because they were no worse than the road to the Arctic Circle where the potholes could swallow a bike whole and the 18 wheel transport trucks really do own the road.  I admired the other riders in my group for braving the conditions because many of them had never experienced them before.  A few even made the journey riding two up (rider & passenger).  I’m still not clear which was bravest or craziest; the rider or the passenger.

Scenic Parking Lot View

Once atop the mountain, we basked in the ten foot panoramic view.  The locals told us the view is normally spectacular from that elevation.  We'll just have to take their word for it because the fog was so thick.  For a brief moment, the 40mph winds either subsided or increased to the point where they blew the fog away and we did have a nice view of the mountains around us.  That moment was very brief.  There were several sharks already up there when my group arrived.  Riders were being entertained watching others try to figure out where to park among the cagers scrambling to get back down the mountain before it was too late.  It already was too late.

I dismounted and made my way up the winding steps to the obligatory gift shop at the peak. I had no interest in souvenirs, I just knew it would be warm inside and I could get a break from the wind.  Once inside, I was delighted by the aroma of cedar and noticed its sharp contrast to the scent of burning clutch plates I had breathed on the way up.  I wondered if the clutch plate smell would be replaced with burning brake pads on the way down.

While studying the gift shop architecture, I noticed that the building was physically chained and anchored to the ground.  I knew it was pretty gusty up here, but did it ever really get that bad?  According to the sign affixed to the side of the building, it did.

The trip down the mountain was uneventful, although it seemed to take longer than the trip up.  Maybe it was just me being impatient.  The gentle but ever alerting sounds of Motörhead filled my ear buds as I slow rolled Hester down the winding road in first (and occasionally second) gear in a slow procession of Road Glides.  Every thousand feet or so were cut outs with signs that read "Pull over and stop to cool your brakes."  We never did, but then we were smart enough to not use our brakes in the first place.  Once we hit the highway the ride back to the host hotel was only about eight miles.  We must have taken the scenic overland route to get to Mount Washington from the H-D dealership because that was an hour long rumblebump fest.

Reading the Fine Print

Once back at the hotel, important issues such as "where are we eating tonight?" had to be addressed.  The lucky local business that won our money was a small, mom and pop pizza place that offered wood fired pizza and microbrewery beers.  We tried calling them to alert them that a group of about twenty would soon be arriving, but there was no answer.  They seemed glad to see us and graciously offered to join tables for us.  A group of twenty was no big deal.  It was the additional twenty or more riders who popped in a few minutes later having seen all the Road Glides in the parking lot that stressed their small staff.  The table conversations at events like these are always interesting.  Generally, you have riders recounting day's riding in great detail to other riders who were there themselves.  Regardless, everyone joins in the ball busting.  The dinners after are almost as fun as the riding itself.

After dinner, we all made our way back to the hotel to hear the annual pitches for Shark Week V.  Shark Week as an event is fairly new, but one tradition that has already grown roots is the annual pitch for the next year's event location.  As spontaneous as these events might appear, there is considerable coordination and planning involved to make them happen; certainly more than just picking a location.  A night is carved out to see and hear presentations from prospective forum members vying for the opportunity to host and this year, pitches were thrown by North Carolina, Nebraska, and Texas. Everyone had compelling cases for their locations, but  I believe the Texas team was best prepared.  Most liked the location being central in the US, but many had an issue with the mid June dates they proposed, which were strategically planned for cooler weather, knowing that deep summer in Texas could be harsh on those not accustomed to witnessing spontaneous human combustion.

After the presentations, most of the people retreated to the parking lot to round out an evening of bench racing and bullshit.  It was great getting to spend time with and shake the hands of so many with whom I've messaged for years but have either never met in person or not seen since Shark Week III last year.  I crawled into bed about 2:30am.  Tomorrow's weather forecast was for constant rain all day long.  The forecast didn't bother me because I scheduled tomorrow to be my day off to just hang out and relax after five long days in the saddle.

Arrival!

I don’t normally rise out of bed on a Monday looking forward to tackling the day.  This Monday was different because today I take a short 250 mile ride into Maine and New Hampshire and finally arrive at the Shark Week IV hotel.  Arrival day is probably my favorite.  It’s a rush to see all my friends ride in, some solo, others in groups.  Most I have met in previous years; others I’ve only corresponded with on our Road Glide discussion forums.  In any case, the shaking of hands, bumping of fists, and the man hugs are the icing on the cake after riding 2,300 miles to get here.

