Shark Week Thursday

I admit I needed a day off the saddle and yesterday’s rain ensured I got it.  Likewise, I have to admit that by Thursday, I was ready to ride again.  I had set my alarm for 7:00am and like other riding days, I was wide awake well before it went off.  I had experienced a cruise control failure on the way up to Maine from Dallas and while that might not sound like a big deal, trust me; holding the throttle to maintain a constant speed for twelve or more hours a day was at times a painful experience.  I was ready to amputate my right arm at the elbow at the end of each day’s ride.  Advil was my best friend.

A Nice, Dry Workspace

Yesterday’s rain afforded me the time to troubleshoot the problem and a convenient overhang connecting my room’s building to the main hotel gave me the place.  I was told on Tuesday’s ride that my brake lights were intermittently locked on.  This gave the appearance that I was riding them or that they were inoperative.  The turn signals worked properly though and they used the same bulbs.  Since the cruise control and the front brake lever were in the same housing, troubleshooting was easier.  And, since the geek in me convinced myself to pack a volt-ohm meter before I left home, it was even easier.  I had adjusted the angle and position of the brake lever in the days prior to leaving home and in doing so, had apparently tugged a wire.  A little electrical tape would do the trick until I could solder the connection when I got home.  The geek in me wasn’t convincing enough to make me pack my soldering kit.

Hester was gassed, dry (having slept under her rain cover), and ready to roll.  I hadn’t signed up for any particular ride today.  We were being hosted for lunch by a Widow’s Sons Motorcycle Club chapter in Rangeley, Maine and the majority of the Shark Week attendees were heading that way on one of the two primary routes.  I had talked with other riders about leaving a few minutes ahead of the scheduled departure so we could ride at least the speed limit and enjoy carving the corners a bit.  Previous rides had been led by some riders who apparently think no one can keep up with them, so to be safe, they ride at least 10mph below the speed limit.  This makes my skin crawl.  Few things frustrate me more when riding that approaching a corner at a speed slower than the posted speed for the corner itself.  I’m not in a hurry, really.  I just enjoy diving into a corner, scraping my floorboards against the concrete, and rolling on the throttle while hanging on for dear life as Hester rages out of it.  When I’m old enough to slow roll the corners, I’ll buy a trike or a Honda Gold Wing. I’m just not there yet.  I know I’ll soon hear from my Honda friends over that one.

About eight bikes headed out to the Logging Museum in Rangeley. Yes, they have a Logging Musem there.  The only other attraction was the Moose Alley Bowling Lanes.  I was leading our group following a route I had discussed with my friend Tim the night before.




Tim and I are probably polar opposites in most every other aspect except riding.  He’s a liberal union guy from Iowa and I’m a fiscally conservative right-to-work Texan.  But he’s a nice guy who doesn’t let political differences get in the way of a friendship and he’s one hell of a rider; one of few who rode up Mount Washington two-up (with a passenger) through the wind and fog.  I respect Tim as much as I like him and although we keep in touch through

the Road Glide Forums throughout the year, I look forward to seeing him and his wife each year at Shark Week.  The route to Rangeley was as rough and bumpy as any of the roads we had experienced before.  By this time, we were pretty much numb to its effects.  Too bad our bikes weren’t.  Nuts and bolts were vibrating loose and parts were literally falling off of motorcycles.  Not only did we have to try to avoid running over potholes and frost heaves, we were also dodging chrome parts.  The green aircraft grade Loc-Tite I used on Hester sure came in handy on this trip.  The road to Rangeley smoothed out a bit after a gas stop at about the halfway point and the remainder of the ride was pretty smooth and scenic.  The most alarming aspect of the rough roads is the lack of traction.  A motorcycle's contact patch is tine compared to cages and even a fraction of an inch of lost contact with the road can be devastating; especially when there are moose wandering about.  Every now and then, I would see fresh swerving skid marks in the road, sometimes on a straightaway. I assumed the drivers were dodging moose who weren't in the habit of  using crosswalks.  It was yet another obstacle to be on the lookout for.  I hate dangling participles, but that one couldn't be avoided.  But I digress.

