Rides, ramblings and rants on a motorcycle.
- We are scientists, too!
9.30.2006,10:13 PM
Day Fourteen: The Road to Nowhere
And with regrets I rode home today.
I pulled in shortly after 3 pm, unloaded but not unpacked, tried to take a jaccuzi bath (don't ask), popped an antihistamine (allergies; don't sneeze in your helmet: it makes a mess), and fell asleep.
I have to admit, I didn't want to stop riding, but keep going. Maybe to Arkansas? Alaska? Maine with the fall foliage? So many places to ride, places to see and people to meet.
Will someone please invent a flashdrive for my brain??? It would be so much easier to record the narrative while riding. (Conversations with Suicidal Bugs, etc)
The entire time, I was never alone. John Steinbeck had his dog, Charlie, I had Whee, my bike (he even barks sometimes). My companions were the surroundings that I rode through, many memories unshelved and dusted off, my thoughts (I really need a voice recorder of some type), numerous new people I met on the road, and a few special friends that rode with me in spirit.
Most of all, my shadow was my faithful companion and never left my side.
Alaska..........
9.29.2006,9:10 PM
Day Thirteen: The Lake
The Lake
I woke early with the sounds of geese and other birds, the sun barely rising. Even before contemplating the question, I decided to spend the day here by the lake. I’ve had an urge to find and camp by a lake all summer, and here I am. I’m staying another day before I complete this trip.
The neighbors offer me freshly brewed coffee and we chat for awhile, commenting how peaceful the night was. I asked if they heard coyotes; “Yup, do every night.”
I didn’t dream them after all.
I grab the camera, book and laptop along with my trusty coffee mug and find a chair on the dock over the lake water.
Sitting here suspended over the lake on a deck of wood, the only substance separating me and the water below, I rock with the waves. I watched with a smile as a flock of geese flew overhead in their V-formation, a duck floating on the water surface, the rising sunlight reflecting off the tips of the waves, fish quickly darting their mouths above the water surface to catch insects and generating circles of ripples in their aftermath, hawks gliding overhead watching for fish with an occasional call to their mates or youngsters to follow. Such solitude this body of water and surrounding life bestows upon a weary body and heart. And sets the mind in motion.
What is it about water that draw us like magnets? It’s not only that it provides us with our most required element ensuring survival of our bodies. There is a pull like metal to a magnet, as if our spirit and soul were unresistingly drawn to water. Perhaps it is a primal urge to return to our ancient origins, the water, before our gills gave way to lungs extracting oxygen from air rather than the water we existed in.
To imagine this lake as a huge bowl of nearly infinite molecules of dihydrogen oxide in such a concentrated form, and the realization of the commonality that nearly every living thing (debating a scientific and philosophical definition of ‘life’ is opening a can of scorpions) on this planet shares this substance: water. It runs in our veins, in our brains, stems and leaves, in everything we are. And we would die without it. Buy that is not the only explanation we are drawn to water like a magnet.Bodies of water, the cradle of life, also feeds our spirits and soul. These cradles of water provide us with food, but they are are also sensory ticklers. The sounds of the waves slapping boats or rocks, ocean waves crashing against sandy shores or exploding against craggy cliffs, the roar of the wild ocean in a storm, or the sounds of rain as they fall drop by drop, ripples spreading out and overlapping each other.
The rising sun reflected in the still waters that seem laced with shadows of tree limbs on the shore; the rich colors of a sunset, painting bottoms of clouds with stark shades of red which is reflected in the satin water below. The white and brown froth of ocean waves as they crash and leave it on the sand like a parting gift.
And the smells; the odors of fish, seaweed, rotting wood, algae, and salty tidal pools. These smells compete with shoreline trees and shrubs and dart away quickly with a strong wind.
These bodies of water are another living world we seldom explore except to harvest from. As living creatures, we all need water to survive. Yet we debase that resource by all fathomable ways of polluting it. Even most animals don’t defecate in their food. Why do we, the most advanced animals, continue to pollute our food and water resources? I’m still trying to understand an explanation for that.
All resources can provide other than sustenance. Our water resources serve as sources of recreation as well as drinking and cleaning. We as humans are capable of preserving and conserving our natural resources for all creatures on this planet, not just ourselves.
As advanced animals with abilities to predict, reason, and act in accord with the predictable future, we would be expected to assume a role of stewardship of all natural resources on this planet, sharing with all creatures in this global habitat. Yet we inexcusably fail.
I don’t claim to be an environmentalist, but a realist. Yet I am not enshrouded and blinded with a homocentric perspective, either. The reality is we don’t have exclusive rights on this planet’s resources, and to survive in the long run, we all have to share everything here. Success depends on preservation coupled with wise use of all of these resources. Let’s have some respect for each other and all the other living and non-living things around us. Let’s find a balance for all of us.
We can continue to enjoy the recreational offerings of and extract our subsistence from our environment while being stewards and preserving it for others and future generations. It starts with individuals, each of us taking responsibility and doing our part. Multiply that by ten, by hundreds, by thousands and the impact exponentially grows. The wind picks up and waves slap the dock and shore, boats creak at their moors, and waves flicker the reflection of the sun as it climbs in the sky, warming my stiff and chilled body. The smell of algae and fish is a perfume I’ve not sampled in many years.
Breathing deeply and turning my face to the sun, I am content to sit here in silence, alone with the voice inside my head narrating my thoughts. Memories of the lakes in Maine and Oregon flood my mind: floating aimlessly in my canoe on deserted Maine lakes, reading a book or occasionally slipping into the water over the side; sitting on by the side of Scott Lake at the foot of the Three Sisters mountains in the Cascade Mountain Range, listening and rejoicing in the call of the loons floating on the water surface in the twilight; shedding clothing in the night to swim in the silence and mystery of the lakes under a full moon; standing ankle-deep in cold ocean water in awe, embracing the cold, powerful and salty gusts of Pacific wind; or searching tide pools for anemones, starfish and shellfish in frothy Atlantic waters.
Perhaps I’m a water nymph, a creature not yet broken my primeval ties to the water, unable to resist the magnetic pull to the lakes and ocean. They turn me inside out, the barricades of everyday life give way to the thoughts inside my head and I try to capture them before they flee into the air and mental cobwebs.