I rode off from Andy's place and met up on the road with two fellow Texans who also happened to be staying in   Massachusetts overnight on Sunday.  We coordinated meeting locations so we could ride the final leg in our own little shiver of sharks.  The skies were clear, the wind was almost nonexistent, and the temperatures were perfect for a long sleeve t-shirt half day in the saddle.  Somewhere along Interstate 95, I collided with something; an object on the road

This Vent; But on the Other Side

that was small enough to fit through my lower fairing vent, yet solid enough to shatter the plastic adjustable door that covers the vent.  The force of whatever it was combined with the turbulence of 75mph and 80lbs of inertia sent pieces of plastic sailing upward, one of which made its way between my glasses and socked me in the eye.  It felt like a bee sting.. Realizing there was nothing I could do about it and not wanting to be that guy who holds everyone up, I just ignored it and rode on.  When we finished our ride to the hotel, I could feel the cool traces of moisture constantly running down my cheek as my eye kept tearing up.  I was wearing sunglasses, so neither I nor anyone else noticed the swelling or the black spot.  I removed the glasses once the sun went down, but the evening kept my condition masked and I didn’t notice it until I got back to my room, although a few people looked at me funny (which I'm accustomed to) and even fewer actually asked me what happened.  My eye was irritated, but I chalked it up to excessive wind.  Once in my room, I removed my contact lens and noticed it was torn.  No wonder my eye was so sore.  The swelling started close off my eye, so I grabbed some ice from the machine in the hall.  Sure glad I always travel with my glasses and a spare pair of contact lenses.  For this trip, I brought two pair.  Here’s hoping I don’t need another replacement.

We arrived at the Town & Country Inn and Suites around noon and rode around behind the main building to the hospitality tent, signed in, and collected our goody bag consisting of patches, stickers, and other trinkets.  Many riders actually arrived on Sunday and were already out in the hills.  Still, there were plenty of new and familiar faces to greet and catch up.  The host hotel staff seem extremely gracious, accommodating, and seem to genuinely appreciate our presence.  The crew from Maine who put this year's event together did an outstanding job of setting their expectations and then managing them as the months passed and riders made reservations.  Some hotels will take a biker group's money and merely tolerate their presence.  I've been most impressed with their hospitality.

By early evening, the majority of riders were back from their day's ride or had arrived for the first day as we just had.  The meet & greet was on full steam and the parking lot behind the main building was abuzz with bikes rolling in at parade speeds with exhaust pipes rumbling as riders scanned the scene for familiar faces, or at least for name tags with familiar names.  With 175 bikes, we pretty much had the entire hotel property reserved.  Some riders were taking advantage of the bike wash area the hotel set up for us, complete with a high pressure hose and a pile of towels.  Despite the fact that Hester was a mess from 600+ miles of rain, I was not one of those people.  I was too busy playing social butterfly and greeter.

There were no official rides scheduled on the arrival day.  That fact, coupled with the free

kegs of beer from a local brewery meant it didn't take long for the bullshit to run as deep as the Androscoggin River, adjacent to the hotel.  By 9:00pm, I was dragging, despite the fact that I only rode about 250 miles that day.  I had signed up for a Tuesday morning ride that was scheduled to depart at 8:30.  Also, I was tired of people asking me why I was crying.


I made my way to my room, which was in a separate building on the opposite end of the campus from the

Ouch!

festivities.  This is probably a good thing; otherwise I wouldn't have gotten any sleep knowing there's a party outside my door.  Out of earshot, out of mind.

I finished unpacking and when I looked in the mirror, quickly realized why everyone was looking at me so funny.  My favorite comment was "Wow Shrug, sure didn't take you long to piss someone off!" I fired up my laptop to post some pictures and also quickly realized the Wi-Fi service in my room was as robust as the Sprint cellular service.  The wireless geek in me jumped into action.  The Wi-Fi signal strength was excellent, but it was as it the access point wasn't attached to anything that was connected to the Internet.  I ran through a dozen possible causes and solutions before the lazy vacationing sloth in me managed to beat down the geek and I just decided to let it go.  I found the service acceptable in the lobby, which is where I go to post after  writing.  First riding day is tomorrow, but for now, I need sleep.