We arrived at the Logging Museum about an hour early.  I suppose there’s something to be said for slow rolling it.  Actually, no, there isn’t.  Bumps notwithstanding, we enjoyed our spirited ride to Rangeley.  Despite our early arrival, our hosts were already there and had a nice fire blazing in an open pit.  It’s August, but the morning temperatures were in the 40’s and 50’s, so the fire and hot chocolate they offered were a welcome sight.  I’m sure the Widows’ Sons were concerned when just eight bikes showed up for their cookout, but we reassured them there would be plenty of bikes and mouths to feed.  By the time we were fully thawed out, clusters of Road Glides were rumbling in and within no time at all, there were easily a hundred bikes on premise.

First Wave of Road Glides at Rangeley

A True Robert Frost Moment

I noticed a sign in the trees indicating a trail leading to a canoe launch that was part of a 700 mile canoe trail that spanned Maine, New Hampshire, New York, and up into Canada.  I had time to kill and decided to follow the trail, hoping to get a few pictures.  The trail meandered and made its way back to the Logging Museum up the hill from where our riders were being served lunch.  I returned to several queries as to where the hell I had been.  So much for slipping away discretely.  I told some of the others about the trail and the next thing I knew, we had a leather clad expedition through the woods.

“A bridge has no allegiance to either side.” ― Les Coleman

Look Up Chris Daughtry

The Up Looking View

No, This is NOT a Maine/New Hampshire Road

Tim led us back to the host hotel following a different route that turned out to be much smoother than the route we took into Rangeley.  It also offered a picturesque overlook of Rangeley Lake at which we briefly stopped for photos.  There were quite a few bikes from our group there before we arrived and we made sure we hit the road before they did, lest we get stuck behind them riding 10mph below the speed limit.  We arrived back at the host hotel with time to spare before the group photo, awards banquet, and raffle extravaganza.  I used this time to reinstall my Tour Pak and start packing for my departure the next day.  I was either riding northeast to Nova Scotia or back home.  Prior to Shark Week, a few riders had expressed interest in riding into Canada and I planned to join them.  All of them had backed out by the time we arrived at Shark Week, but I wasn’t dissuaded.  It was almost 600 miles to the start of the Cabot Trail in Nova Scotia and I actually prefer riding those kinds of distances alone.  The rainy weather we had experienced on my day off was heading to northeast Canada, so I had been watching the forecasts closely.  I repacked my clothes and kept only the essentials out for my Friday morning departure, whichever destination it happened to be.

After packing and a short nap, I joined my fellow riders in the hotel ballroom for the awards banquet and raffle.  When we made our hotel reservations, we selected either a lobster or steak dinner.  Shrug doesn’t do fish of ay kind, so it was steak for me.  The room filled quickly and was abuzz with people buying raffle tickets and dropping them into various prize bags.  Spearheaded by Tracy, affectionately known as the “Queen of Swag”, the annual Shark Week raffle has grown significantly in a very short time.  Tracy prods, pesters, and sometime begs vendors to cough up parts and serious discounts on just about everything imaginable that a rider could want.  To her credit and to theirs, the vendors never disappoint.

One Ticket Winner at Shark Week II

This years raffle included a bumper crop of goodies donated by companies and individual forum members that included complete bike stereo amplifier and speaker systems, $100 Shell gas cards, windscreens, $500 credit towards custom wheels, Bluetooth helmet communication sets, tools, a new battery, biker apparel, and tons of other items.  All of the donations were displayed on tables with bags in front of each item.  Shark Week attendees purchased paired raffle tickets for $1 each or 25 for $20.  When a rider wanted to win an item, they dropped as many tickets in the bag as they were willing to gamble.  I won a HogTunes speaker/amp system at SWII with just one ticket in the sack.  Drawings would commence after the dinner and awards with a portion of the money collected to be used to support a local charity chosen by the person or team who hosted the event.  Some of the funds are used to pay current event expenses and the remainder is banked as front money for next year’s event.  I have no idea how much was spent on tickets this year, but I saw several people buying $100 worth of tickets and stuffing the bags for the items they wanted most.  I think the gas cards received the most tickets this year.  Makes sense as they’re something everyone needs.