I come to the water to escape, to remember that part of me, to rejuvenate the closeness with everything else around me, humility restored, peace of mind and spirit replenished. Here is where life began in its simplest form, this is what we all have in common: water. Coming from the desert where our most crucial element for survival is sparse, where life forms have evolved to extract and conserve every molecule of water, the dichotomy of its proliferance here reminds me that every thing on this planet can survive. If we don’t destroy it. It’s a matter of what works, and that is all that evolution is: an adaptation to what works and endures.
Let’s all evolve together. In balance.
The Night
The neighbors and their neighbors invited me to dinner of camp stew and crackers. A humble but delicious and welcomed meal. The campfire invoked more stories from around the ring, before the dancing flames lulled me nearly into sleep. Excusing myself and thanking them again for their hospitality, I retired to my tent and sleeping bags for another night's sleep by the lake.
I could have stayed there indefinately, even in my small two-person tent. Even Whee seems a part of the entire surroundings, with my hand towel and washcloth draped over the handlebars, Camelbac hanging upside down to dry from the clutch lever, the two side cases serving as my dresser. I type the end of this entry sitting at the nearby concrete and stone picnic table with my headlamp illuminating the screen and the keyboard backlit by the ingenuity of Mac engineers.Time to pack the laptop in it's case and crawl into my humble little home on the side of this lake. With regret, in the morning I pack for the last time and end this journey. I never expected to be filled with such sadness at the end of it all.
It feels as though it has only begun
And I want to keep going,
Riding on these travels with Whee,
Me and my shadow.
9.28.2006,9:03 PM
Day Twelve: Road to Somewhere
Clayton, NM to Fort Cobb State Park, OK
Miles: 362
Started: 11:15 am (so I slept in…..) Arrived: 6:00 pm
Weather: the sun was warm this morning, but the wind was danged cold! I almost regretted removing the insulated liners from my jacket and pants.
I used the maps in the KOA directory to map a route to Oklahoma. I searched for a park with a lake. After debate on which state park as a destination, I chose one that was in the ‘middle’ between Clayton and Fort Worth: Fort Cobb. Google maps predicted an approximate six hour ride over ~355 miles.
Time to pack up and ride.
I learned quickly that unloading the bike and gear takes half the amount of time to pack and load. Actually? A quarter. Thinking to myself that setting up camp for more than one night is more reasonable than only one night. But reason doesn’t always prevail.
The ride on Hwy 64 and 84 into and across northern Texas is relatively uninteresting. The terrain is flat, the horizon flat, and the scenery flat. The earth is flat here.
Almost as if a magical line divides Oklahoma and Texas, hills and rolling green horizons greeted me. My route veered off Hwy 84 and east on Hwy 152. From Pampa, I headed south and then east on I-40. Riding the longest stretch of Interstate since leaving Texas the first day of the journey, it was with relief when I exited back onto Hwy 152 and east. This is indeed a scenic route: rolling hills of plowed red earth, cotton fields, cattle and farm homesteads. The contrast in colors, the green hills and trees, browns, yellow leaves, white cotton heads and the rich deep red earth was a feast for the eyes as my head turned side to side as I rode.
Getting late in the day, I eagerly watched for signs of Hwy 146, my turn off to Fort Cobb. Finally turning south, I followed signs to the park and proceeded to take a wrong turn just before the park entrance. A gigantic structure in stone closely resembling a fist with a finger pointing to the left, I interpreted that to signify “Turn here.” I turned left and realized shortly after I rode a few hundred feet on the high causeway of Fort Cobb lake that the sign was the shape of the state of Oklahoma, which has an expanse of narrow land at the top pointing west.
Emitting an audible “D’oh!!” inside my helmet, I settled in for the ride along the causeway; there was no place to turn around on this road, not even a U-turn if I were brave enough. Searching the terrain at the end of the causeway road, I located a relatively level expanse of close-cut and clear grass on either side of the road. Perfect; this is what this bike is for.
Looking for vehicles ahead and behind me and planning my turn, I rode off the right side of the road onto the grass and made a perfect wide U-turn, riding back on the road in the opposite direction without falter. Looking quickly to the right, I noticed a sign explaining all the trucks and milling coveralled and hatted men: OSU Experiment Station. At the end of the causeway is one of the many branches of the Oklahoma experimental research stations. All the small plots of crops reminded me of the similar research station in Oregon where I spent many days presenting progress on my own research conducted at the land grant university in Corvallis, OR: Oregon State University (the ‘other’ OSU).
I smiled with the realization that was almost a decade ago, another chapter of my life. And rode on.
Exhaustion was creeping in fast, I realized, as I parked in front of the closed park office. No one home. I mounted and rode down the park road, looking for a spot indicating a place to camp. I found several RVs along the side of the lake and pulled in. A quick survey while inching along in first gear located a fairly level spot underneath two trees, where I pulled alongside and backed the bike in. It took a few tries to find a spot where the bike could lean safely rather than stand upright. After several precarious attempts on this trip to park the bike, I realized the sidestand needs additional shortening. My fellow riders in Utah agreed.
Exhausted, hungry and stiff, I unloaded and set up camp in just 18 minutes this time. I had a system developed and was on a roll. Standing back to survey my spot, I smiled with contentment and relief. Nice shady spot with the lake in the background, Whee stationed right outside my tent door. It felt like second home.
Returning from washing my face, amazed at how such a small effort can refresh after a long ride, a neighbor in the RV behind me offered me a tall Styrofoam cup filled with ice and a can of Coke. I expressed my sincere gratitude; I was thirsty after sucking the last water out of my Camelbac. I ate the last two small peanut butter cookies hoarded in my tank bag and regretted not picking up something more substantial to eat for the night.
The couple behind me ‘adopted’ me the next day. Their hospitality was typical more than uncommon in most of the people I met on my journey. And I’ve discovered that people are curious about a lone woman riding a very strange motorcycle and want to hear stories.
I arrived and set up camp just before the sun set, so I grabbed the camera and headed down to the water for a few photos. Walking on the dock between the moored boats, I spotted a building at the end that I had not seen from the campsite. Inside was the aroma of coffee and a few shelves of packaged food. And a chest freezer with ice cream!
Nose sniffing the air like a hungry dog, I said, “I smell coffee.”