Sharks Aplenty as Far as the Eye (or Camera) Can See

Kid Safe Cursing!

According to My Mirror, I Was Closer Than I Appeared.

What Eye Injury?

Playing Catch Up Part II – DC to Massachusetts

My phone alarm began to play its soothingly subtle music at 4:00am.  The Brain Eno-esque (Eno wrote the Microsoft Windows opening theme) tune gradually increased in volume until it finally shook me from my deep sleep; sleep so deep I practically woke up under the bed.  For the first time in weeks, I actually needed my alarm to wake up on time

Once awake, I rolled out of bed and began scurrying around my hotel room packing the few remaining items in anticipation of hitting the road again.  After the previous day’s GPS debacle, I had taken the time the night before to ensure the proper routes were not only in my GPS, but verified on the cheat sheets I had printed and laminated to be used as a backup.  I also entered the day’s destination address in my phone to be used as a last ditch option.  Hester was packed and ready to roll, and we did by 4:30.

I hit the expressway, rode about four miles and arrived at a toll booth.  The toll for my three minute ride was $4.80.  I rode another five miles and arrived at another toll booth.  This toll was $8.00!  I had forked out almost $13.00 in less than ten miles.  I remembered where I was, rolled my eyes, and rolled on to; you guessed it…another toll booth.  By the time I exited the New Jersey Turnpike, I had paid $31.00 in tolls.  One might think that with those prices, the roads would be in decent shape.  If one thought that, one would be wrong.  Between the potholes and uneven concrete joints that slammed my suspension and damn near rattled my fillings and crowns loose, I thought Hester would literally fall apart.

I exited the NJ Turnpike at the Liberty State Park exit.  One of my goals for this trip was to get a shot of Hester with Lady Liberty in the background.  I knew from my recent work in the City that there was no place in the Manhattan side to get such a shot, so I researched and found that the Liberty State Park road ran parallel to the harbor.  I found the closest location and got the shot I wanted.  It’s not a great shot of the Statue, but it satiated my odd habit of taking pictures of Hester in historic spots.

I left the State park with intentions of riding Hester into the Big Apple.  If the $31.00 in tolls I had already paid wasn’t enough, crossing under the Holland Tunnel from New Jersey into Manhattan cost me an additional $14.  I suppose I could have avoided most of these fees had I chosen another route.  But, I was steadfast in my goal to ride Hester through all the eastern seaboard states.  It chapped my hide, but I know when this trip is done, it will have been worth it.

Holland Tunnel

One might think that the traffic in New York City wouldn’t be that bad at 9:00am on a Sunday.  One would be wrong.  I was that one.  I picked the Holland tunnel intentionally because I wanted to enter Manhattan at the south end in order to get a shot of Hester at the Brooklyn Bridge.  All I wound up getting was a shot of the sign.  Another photo goal was in Times Square.  The traffic was so thick and Hester’s air cooled motor was already panting, so I abandoned the Times Square idea and made my way north to the Tiffany & Company where I worked for three months.  Those weeks in the Manhattan were the fodder for my Shrug in the City series in this blog.  From Tiffany, I headed onto the FDR loop and began to make my way out of the concrete zoo.  My next stop was to be 250 miles away in Taunton, Massachusetts where I would stay with an old Air Force friend and former band mate.   The continually crappy road surfaces continued until I crossed into Connecticut.  At least I paid no more tolls.  With no rain, the remainder of this day was pretty uneventful as Hester and I made our way across Connecticut, into Rhode Island, and up into Taunton, Massachusetts, south of Boston.  I crossed eight states on this day, which sounds impressive until you remember these were all east coast states.  Another goal I had was to pull over and get a shot of each state sign as I entered.  Unfortunately, many of these signs are over the middle of the highway instead of on the right side of the road.  After a short 500 mile riding day, I arrived at Andy’s place at 3:00 in the afternoon.