Since Shark Week was in Maine, lobster, or as they say up north “lob-stah” was the main

Xenomorph on a Plate

course (no pun intended).  Thankfully, they offered a beef substitute, because as I said, I don’t do fish.  Everyone had finished stuffing bags with tickets and folks were settled in at large round tables with settings for eight as the award presentations kicked off.  Recognition was given to three riders from California for the most miles ridden and attendance at all previous Shark Weeks was acknowledged for 16 riders.  Plaques of appreciation were presented to the organizers and to Tracy, as well as to the hotel owners for their cooperation and over-the-top accommodation of our needs.  Shark tooth awards were also handed out to those who had been spotted dropping their bikes.  If you tip over and someone sees it (and they always do), then you’ve been shark bit and are duly (and very publicly) awarded with a shark tooth necklace.  I had the dubious honor of receiving one of the first shark teeth at Shark Week II after I tipped over at a gas stop – in front of everyone.  I caught crap from the whole crowd as the near legend (their words, not mine) who kept his bike vertical on the worst roads imaginable to and from the Arctic Circle and then dumped it in a parking lot at the Circle K.  Two years later, I was in pretty good company as several teeth had been handed out to riders that I really respect.

Shark Tooth Early Adopter at Shark Week II

Gross. Just Gross.

A four course dinner was served as the awards and recognition continued.  It started with clam chowder, which I smelled and immediately handed off to someone else at my table.  The clams were followed by a bowl of steamed mussels, which, again were immediately handed off; this time without the need to first smell them.  Finally, some jalapeño corn bread was served.  This I could eat.  The main course of lobster (steak, in my case) with corn on the cob and baked potato came next.  People told me the lobster was great, but it reminded me of the Alien movies.  As dessert of blueberry cobbler was being served, everyone eagerly awaited the announcement of the location for next year’s Shark Week.  After some fanfare, it was announced that Shark Week V would be held in Texas and the majority of attendees seemed very pleased with the vote.  Personally, I prefer to ride somewhere for Shark Week and I can go to the Texas Hill Country any time.  Still. I’m looking forward to a Texas sized event that will show my friends a good time.  Finally, the raffle kicked off and people shouted, laughed, cheered, and jeered as tickets were drawn from the bags, numbers were called out, and items were won.  It should be noted that I didn’t win squat!  I was happy nonetheless to make my donation to the cause, especially given that some of those funds will be used for the Shark Week in my back yard.  The Texas team had mentioned the Medina Children’s Home as the recipient of their donation.  I had visited the home twice before with the Patriot Guard Riders at our annual event held in the area.  If a portion of my ticket money goes to the kids, I’m fine with that.

Once the last raffle item for which I had a ticket was won by someone else, I slipped out to check the weather forecast for Nova Scotia.  Much to my dismay, rain was predicted for most of the island Friday afternoon and all day Saturday.  I had little interest in riding an additional 2,000 miles and spending gas and hotel money to look at a foggy coastline. 

Without saying a word to anyone, I discretely made my way back to my room to finish packing and load Hester.  I had a contingency plan to ride back to Texas with some fellow Texans who live in the Dallas area, but they decided to change their route and take four days to get home instead of three.  So I was on my own, which, truth be told, is the way I like it.  I loaded the routes that I had worked up during the bingo game into my GPS and verified them on my laptop.  If you’re not careful, the GPS will lead you down some really crappy roads, dump you off at needless exits, and drop you way beyond the wrong side of the tracks.  Don’t ask me how I know.  Tomorrow’s route would be a 780 mile run to Waynesburg, PA; just south of Pittsburgh.   I validated the route to the hotel at which I planned to stay, set the alarm on my phone, and hit the sheets.