“Well, the last of it is in this man’s cup, but I can make another pot. You want some?”
“Oh, yes, please! Thank you!”
I found a frozen ham and cheese sandwich to microwave and chatted with the two men in the store while I sipped hot coffee. Excusing myself, I walked out to the dock and captured a few shots of the sunset over the lake.
I sat inside at a table, reading my book, relaxing and no longer feeling like a starving lost mongrel. When the doors were being locked, I walked back out on the dock and spent some time gazing at the half moon and the light reflected on the water, listening to the silence broken only by the gentle slaps of water on the boats. I expected I would sleep quite well tonight. I smiled watching the still surface of the water interrupted by hundreds of fish jumping and thrusting their hungry mouths up to catch insects. The lake is lively after the sun sets.
I graciously refused an invitation to join folks by their campfire, explaining that I was tired enough to hit the bedroll at 8:30 pm.
I climbed into my two sleeping bags after making a pillow with two shirts and my towel, zipped up and quickly fell asleep.
A restful end to another day on the road.
The Night
Somewhere in my dreams I hear coyotes yipping. Not quite awake, I ask myself where I am.
Am I back on the ranch in Oregon? Do they sound close to the sheep? Should I wake and get up to yell down and scare them away from the pastures?
Where am I?
My neck hurts. That’s right; I’m in a sleeping bag and a tent. Somewhere not in Oregon. I can listen to them yip without concern.
Wait.
I hear owls hooting back and forth at each other. Am I home in my bed, listening to them out my back window? Where are my pillows?
Oops, can’t toss and turn too much in the confines of these two sleeping bags.
Slowly turn, gather my makeshift pillow. I detect no wind. Other than the four-legged and winged creatures of the night, all is quiet here.
All is well.
Slip back into unconciousness……….
…and dreams.
Miles: 362
Started: 11:15 am (so I slept in…..) Arrived: 6:00 pm
Weather: the sun was warm this morning, but the wind was danged cold! I almost regretted removing the insulated liners from my jacket and pants.
I used the maps in the KOA directory to map a route to Oklahoma. I searched for a park with a lake. After debate on which state park as a destination, I chose one that was in the ‘middle’ between Clayton and Fort Worth: Fort Cobb. Google maps predicted an approximate six hour ride over ~355 miles.
Time to pack up and ride.
I learned quickly that unloading the bike and gear takes half the amount of time to pack and load. Actually? A quarter. Thinking to myself that setting up camp for more than one night is more reasonable than only one night. But reason doesn’t always prevail.
The ride on Hwy 64 and 84 into and across northern Texas is relatively uninteresting. The terrain is flat, the horizon flat, and the scenery flat. The earth is flat here.
Almost as if a magical line divides Oklahoma and Texas, hills and rolling green horizons greeted me. My route veered off Hwy 84 and east on Hwy 152. From Pampa, I headed south and then east on I-40. Riding the longest stretch of Interstate since leaving Texas the first day of the journey, it was with relief when I exited back onto Hwy 152 and east. This is indeed a scenic route: rolling hills of plowed red earth, cotton fields, cattle and farm homesteads. The contrast in colors, the green hills and trees, browns, yellow leaves, white cotton heads and the rich deep red earth was a feast for the eyes as my head turned side to side as I rode.
Getting late in the day, I eagerly watched for signs of Hwy 146, my turn off to Fort Cobb. Finally turning south, I followed signs to the park and proceeded to take a wrong turn just before the park entrance. A gigantic structure in stone closely resembling a fist with a finger pointing to the left, I interpreted that to signify “Turn here.” I turned left and realized shortly after I rode a few hundred feet on the high causeway of Fort Cobb lake that the sign was the shape of the state of Oklahoma, which has an expanse of narrow land at the top pointing west.
Emitting an audible “D’oh!!” inside my helmet, I settled in for the ride along the causeway; there was no place to turn around on this road, not even a U-turn if I were brave enough. Searching the terrain at the end of the causeway road, I located a relatively level expanse of close-cut and clear grass on either side of the road. Perfect; this is what this bike is for.
Looking for vehicles ahead and behind me and planning my turn, I rode off the right side of the road onto the grass and made a perfect wide U-turn, riding back on the road in the opposite direction without falter. Looking quickly to the right, I noticed a sign explaining all the trucks and milling coveralled and hatted men: OSU Experiment Station. At the end of the causeway is one of the many branches of the Oklahoma experimental research stations. All the small plots of crops reminded me of the similar research station in Oregon where I spent many days presenting progress on my own research conducted at the land grant university in Corvallis, OR: Oregon State University (the ‘other’ OSU).
I smiled with the realization that was almost a decade ago, another chapter of my life. And rode on.
Exhaustion was creeping in fast, I realized, as I parked in front of the closed park office. No one home. I mounted and rode down the park road, looking for a spot indicating a place to camp. I found several RVs along the side of the lake and pulled in. A quick survey while inching along in first gear located a fairly level spot underneath two trees, where I pulled alongside and backed the bike in. It took a few tries to find a spot where the bike could lean safely rather than stand upright. After several precarious attempts on this trip to park the bike, I realized the sidestand needs additional shortening. My fellow riders in Utah agreed.
Exhausted, hungry and stiff, I unloaded and set up camp in just 18 minutes this time. I had a system developed and was on a roll. Standing back to survey my spot, I smiled with contentment and relief. Nice shady spot with the lake in the background, Whee stationed right outside my tent door. It felt like second home. Returning from washing my face, amazed at how such a small effort can refresh after a long ride, a neighbor in the RV behind me offered me a tall Styrofoam cup filled with ice and a can of Coke. I expressed my sincere gratitude; I was thirsty after sucking the last water out of my Camelbac. I ate the last two small peanut butter cookies hoarded in my tank bag and regretted not picking up something more substantial to eat for the night.
The couple behind me ‘adopted’ me the next day. Their hospitality was typical more than uncommon in most of the people I met on my journey. And I’ve discovered that people are curious about a lone woman riding a very strange motorcycle and want to hear stories.
I arrived and set up camp just before the sun set, so I grabbed the camera and headed down to the water for a few photos. Walking on the dock between the moored boats, I spotted a building at the end that I had not seen from the campsite. Inside was the aroma of coffee and a few shelves of packaged food. And a chest freezer with ice cream!