Andy and his parents were celebrating his daughter’s 17^th birthday and were having a BBQ party.  I hadn’t seen Andy’s folks in almost 20 years.  They were as gracious and genuine as they were the first time we met.  Andy’s father is Scottish and his mother is from Finland and despite their forty plus years in the States, they both retained the thick accents of their homelands.  After overeating, Andy and I had the chance to play some music.  Andy is a true guitar virtuoso and a damn good vocalist who plays a variety of musical styles in several bands.  Fortunately for me, we stuck to 70’s and 80’s tunes that I actually knew.

Overall, it was a great day on the bike.  No rain, eight states, reconnected with a great friend and his sweet parents, played some music, and to top it all off, slept in a bed that wasn’t in a hotel.  I hit the sheets around 10:00pm and was asleep before I could even begin to assemble the sheep to count.

Playing Catch Up

Day two was almost as rainy and tense as was day 1.  I don’t mind riding through the rain.  It’s the cagers I can’t stand.  I keep a wide distance between me and the car in front of me when the road is wet.  I do tis for two reasons; to avoid the road spray from their tires and especially because I have far less contact patch in two narrow tires than cages, so stopping in a short distance is risky in the rain.  Cagers see my caution as an opportunity to dart into my lane on front of me in an impatient attempt at gaining a precious eight feet of space that my bike occupies.  I knew the risks before I left, so I just turn up the music and breathe as I make my way across country.

My route took me north out of Kentucky into Virginia.  I purposely took the more scenic Cumberland Parkway, which added a few more miles, but the scenery was well worth it.  Cruising the rolling hills and sweeping turns provided a relaxing respite from the tension I felt in the rain.  I dialed up the Rush folder from my GPS’ mp3 player, stretched out with my feet on the highway pegs, and let Hester do the rest.

This was coal country and mines are sprinkled across the landscape as evidenced by coal conveyors stretching across the roads sometimes fifty feet or higher over the pavement.  At several intersections, people were taking cash donations for coal out of work worker families.  I was at a gas stop donning my rain gear and had a short conversation with a coal worker, or maybe a former one.  He was a burly man with a thick beard and belly to match.  I noticed he wore suspenders and a belt.  On the back window of his flatbed truck was an Obama sticker with a large X scratched across the infamous O logo.  He noticed me grinning when I saw it and for some reason, I felt obligated to say something.  “I like your sticker”, I said.  “I used to like the man” he replied, adding “voted for the sonofabitch twice”.  I couldn’t help myself.  “You couldn’t see it coming? He never hid the fact that he planned to erase the coal industry.”  He explained that his union said that he and his co-workers were safe.  That’s a tough lesson to learn; if it was even truly learned.  After all, he did say he voted for Obama twice.

The last few hours of my ride into the Washington DC area were dry and uneventful.  I followed my GPS as it led me across the beltway and into the heart of Washington DC until it signaled the end of my route…in the middle of a city block with no hotel in sight.  I have no idea what happened, but I have to eat the blame.  After all, these things don’t program themselves.  I found a spot to safely pull over and check the paper copy of my hotel reservation and realized that it was over thirty miles away.  Thirty Washington DC miles.  Just getting outside the beltway took an hour, even on a Saturday afternoon.  I arrived at my hotel near Reston at about 8:30 Saturday evening and what was supposed to be a 760 mile day, turned out to be 820.  The hotel had a nice restaurant, but it was one of those that had a meal of the day.  In this case it was some kind of fish and included mushrooms.  Strike one and two.  It was also $24.00.  Strike three.  I walked across the street to the Exxon station and bought two hotdogs for $2.  I was too tired to write anythi8ng, which you saw in the previous post.  I hadn’t eaten or drank anything but water (and one 5-Hour energy shot) since the night before at the Awful Waffle, so those were some damn good hot dogs!  4:00am would come early.  I hit the sheets and out instantly.

SWIV Day II

REALLY long day today.  Lots to write.  Need to eat and catch a few minutes in the hot tub.  Also need to review my GPS routes as I don't want a repeat of today!  If i can stay awake, I'll write tonight.  If not I'll have to play catch-up tomorrow.

Tomorrow's ride is to Taunton, MA via New York City.

Genesis 6:18

...The waters rose and increased greatly on the earth.