Shark Week Wednesday - A Rainy Day Off

Wednesday in Maine was a rainy day that would have been downright gloomy anywhere else.  Indeed, it appears the northeast had record rainfall and flooding in some urban areas throughout the day.  Interestingly enough, it had no negative impact on my day whatsoever.  I had ridden about 2,500 miles over the previous five days and had planned a day off the saddle on Wednesday.  The rain just solidified my plans.  Some Shark Week attendees rented cars and drove to local sites; others did laundry.  Many like me just hung out and talked with others who were also on a day off, whether forced or planned.

I hung out for a while in the hotel lobby where I could get decent internet access and work on this blog.  I must admit that I also peeked at my work email for just long enough to realize I didn't want to do that again anytime soon.  While I was loitering in the lobby, I enjoyed an engaging conversation with Scott, the hotel’s third generation co-owner who races motocross in the area.  I don’t think I ever passed through the hotel lobby, bar, or restaurant when I didn’t see Scott working.  The reward for self employment has a high cost.

Later in the afternoon, an impromptu game of Shark Week Bullshit Bingo started up with about forty people playing in each of several rounds.  The rain, the game, and the fellowship gave everyone a much needed day of rest.  Many of us had been up until 2:00am that morning enjoying the previous night's festivities.  Sleep is a precious commodity at Shark Week.

The rain continued into the evening, which meant the hotel restaurant and bar were going to have a banner night.  I always do my best to avoid eating hotel restaurant food, but this time at dinner, I had no choice.  Always looking for the good in any situation, the company and conversation were great, but eating the restaurant food served as a reinforcing reminder as to why I avoid doing so.

After dinner, an impromptu hotel hallway party kicked off in the main building that was fully occupied by Shark Week attendees.  Well, I sure hope it was because this was a rowdy bunch.  When I got there, most of the people had dragged the tables and chairs from their rooms into the hallway and were using their trash cans as coolers.  At one end of the hallway, the Canadians had laid out some yellow police tape in a Canadian border effigy.  Gauging from the uninhibited crossing traffic, this border turned out to be as porous as the US southern border.  At least these migrants spoke English and brought beer, booze, and snacks to share with the indigenous population.  Among the bottles, cans, and bags of snacks were a couple of mason jars filled with fruit flavored moonshine.  The cherry jar looked appealing, but I abstained.  The pineapple seemed to be the most popular, although it didn't appear everyone liked it.

Kids in the Hall

Diligent Border Security on the Job

I knew all to well that tomorrow would be another early day of riding, so I scurried off to my room around midnight feeling glad that I was in a separate building where I could get some sleep.  As I quickly walked through the rain to my building, I replayed in my head several of the conversations I had with the folks in the hall, many of whom were Shark Week first timers.  The consistent comment from most of them was how warm and engaging this crowd was compared to other bike related events.  I can't count how many times I heard statements like "I wish I knew how much fun this was in previous years..."

At one point, a rider who goes by Northwoods Maine on the forum came strolling through the hall party.  He is also the official host for this year's event and was carrying the ballot box containing the votes for next year's event, Shark Week V.   On Tuesday night, the group met to see and hear presentations from prospective forum members vying for the opportunity to host Shark Week.  This year, pitches were thrown by North Carolina, Nebraska, and Texas.  Each forum member in attendance was given a ballot when they registered upon arrival and the ballot box was placed in the hotel lobby where it sat until Northwoods retrieved it for counting.  We would find out who pitched the successful bid at the awards banquet on Thursday night.  I mention all this now because when Northwoods walked through with the ballot box, damn near everyone in the hallway pronounced that they were going to Shark Week V regardless of where it was to be held.  Although I felt the Texas contingent's presentation was most complete, I also knew the vote would be close.  We would all find out just how close in 24 hours.  The anticipation didn't cause me to lose a wink of sleep.  I set my alarm, but knew that it wouldn't be needed.

 

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.