Nose sniffing the air like a hungry dog, I said, “I smell coffee.”
“Well, the last of it is in this man’s cup, but I can make another pot. You want some?”
“Oh, yes, please! Thank you!”
I found a frozen ham and cheese sandwich to microwave and chatted with the two men in the store while I sipped hot coffee. Excusing myself, I walked out to the dock and captured a few shots of the sunset over the lake. I sat inside at a table, reading my book, relaxing and no longer feeling like a starving lost mongrel. When the doors were being locked, I walked back out on the dock and spent some time gazing at the half moon and the light reflected on the water, listening to the silence broken only by the gentle slaps of water on the boats. I expected I would sleep quite well tonight. I smiled watching the still surface of the water interrupted by hundreds of fish jumping and thrusting their hungry mouths up to catch insects. The lake is lively after the sun sets.
I graciously refused an invitation to join folks by their campfire, explaining that I was tired enough to hit the bedroll at 8:30 pm.
I climbed into my two sleeping bags after making a pillow with two shirts and my towel, zipped up and quickly fell asleep.
A restful end to another day on the road.
The Night
Somewhere in my dreams I hear coyotes yipping. Not quite awake, I ask myself where I am.
Am I back on the ranch in Oregon? Do they sound close to the sheep? Should I wake and get up to yell down and scare them away from the pastures?
Where am I?
My neck hurts. That’s right; I’m in a sleeping bag and a tent. Somewhere not in Oregon. I can listen to them yip without concern.
Wait.
I hear owls hooting back and forth at each other. Am I home in my bed, listening to them out my back window? Where are my pillows?
Oops, can’t toss and turn too much in the confines of these two sleeping bags.
Slowly turn, gather my makeshift pillow. I detect no wind. Other than the four-legged and winged creatures of the night, all is quiet here.
All is well.
Slip back into unconciousness……….
…and dreams.
9.27.2006,10:38 PM
Addendums and holes
There are glaring holes in the daily posts here. The only, and justified excuse is:
Riding comes first.
And limited Internet access.
Or just didn't want to open the lid on this laptop.
Regardless, the holes will be slowly filled.
Day Four is now completed (was 'To be continued....')
Day Five next?
Come back and see.........
I've lost track of days, dates and time.
How lovely!!!!!!!
Riding comes first.
And limited Internet access.
Or just didn't want to open the lid on this laptop.
Regardless, the holes will be slowly filled.
Day Four is now completed (was 'To be continued....')
Day Five next?
Come back and see.........
I've lost track of days, dates and time.
How lovely!!!!!!!
,7:08 PM
Day Eleven: Rocky Mountain High
Taos to Clayton, NM
Miles:
Start: 10 am Arrive: 5:02 pm
Weather: Warm!!!!! Skies blue as can be, nary a cloud in the sky. Removed the insulating liner out of my Joe Rocket jacket for the first time in eleven days. Tomorrow, remove the Thinsulate liner from my riding pants.
Not ready to don the mesh gear yet........
I left Taos with a touch of regret. The town started to grow on me. Especially after peeling back the various layers, meeting many locals, and discovering places in nooks and crannies. Most everyone there was friendly and willing to share stories and tales. This is what traveling is all about; pulling back your sleeves and digging into the local life. Meeting people and sharing stories, absorbing the local food, weather, the landscape, the architecture....
Aldous Huxley once said: "Experience is not what happens to a man; it is what a man does with what happens to him." Traveling can be moving from point A to B, or experiencing all the places in between as well as the destinations, all the layers and fittings. For me, that is what I love about traveling. And my inspiration for this love, aside from the drive running in my blood, was a book I read when I was quite young: John Steinbeck's "Travels with Charley". This trip has been a small tribute to Steinbeck and his book for nurturing that drive in me so many decades ago.
I nickname this rideabout "Travels with Whee".
I don't have a dog, so my bike is my companion. As well as all of you that are following the posts here and on the TWT forum.
Tonight I am at a KOA in Clayton, NM. Rode from Cimmaroon, east of the Carson Natnl Forest, with Duncan Powers, a retired 70-year old pilot riding to Alabama from SLC on.....................
........A BURGMAN!!!
Took pictures of his scooter to show y'all that anything can be done. Duncan sold his BMW 1100GS early this year because he couldn't swing his leg over anymore. He tried out the Burgman and has ridden 3500 miles on it in two months. He rides an average of 25,000 miles/year. We parted ways in Clayton after eating a cookie at the local Subway and sharing stories. He hopes to make Alabama by nightfall tomorrow.
Hwy 64 east of Taos through the mountains was so absolutely awesome with all the fall colors and sunshine, tall cliffs, trees in the valleys and passes, small pines on the peaks...... Twisting, up and down, hairpin and corkscrews........ 8575 feet. It was breathtaking. Coming out of the forest opens into a huge green rolling valley, a high mountain valley. Gorgeous!
The only part of todays ride that had my heart in my throat was when I was behind a huge semi loaded with a huge excavator going up a hairpin turn and STOP!!! O my. god.... construction, stopped behind this behemouth on a steep incline. When the pilot truck came to lead us, the driver couldn't get a start for a good 10 minutes without going backwards.
My heart was in my throat: back up? No, there were five or more vehicles behind me and we were on a very steep incline, in the middle of a hairpin curve. Going over the edge of the cliff to the right of me was not an option. Sweat, heart pounding.......
Cars started passing both of us while he still tried to get momentum forward. Finally he got it going, literally inching through the corkscrew and hairpin turns ahead. I waved the cars behind me to pass; I wanted to give Big Boy a good lead in front of me. Judging his distance from me, I rode forward all the way in 1st and 2nd gear, noticing that nearly all of the orange traffic cones were laying sideways in the road. Big Boy had a hard time navigating those turns.
At the bottom, he was pulled off to the side, a construction worker pulling a cone from his radiator. I passed and waved an "It's okay!".
I think I emptied my adrenal glands of adrenaline and cortisol during that half hour.
My riding buddies in Utah made fun of my obsessive methodical packing, so I timed my unloading and setting up camp gear: 35 minutes from dismounting the saddle. That includes: ground cloth, 2-person tent, fly, Thermarest pad, inflating the damn Big Agnes insulated pad, inserting it into the bottom of the Big Agnes sleeping bag, adding the down mummy bag on top of that, and putting away all the various pouches that everything fits in. Inflating the pad took the longest. I took pics to document the feat.