Hester Ready to Roll

This 680 mile riding day couldn't have started or ended any better.  There were, however, about 450 miles in between that could have used some improvement.  Leaving the Dallas area around 4:30am, the predawn darkness revealed crystal clear skies, no wind, and the weather was comfortably warm.  It was a perfect long t-shirt day.  My arrival in Franklin, Kentucky eleven hours later was under blue skies with puffy white pillow-like clouds, a light breeze, and the same perfect warm riding temperature.  Things got interesting, however, as I rode east of Little Rock.  The temperature dropped significantly, winds were gusting, and the swollen skies were threatening like a low hanging gray blanket.  I decided to use the trick most riders do to all but guarantee that the rain will stop.  I pulled over and donned my rain suit.   That guarantee wasn’t worth the paper this blog is printed on, if it were printed.  The skies opened up in what seemed like Biblical proportions and they didn’t dry up until Franklin, Tennessee (not to be confused with Franklin, KY).

During the rainy day ride, I kept myself entertained listening to Neil Peart’s book Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road.  For the musically unwashed, Neil Peart has been the Drummer for the band Rush for 40 years.  The book details a period of temporary retirement in the mid 90s after his wife and daughter died tragically within a year of each other.  A real pick me up, right!?  Peart mounted his BMW sport touring motorcycle and rode over 55,000 miles over a three year period, alone.  It’s a fascinating account, written with the same gift for prose found in so many of the Rush tunes that Peart authored over the years.  I’ve been a fan of his writing for years, but had never read the book.  I loved his descriptions of places I had ridden on my Alaskapade adventure.  I kept saying out loud to myself , “I remember that!”

When the rain started pouring really hard, I pulled under an overpass and stopped to check the weather radar app on my phone.  This wasn’t going to be a passing shower.  The storm was sweeping from west to east and appeared to be growing in intensity.  It was clear that sitting this one out was not the answer.  I decided I needed something more entertaining than a story about someone else riding a motorcycle to keep me focused.  I pulled up the Slayer folder in my GPS unit’s mp3 player and set the mood with “Raining Blood”.  I’m not a huge Slayer fan, but I appreciate some of their music and it does get your attention.  In my case it actually accelerates my pulse.  Most importantly though, it makes me alert and given the crappy road conditions and cagers’ lack of patience, I needed all the help I could get.  Once I made it past the lines of truckers and other slothful vehicles, it was just another day in the rain with pretty much open roads ahead of me until the clouds broke.  I decided that I had all the Slayer I needed (for a lifetime, probably) and shifted gears to Tom Petty’s Full Moon Fever album.  Actually, going from Slayer to Petty isn’t just shifting gears.  It’s like dropping your bike into first gear at 80mph and popping the clutch.  But I digress.

Breakfast, Lunch, & Dinner all-in-one at the Awful Waffle

Despite the rain, I pulled into my hotel a couple of hours earlier than I anticipated.  I would have just kept riding for another few hundred miles were it not for the fatigue I was feeling after the eight hour rain ride and the fact that I'm cashing in hotel points along my route and didn't want to waste the ones I spent on this hotel.  No worries.  Early dinner and early to bed.  It's not like I got much sleep last night.

I ride 760 miles to the  Washington DC area tomorrow; hopefully in drier weather!

All Packed & Ready to Roll!

All the Essentials!

Hester is packed and ready!  Me? I've been ready for months now.  It’s the same old story.  It seems like there’s plenty of time to get everything done and then suddenly, the trip is just days away and there are still loose ends.  To me, that last minute frenzy is part of the fun and it heightens the excitement for the event.  Fortunately, the logistics for this trip are much simpler than those for my Alaskapade adventure.  Any trip, be it Alaska or Kansas, essentially requires two planning elements; logistics and finances.  Logistically, Shark Week is pretty much a no brainer.  If noting else, the existence of paved roads, near ubiquitous cellular service, and gas stations at regular intervals make this trip far less complicated than was Alaska.  Funding is a different story as I try to make trips like these a cash experience.  In that pursuit, I’ve performed hours of massage work, played band gigs, and done a little data networking on the side; all to fund my SWIV trip with cash.  I’m cashing in hotel points where I can, but am staying at the host hotel while in Maine.  Half the fun of Shark Week is hanging out with the gang for the nightly bullshit sessions.  Staying at the host hotel also offers better bike security and the expertise of fellow riders in case technical/mechanical help is needed.