Miles:
Start: 10 am Arrive: 5:02 pm
Weather: Warm!!!!! Skies blue as can be, nary a cloud in the sky. Removed the insulating liner out of my Joe Rocket jacket for the first time in eleven days. Tomorrow, remove the Thinsulate liner from my riding pants.
Not ready to don the mesh gear yet........
I left Taos with a touch of regret. The town started to grow on me. Especially after peeling back the various layers, meeting many locals, and discovering places in nooks and crannies. Most everyone there was friendly and willing to share stories and tales. This is what traveling is all about; pulling back your sleeves and digging into the local life. Meeting people and sharing stories, absorbing the local food, weather, the landscape, the architecture....
Aldous Huxley once said: "Experience is not what happens to a man; it is what a man does with what happens to him." Traveling can be moving from point A to B, or experiencing all the places in between as well as the destinations, all the layers and fittings. For me, that is what I love about traveling. And my inspiration for this love, aside from the drive running in my blood, was a book I read when I was quite young: John Steinbeck's "Travels with Charley". This trip has been a small tribute to Steinbeck and his book for nurturing that drive in me so many decades ago.
I nickname this rideabout "Travels with Whee".
I don't have a dog, so my bike is my companion. As well as all of you that are following the posts here and on the TWT forum.
Tonight I am at a KOA in Clayton, NM. Rode from Cimmaroon, east of the Carson Natnl Forest, with Duncan Powers, a retired 70-year old pilot riding to Alabama from SLC on.....................
........A BURGMAN!!!
Took pictures of his scooter to show y'all that anything can be done. Duncan sold his BMW 1100GS early this year because he couldn't swing his leg over anymore. He tried out the Burgman and has ridden 3500 miles on it in two months. He rides an average of 25,000 miles/year. We parted ways in Clayton after eating a cookie at the local Subway and sharing stories. He hopes to make Alabama by nightfall tomorrow.
Hwy 64 east of Taos through the mountains was so absolutely awesome with all the fall colors and sunshine, tall cliffs, trees in the valleys and passes, small pines on the peaks...... Twisting, up and down, hairpin and corkscrews........ 8575 feet. It was breathtaking. Coming out of the forest opens into a huge green rolling valley, a high mountain valley. Gorgeous!
The only part of todays ride that had my heart in my throat was when I was behind a huge semi loaded with a huge excavator going up a hairpin turn and STOP!!! O my. god.... construction, stopped behind this behemouth on a steep incline. When the pilot truck came to lead us, the driver couldn't get a start for a good 10 minutes without going backwards.
My heart was in my throat: back up? No, there were five or more vehicles behind me and we were on a very steep incline, in the middle of a hairpin curve. Going over the edge of the cliff to the right of me was not an option. Sweat, heart pounding.......
Cars started passing both of us while he still tried to get momentum forward. Finally he got it going, literally inching through the corkscrew and hairpin turns ahead. I waved the cars behind me to pass; I wanted to give Big Boy a good lead in front of me. Judging his distance from me, I rode forward all the way in 1st and 2nd gear, noticing that nearly all of the orange traffic cones were laying sideways in the road. Big Boy had a hard time navigating those turns.
At the bottom, he was pulled off to the side, a construction worker pulling a cone from his radiator. I passed and waved an "It's okay!".
I think I emptied my adrenal glands of adrenaline and cortisol during that half hour.
My riding buddies in Utah made fun of my obsessive methodical packing, so I timed my unloading and setting up camp gear: 35 minutes from dismounting the saddle. That includes: ground cloth, 2-person tent, fly, Thermarest pad, inflating the damn Big Agnes insulated pad, inserting it into the bottom of the Big Agnes sleeping bag, adding the down mummy bag on top of that, and putting away all the various pouches that everything fits in. Inflating the pad took the longest. I took pics to document the feat.
9.26.2006,8:13 PM
Day Ten: Taos Revealed
Miles: 0
Weather: sunny and warm; blue, blue sky
I woke up staring at Rudolph the Red-nosed biker in the mirror. My nose is beet red and now peeling from wind and sun.
I explored the nooks and crannies of Taos today. Peeling away a layer of this town, finding treasures everywhere. Since I stayed here last week the foliage has turned color, both here and in the mountains. Everywhere is a picture, a scene waiting for an audience and to be captured. I played photographer today, but kicking myself for not buying a polarizing filter for the camera. Badly needed.
I also explored the galleries, not the big ones, but the small ones hidden here and there. Taos is rich in artistic and literary history as well as Amercian/Mexican/Indian history. After today, I feel more akin to this place and the area. Several of my favorite authors and artists either lived here, or nearby, or spent many years here: Frank Gorman, Georgia O'Keefe, Aldous Huxley, DH Lawrence, Edward Abbey...... and so many more. It was as if this place is a convergence of people and time in the past, present and future from all aspects of life.
I can see now why people are so enamored of Taos. A local artist commented to me today: "Taos is what Sante Fe used to be and what Chama will become."
I took many pictures of adobe structures. Why? Because adobe is a canvas for everything around it. Doors, windows, trim, all with contrasting colors; any color of foliage is as if it too was painted in the foreground. Contrasting shapes and textures of wooden gates, headers and doors. Shadows from the vigas near the roof play across the adobe walls. The narrow streets with adobe buildings, trees and mountains in the background.
Adobe is actually a material used to build shelters: unfired earth. The Pueblo Indians I visited on my way west use true adobe material: earth mixed with grasses. In popular reference, 'adobe' is now associated with a style of construction. Most structures are built conventionally with wood, metal or conctrete blocks and then stucco is spread on the outside walls. That stucco is usually a cocktail of Portland cement, a polymer to resist water/rain, and dye to impart the light brown or beige color.
I have admired adobe buildings for years, and this was my chance to see it in many forms and colors. I admire it for its low maintenance (the 'new' adobe), its simplicity, energy conservation, and as a canvas for creativity. Perhaps some day, I'll build that rammed earth/adobe house yet
I'm way behind in my blog posts, but riding and adventures have taken precedence.
Today was a 0-miles riding day. Instead it was a two-legged exploring day and I'm glad I did.
And what should I see on the streets of Taos? A black V-strom DL1000! Twice, riding pillion. I waved with the 'V' salute and was returned the second time with the same. Looks like a new V-strom; too shiney and the V-strom stickers (and stock signals) are still on it.
That makes three V-stroms sighted on this trip thus far.
Weather: sunny and warm; blue, blue sky
I woke up staring at Rudolph the Red-nosed biker in the mirror. My nose is beet red and now peeling from wind and sun.
I explored the nooks and crannies of Taos today. Peeling away a layer of this town, finding treasures everywhere. Since I stayed here last week the foliage has turned color, both here and in the mountains. Everywhere is a picture, a scene waiting for an audience and to be captured. I played photographer today, but kicking myself for not buying a polarizing filter for the camera. Badly needed.
I also explored the galleries, not the big ones, but the small ones hidden here and there. Taos is rich in artistic and literary history as well as Amercian/Mexican/Indian history. After today, I feel more akin to this place and the area. Several of my favorite authors and artists either lived here, or nearby, or spent many years here: Frank Gorman, Georgia O'Keefe, Aldous Huxley, DH Lawrence, Edward Abbey...... and so many more. It was as if this place is a convergence of people and time in the past, present and future from all aspects of life.I can see now why people are so enamored of Taos. A local artist commented to me today: "Taos is what Sante Fe used to be and what Chama will become."
I took many pictures of adobe structures. Why? Because adobe is a canvas for everything around it. Doors, windows, trim, all with contrasting colors; any color of foliage is as if it too was painted in the foreground. Contrasting shapes and textures of wooden gates, headers and doors. Shadows from the vigas near the roof play across the adobe walls. The narrow streets with adobe buildings, trees and mountains in the background.
Adobe is actually a material used to build shelters: unfired earth. The Pueblo Indians I visited on my way west use true adobe material: earth mixed with grasses. In popular reference, 'adobe' is now associated with a style of construction. Most structures are built conventionally with wood, metal or conctrete blocks and then stucco is spread on the outside walls. That stucco is usually a cocktail of Portland cement, a polymer to resist water/rain, and dye to impart the light brown or beige color.
I have admired adobe buildings for years, and this was my chance to see it in many forms and colors. I admire it for its low maintenance (the 'new' adobe), its simplicity, energy conservation, and as a canvas for creativity. Perhaps some day, I'll build that rammed earth/adobe house yetI'm way behind in my blog posts, but riding and adventures have taken precedence.
Today was a 0-miles riding day. Instead it was a two-legged exploring day and I'm glad I did.
And what should I see on the streets of Taos? A black V-strom DL1000! Twice, riding pillion. I waved with the 'V' salute and was returned the second time with the same. Looks like a new V-strom; too shiney and the V-strom stickers (and stock signals) are still on it.
That makes three V-stroms sighted on this trip thus far.
"There's only one corner of the universe you can be certain of improving, and that's your own self." - Aldous Huxley
9.25.2006,10:31 PM
Day Nine: Follow the Red Canyon Roads
I'm back in Taos. Not by my own volition. Long story.
Everyone woke and regrettably trudged through packing and readying to depart. I suspect all of us shared a sad sentiment that our stay at the cabin and canyonlands was over. I know I didn't want to leave.
As usual, it took me an hour to pack the bike. Being a methodical person (usually), every item on the bike is anchored well. I was the brunt of jokes while packing, everyone all packed and ready to go, leaning on the wooden rail watching and waiting for me. Nonetheless, I have peace of mind when riding that nothing will fall off.
We had a group picture taken in front of the sign for the cabins and then we were all on our merry seperate ways. Bob from Canada rode with me south to Monticello where we both gassed up. I then rode east and he continued south. The others rode to points north and beyond.
Backtracking on Hwy 491 and 160 into Colorado and Durango I was afforded the views that I missed on the way west because of the rain, snow and hail. I turned south onto Hwy 550 and down into New Mexico, past Aztec and turned east onto Hwy 64.
The ride through the mesas and over the arroyos was wonderful, reminescent of Arizona. Few vehicles were on the highway, which meandered through canyons and around mesas spatterered with pinyon pines. It was a pleasant ride with some curves and elevations, a few hairpins. Enough to keep me alert and awake.
I intended to stay overnight in Chama, which would be a total of nearly 300 miles for that day. Little did I know.........
I rode >500 miles in less than eight hours, including lunch at Denny's, two peestops, three gas ups, and a jaunt around Chama searching for a room: No Vacancies.
Nowhere to go and nowhere to stay. No backtracking, so the only option was ride forward. Which meant Taos: 65 miles east.
That meant riding over the mountains, cold, ice on the road, construction (waiting 1/2 hour for freakin' pilot car), scanning road sides for deer and elk, freezing my fingers and racing the setting sun.
I didn't have the opportunity to enjoy the scenery and ride as much as when I rode it west, but it was just as beautiful, and the trees had changed color in these past few days. There was snow on the sides of the road and roads were still wet from melting snow. As late in the day as it was, and cold, ice was on the road, too.
Other than a RV in front of me, I was the only other vehicle on that road tonight.
I made it into Taos just after sunset, finally having to stop just before town to switch from sunglasses to regular ones.
Rode into same motel I stayed in for two nights last week. They gave me a discount for riding nearly 600 miles. And I have a fireplace in my room. And a tall mug of hot steaming coffee.
I'm beat........
I'm ahead of schedule. I may stay here another day. Whattheheck.....don't wanna go home anyway.
BTW: V-strom (blue) sighting on Hwy 550 going North in New Mexico. We saluted each other as we passed. V-stroms rule!
Everyone woke and regrettably trudged through packing and readying to depart. I suspect all of us shared a sad sentiment that our stay at the cabin and canyonlands was over. I know I didn't want to leave.
As usual, it took me an hour to pack the bike. Being a methodical person (usually), every item on the bike is anchored well. I was the brunt of jokes while packing, everyone all packed and ready to go, leaning on the wooden rail watching and waiting for me. Nonetheless, I have peace of mind when riding that nothing will fall off.
We had a group picture taken in front of the sign for the cabins and then we were all on our merry seperate ways. Bob from Canada rode with me south to Monticello where we both gassed up. I then rode east and he continued south. The others rode to points north and beyond.