I’m sure there are things I’ve forgotten.  There always are, but I believe I have the priority elements covered.  All I need to do is wake up, saddle up, and ride.  My GPS is loaded with audiobooks, tunes, and even a few routes.  I also velcro’d my Sirius satellite radio to my fuel tank console so I can satiate my inner talk radio junkie.  Even on vacation, that four-letter word that ends in K crops up….WORK.  I’ll be taking my work laptop because I couldn’t make thus trip were it not for my job at IBM and vacation or not, I’ll need to check in now and then to at least keep up.  The trade off there is that I can update this blog as time permits.

Anyone interested in my trip progress can follow along by using the link below.  I will activate the tracking upon my departure.  You can switch to satellite view and zoom in to see the terrain details.  There’s a message feature, so don’t hesitate to say hi.  Understand that I can’t reply while I’m riding.  Also, updates while I’m in Canada will be delayed as I will disable mobile data from my phone while I’m outside the US.  I’ll update my position and the route trails when I find Wi-Fi hotspots.

Track Shrug

This will be a long day.

Shark Week!

 

The subtitle to this site is “Because Everyone’s Entitled to My Opinion”.  Rest assured that despite the lack of recent commentary here, I have plenty of opinions to offer.  I just haven’t been inspired to put pen to paper…or fingertips to keys.

I’m most motivated when I have something to look forward to and lately, I haven’t had squat.  Despite changing roles at work, learning a new technology, and traveling far less than I used to, the motivation line on my CT scan has flat lined.  I need a muse.

The bands I’ve been playing with are stagnant.  I’ve learned to expect distractions in a band, but I still get frustrated when what appears to be potential gets derailed by addiction and its resulting personal strife (not mine, mind you) lethargy, or maybe a case of dissatisfaction and subsequent disillusionment.  I never had delusions of stardom, much less the chops to attain it.  But, working four limbs simultaneously and independently while singing, watching other band members for cues, and counting boobs is a dream come true for an ADD guy like me.

Bands notwithstanding, I must admit that my granddaughter provides me almost constant entertainment.  I love initiating conversations with her and seeing how her little mind works.  I’m constantly amused and often amazed at how well she articulates her thoughts and how fast her four year old mind works.  I don’t recall my sons being this quick.  Perhaps I just see it from a different point of view now.  So when I say I have no motivation, it excludes Brooke.  I’m anxiously awaiting the news on my next grandchild.  Details on that will be in another entry.

Most people know that the other passion in my life is my motorcycles.  Nothing settles my mind like having the wind in my face and miles to ride ahead of me.  The expression “riding a motorcycle makes you understand why a dog likes to hang its head out the window” is lost on cagers.

Cager: “Kay-jer” Noun. Operator of a four wheeled vehicle; Syntax: Cagers have no clue why a dog likes to hang its head out the window.

My riding experiences are well documented.  Indeed, riding inspires me to write. It’s easy to pour ones experiences out when the passions they conjure inside are as deep seeded as mine are when I ride.  My ride to the Arctic Circle was epic.  There isn’t a single day that passes that I don’t reminisce about that trip.  Now, I suffer from Armstrong Syndrome.  When Neil Armstrong returned from his Apollo 11 mission, he was reported to be clinically depressed from the prospect that there was nothing else in his life that could possibly top the experience of walking on the moon.  I look at a map of Alaska and think to myself “now what?”

My pipe dream is to one day ride south to southern Argentina and while the distance isn’t greater nor the terrain any more treacherous that Alaska was, the risk is far greater.  Mexico and Columbia are notorious for kidnapping and other violence.  I have read accounts of three riders who in the last two years who have attempted such a trip and disappeared. No ransom; publicity; nothing.  One made it all the way to the southern tip of Argentina only to disappear in Mexico.  His journal entries simply stopped after the published account of his crossing the border from Central America into Mexico.  The most recent casualty was found dismembered a few weeks ago; terribly sad.  I’ve been known to take risks, but always calculated (well, almost always).  There are just too many risk variables in a trip south of the border.  Perhaps someday, but I’m not holding my breath.

I’ve had the fortune to ride my motorcycle through three Canadian provinces and in nearly all of the United States.  I’ve ridden the entire west coast from Alaska to California, rough the entire Midwest, and through the south to Key West.  However, I’ve only ridden as far north as North Carolina on the east coast.  All I have left to ride is up the eastern seaboard into Maine and perhaps across the Great Lakes.  Might this be a muse?

For the last few years, I’ve joined a group of Harley-Davidson Road Glide riders who gather annually at loosely organized week long mini-rallies.  Since the Road Glide front end resembles a shark’s nose when viewed from either side, many of its riders refer to it as “the shark”.  When the organizers were planning the first gathering, they decided that even a loosely organized event needs a name, so Shark Week was born.  Eat your heart out Discovery Channel.

The concept of Road Glide Shark Week to pick a location people could ride to over the weekend, arrive on Monday and then ride like hell Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday across popular scenic/historic routes favored by motorcyclists.  Most people leave Shark Week on Friday to get home in time to go back to work on Monday.  Others take extra time to ride other scenic spots more/less on their way home.

There were thirty or so bikes at the first event in Gettysburg, which was an impressive number given the majority of the attendees had never met each other in person before.  Word of the event was spread via the Internet on some Harley related web forums.   I missed Shark Week I (SWI) because it was held the week after I returned from the Alaskapade and I had no vacation days from work left to take.  Honestly, at that point, the last thing I wanted to do at that time was get back on the bike.  If I knew then what I know now, I would have probably made it.

In 2012, Shark Week II (SWII) was held in LeClaire, Iowa.  I remember thinking to myself, “What the hell is in LeClaire Iowa?"  The answer is, not much.  The original location for the American Pickers is in LeClaire and the Field of Dreams movie location is a nice destination, but spots bikers consider worthy require a bit of a road trip to get to.  Those spots are well worth riding to.  But more important than the rides, was the people.  I haven’t felt a sense of camaraderie like I experienced at SWII since I was leading Patriot Guard Rider missions from 2006 through 2010.  Bikers are generally loners, but there are rare occasions when the planets align and we’re most happy in our element.  Shark Week is just such a celestial event.  I left SWII with a fire in my gut for SWIII, a full year later.

SWIII was held in Saint George, Utah in 2013 and featured rides all over the desert including Zion Canyon, Bryce Canyon, and the north rim of the Grand Canyon.  Again, a blast was had by all.  Riders from all over the country converged on the tiny city of Saint George, including twenty or so who were three-peat offenders having attended all three Shark Weeks.

Each year at Shark Week, riders who want to host the next year’s event pitch their location and its benefits to the attendees who then vote to select a winner.  The votes are tabulated and the location is announced at the awards dinner and raffle drawing.  To the chagrin of many riders who don’t make it to the event, you must be present at Shark Week in order to vote for next year’s location.  To me, that’s a fair approach.  Some people have legitimate excuses for not making the event.  But there are many who buy into the hype when the date and location are posted on the forum, sign up, make reservations at the host hotel, and jump into the discussions all year long.  Then, a few weeks before the event, they start dropping off, canceling reservations, and go silent on the forums.  Most never had any intention of going for a plethora of reasons; it’s too expensive, it’s too far to ride, it’ll be too hot, my wife won’t let me go, etc.  There are always legitimate reasons; illness, job, finances, etc.  I give those guys a pass.  Again I digress.

This year’s event is being held in Maine.  “Shark Week IV – Insane in Maine” is the theme and I have been going insane in anticipation of this trip.  As mentioned above, the upper east coast is all I lack to attain my goal of riding to each of the United States; Hawaii notwithstanding.  It appears I might also miss Michigan and Minnesota.  As of this writing, they are too far off my planned routes and I just can't think of a good enough reason to make a special trip.