Backtracking on Hwy 491 and 160 into Colorado and Durango I was afforded the views that I missed on the way west because of the rain, snow and hail. I turned south onto Hwy 550 and down into New Mexico, past Aztec and turned east onto Hwy 64.
The ride through the mesas and over the arroyos was wonderful, reminescent of Arizona. Few vehicles were on the highway, which meandered through canyons and around mesas spatterered with pinyon pines. It was a pleasant ride with some curves and elevations, a few hairpins. Enough to keep me alert and awake.
I intended to stay overnight in Chama, which would be a total of nearly 300 miles for that day. Little did I know.........
I rode >500 miles in less than eight hours, including lunch at Denny's, two peestops, three gas ups, and a jaunt around Chama searching for a room: No Vacancies.
Nowhere to go and nowhere to stay. No backtracking, so the only option was ride forward. Which meant Taos: 65 miles east.
That meant riding over the mountains, cold, ice on the road, construction (waiting 1/2 hour for freakin' pilot car), scanning road sides for deer and elk, freezing my fingers and racing the setting sun.
I didn't have the opportunity to enjoy the scenery and ride as much as when I rode it west, but it was just as beautiful, and the trees had changed color in these past few days. There was snow on the sides of the road and roads were still wet from melting snow. As late in the day as it was, and cold, ice was on the road, too.
Other than a RV in front of me, I was the only other vehicle on that road tonight.
I made it into Taos just after sunset, finally having to stop just before town to switch from sunglasses to regular ones.
Rode into same motel I stayed in for two nights last week. They gave me a discount for riding nearly 600 miles. And I have a fireplace in my room. And a tall mug of hot steaming coffee.
I'm beat........
I'm ahead of schedule. I may stay here another day. Whattheheck.....don't wanna go home anyway.
BTW: V-strom (blue) sighting on Hwy 550 going North in New Mexico. We saluted each other as we passed. V-stroms rule!
9.21.2006,5:23 PM
Day Five: The Cliff Dwellers
Not until the sun rose in the sky to melt the ice and snow was I able to do anything other than wish I were elsewhere. Or at least warmer. I had to go pee, but I couldn’t force myself to get out of my warm sleeping bags until I absolutely could not resist the urge to empty my full bladder. After stumbling out of my tent to go to the bathroom, shaking my head in disbelief of the snow around me, I crawled back into the tent and bags and dosed until I felt some warmth from the sun cresting over the nearby cliffs.
I was situating wet items in the sun to dry when a friend rode up on his bike with breakfast for me. Not caring what it was or where it came from, I gobbled it down like a bear waking from a long hibernation. Then the craving for coffee set in. That was motivation enough to get going.
We rode to the campground general store where I had two cups of coffee in quick succession; I could feel the brain gears beginning to finally turn. I could function now.
Since it was already mid-day, we would not have time to visit the various sites that we wanted to see. We decided on a priority site and see what time we had remaining after that. Stopping at the visitors’ center, we purchased tickets for a guided tour of Cliff Palace. While waiting for our scheduled meeting time, we lingered leisurely at a café and deli near the top of the mesa. The sun was finally up in the sky, melting the remaining ice and snow, and warmed our bodies. It felt wonderful to sit outside under the sun in amongst the flowers and trees, sipping on more coffee.
The 14-mile ride up to the top of the mesa was more than winding; it was corkscrews and hairpin turns, up and up and up. The campground is at about 7,000 feet; the top of the plateau is at least over 8,000 feet. Most of the cliff dwellings are at 7,000 feet and above. The views below are amazing and far-reaching, but I waited to look when I was on my feet and off the bike. A park ranger who was also a cultural anthropologist guided our tour of the Cliff Palace. Her accounts and description of the Anasazi, the early occupants of these dwellings as well as the others in the four-state region, was authoritively informative. It enhanced my appreciation and imagination of the people and their life then. What amazed me the most is the sheer physical requirement to access these cliff communities. For most, the front of the cliff openings are drops to ground hundreds of feet below. Tops of the plateau also were far above the ceilings of these caves. Try as I might, I could not imagine how they climbed above and down into these mouths of the cliffs on a daily basis. But they had to do so, and devised ways to carry their food, building supplies, and other raw materials. I also wondered if some of these cliff dwelling people perhaps never left these caves during their life span. To imagine this cliff mouth as my entire world for most of my life was inconceivable.
Many cliff dwellings are open to public visitation or viewing, but many more in that general area remain closed and unexcavated. Even more sites are on top of the plateau; the Anasazi only moved into the cliff caves later and then only for less then one hundred years.
Six hundred cliff dwellings are in the Mesa Verde National Park; others can be found within a large circle encompassing Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona and Utah. Some of these sites contain only one-room houses; others contain villages of houses, built on top of each other. Cliff Palace is one of the larges – more than 200 rooms. Most have kivas, round underground chambers used for ceremony and gatherings. Kiva roofs were wooden beams covered over with packed mud.
By about 1300 AD, all of the cliff dwellings were deserted. The people living in these alcoves moved out; for what reason we can only conjecture. Enemies? Starvation? Social or political problems? Exhaustion of local resources? We may never know. But their legacy remains, there in the cliff alcoves and in the people who followed in their footsteps: the Navajo and Hopi Indians.
I want to go back there again, to see more of these cliff dwellings and the diversity between these people who left their mystery behind. I want to sit there on the cave rock, amongst the kivas, tall rooms with tiny windows, the round block and adobe towers and listen. I want to sit for hours and gaze out from the mouth of these caves to see if I can feel what I may have been like to live, work and die there. I want to be alone, without others around me so I can listen to the ghosts of these people in their homes, and learn. Listen to them sing, give birth, cry, tell stories, laugh, and die. I want to feel them around me, as it may have been so many hundreds of years ago. For no one can build and live in such an environment and not leave something of themselves behind. I want to know them.
I will return.
We rode down, spiraling around, zigzagging and down. Riding up was thrilling, but the ride down had my heart in my throat. I don’t think I got out of third gear much the entire way down. When we neared the road to the campsite, I realized I had been clenching my teeth and I was sweating profusely. I sighed, thankful that I was still alive and not riding of the side of a cliff; I have no wings.