States & Provinces I've Ridden Before SWIV & Those I plan to Have Ridden After

The Insane In Maine organizers scheduled SWIV in August, which might be a bit cooler than July and allows riders to attend the Pappy Hoel Rally in Sturgis.  That’s the real name of the Sturgis motorcycle rally, by the way.  The timing is fortuitous for me, but I would have scheduled time off regardless.  I could care less about going to Sturgis during the rally.  I have no interest in riding among 500,000 others, a sizable percentage of which are drunks, posers, and newbies who wear leather chaps with fingerless gloves.  Explanation:  Chaps are generally for cold weather.  If it’s cold enough for chaps, then it’s cold enough for real (albeit less cool) gloves.  I also abhor riding parade speeds on roads that beg to be ridden fast and furious.  When there are half a million bikes, every scenic route is guaranteed to be packed with riders crawling along at a funeral pace with clutches burning and engines overheating.  I know plenty of Road Glide forum members who pass on Shark Week each year opting to go back to Sturgis instead.  Some people have the financial resources and a work schedule that permits both.  I’m not one of those people.  I also know plenty who, once having attended Shark Week understand what those who have not do not and make shark Week a priority.

I see it this way.  When you attend Sturgis - or any major rally for that matter, you ride the local roads, visit the vendors (many of whom sell the same crap), and you hang out at bars paying for overpriced beer and food.  You also pay a premium for hotel rooms and t-shirts that 500,000 other people all have.  Hell, camping in Sturgis costs easily over $50 per night.   When the rally is over, you ride home.  And in most cases, you arrive home knowing the same number of people/riders that you knew before you left.

Shark Week is different.  Most of us who attend have spent years on the forums interacting with other riders who share our appreciation for the unique features of the Harley Road Glide.  We’re not cult and we don’t chant, although some of us do mumble.  In those conversations, we get to know about each others’ families, occupation, politics, sense of humor (or sometimes lack of therein), etc.  Essentially, we become friends; electronic pen pals, if you will.  After months of preparation and interaction, when we arrive at Shark Week, it’s a reunion of sorts.  Look, most of us (myself especially) enjoy a bit of time away from our families and local friends.  It’s not that we don’t love them; it’s just a wanderlust that most people feel, but few are willing to articulate and fewer still ever get the opportunity to satiate.   The group dynamic is different when you’re with people you don’t see often.  When we roll into Shark Week, it’s a reunion of sorts.  Some of us ride solo the entire trip from our home to the host hotel.  Others ride in groups.  I usually ride to a meeting point along the way and hook up with others.  We then ride in to the host city as a big ugly hoard comprised of the same model motorcycles and yet each as distinctive as the riders piloting them.  It’s a great feeling and it’s one of the few times I really enjoy being part of a crowd.  To me, it’s a synergy similar to that which I feel when playing drums with a band.  Like rallies, we ride the local roads and see the attractions, but the hotels and restaurants are usually far less expensive and you don’t need to take out a second mortgage to fill your tank with high octane gas.  Among the best parts of Shark Week is the nightly bench racing bullshit sessions in the gathering areas outside the host hotel.  That’s when you really get to know the other attendees.  We swap riding stories, take photos, share beverages, trade t-shirts, prep our bikes for the next day, and talk about the people who didn’t show up.  Eventually, the crowd thins as we retire to our rooms to catch a few winks before the next day’s rides, which generally leave pretty early.

There are other details and events about which I will write in the days that follow.  I just wanted to give a few details about what makes this a special week for me.  I’m scheduled to ride on August 8^th.  I’ve been preparing bit by bit for months and my preparations have escalated over the last couple of weeks.  Time seems to creep by until the last few days and I state thinking of all the last minute to-dos and try to think of what I might have forgotten.  As confident as I am in most aspects of my life, I find that I occasionally second guess myself when I’m preparing for these 5,000+ mile rides. 

Mama

Obama is Putin's Bitch

Once again, Obama is Putin's bitch.  No place better than to toss out a stern warning than on a kindergarten kids' carpet.

Girl's Bike, Mom Jeans, Urkel Helmet...  Tough Guy!

Mama

A Worm in the Core

"Everything you heard about me is true. . .
I am not a free-marketeer. . .
I believe in the heavy hand of government." - Bill DeBlasio

New Yorkers have really screwed themselves and the Big Apple now has a worm staunchly positioned to chew away at its core.  It will be interesting to see how the Empire State's tax base retreats as corporations and individuals with wealth pack up and leave for fairer ground in states like Florida and Texas.  If people think Obama's Marxist positions and Bloomberg's Nanny State policies were bad, wait a few years under DeBlasio.
 
This may well prove to be the most profound example of Margaret Thatcher's quote: "The problem with socialism is that you eventually run out of other people's money.”