I inquired into the weather forecast for the night; a repeat of the night before was predicted: freezing rain and snow. I shook my head and said: “Time to break camp and head into Cortez. I don’t do snow.”
While we packed everything up, I was relieved to discover my gloves and sheepskin pad had dried in the sun. A couple from across my camping area came by to watch me pack. They were enthralled by the entire process, I guess. We chatted as we packed and I strapped everything into its place. Waving good-bye, we rode down the mesa and onto Hwy 160 and the nine miles into Cortez.
Checking into a motel, I suggested we find a place to eat some real food. Luck smiled upon us that evening; a wonderful Italian restaurant was a few doors down from the motel. We sat at the bar and ate excellent Italian minestrone soup and spaghetti, a dish I haven’t indulged in for years. I celebrated the occasion and relief of a snowless and warm motel room with a short glass of my favorite liqueur, amaretto on three ice cubes.
And all was well.
Many weird dreams haunted me that night. In addition to a few people from home, there were Anasazis lingering on the perimeter of my dreams, as if I could only see them in my peripheral vision. Maybe they were the ghosts of the Ancient Ones telling me to return. For I knew that I must return again.
9.20.2006,10:09 PM
Day Four: Ride to the Sky
Taos to Mesa Verde National Park
Miles: 252
Time start: 9:40 am
Time arrived: a very wet, freakin' cold 5 pm
Weather: chilly but sunny from Taos to east of Durango, Colorado. The sky opened west of Durango for 40 miles of cold, cold wet riding, going up, up, up.
All packed up and somwhere to go.
Blazing sunshine helped keep most of the chill at bay, the insulated gear holding its own. It would help if I remembered to close the vents in my jacket. Back on two wheels, the ride out of Taos weaved through morning traffic on Hwy 64.
The road cutting through the valley opened up before me with the mountains bordering each side like quiet giant sentinals. High desert always held an appeal for me despite the apparent emptiness. Whiffs of silver-blue sage registered long-ago memories of traveling through the New Mexico and Arizona deserts. The landscapes have not changed much in thirty years and the magic is still there. As back then, a sense of peaceful remoteness settled in, squeezing out the hurried pace of in-town Taos. A smile grew across my face hidden inside my helmet but feeling quite at home on my psyche.
The flatness of the desert floor was devided by a searing gap of a 650 foot drop to the Rio Grande River below. Slowing over the majestic bridge spanning the gorge, I pulled into a rest stop and dismounted. Following a foot path carved in the sandstone, cactus and sage, I walked a foot path on the bridge to view the vast chasm below.
An immediate sense of interrupted balance hit me, standing in space directly over a river flowing below like a shiny ribbon of molten metal. To think that over hundreds, thousands of years, this ribbon of water carved out such a deep chasm through the otherwise flat floor of this valley. The juxtaposition of depth with jagged walls and flat floor above it challenged my perception of time and space. It was as if the mind was challenged in perception of a reality below compared with that which flowed the landscape on either side of me; as I stood on the bridge over the middle of the gorge looking down and around.
Attempts to capture the vastness of these landscapes I've traveled through the last few days by camera is impossible. The vistas and horizons are too expansive and pictures only capture a small little square single-dimensional box as if looking through a pinhole. Only the true impressions and images can be captured and imprinted in your mind, recalling the images overlayed with your own narrative as if they were invisible pictures in a story book. And hoping the hard drive in your head had plenty of space to store all those images for later recall.
When will they invent a flashdrive that I can insert and remove from my brain to download life onto and transfer to immortal bytes?
A few other riders stopped at the rest area to use services or enjoy the view. A beautiful white full-dressed Harley pulled up next to me, the rider nodding to me as he removed his helmet. I smiled and left him as he was shedding his outer gear and pulled out back on the highway to head west again.
A few miles down the highway and over a knell, the wind decided to join us. In full force. Now quite familiar with the routine, I planted the balls of my feet on the pegs, wiggled my rearend back on the seat and planted my chest on the tank bag. Sometimes I felt as though I was riding a magical rocket on a sky of highway, body relaxed and hands gently controlling the throttle and directions. Lean this way, that way, roll on, roll off. What a great way to travel this wide open countryside. I feel like I am home.
Looking in my mirrors I noticed the white Harley behind me, a companion I would have for many miles and hours following. We rode through fantastic mountains and breathtaking passes and valleys. The smell of pine resin wafted into my senses, welcomed and greeted by memories of mountain pine forests in the Northeast and Northwest. Some things are universal and one is the smell of pine trees. Riding through winding, climbing ascents and descents, past yellow-leaved cottonwoods with their leaves twirling like tiny windmills. Majestic mountain vistas, craggy mountain tops, occasional colored mesas. The route through northern New Mexico and into southern Colorado was candy for the senses. North of Chama was especially delicious. I'd like to return there and spend some time exploring that area. Its beauty is captivating beyond words.
About half way between Chama and Durango, I pulled in for gas and restroom stop. Grateful to pull off some of the over gear, I picked up a protein bar in the convenience store and walked outside to rest a bit before continuing. The Harley rider walked up to me asking, "Are you the one I've been following all this time?"
Smiling, I responded, "Yes, that's me."
We exchanged "Where you heading" and "Where you from" greetings, laughing about the construction stops and sharing similiar perspecitives of the countryside views. He asked if I minded a riding partner on the way to Durango and I welcomed his company. It was a nice change to have a riding partner for several hours and many miles.
We pulled into Durango and dark ominous clouds ahead. As we waited at a light and a turn, the Harley rider pulled up alongside and announced he was turning south here. He asked if I still intended to head to the park to which I nodded yes. With a worried look on his face, he informed me that bad weather was forecasted in the higher elevations bringing snow with rain, and Durango.
And into a wall of cold, windy rain.
The sky darkened and dumped its content of wet cold rain on me as I rode the 36 miles to the Park entrance. My speed was barely 40 miles an hour with the slick roads and gusting winds, visibility barely 50 feet in front of me. It was a long 36 miles.
Searching for park entrance signs, I was relieved to find the exit to the park. Carefully pulling up to the gatehouse to pay my admission fee, I put my feet down behind the car in front of me and an immediate "Oh No!!!" emitted through my head and body: my boots and feet were in a puddle of four inches of water. I could feel the dampness seeping into my socks and feet.
Being pounded with wind and water, the otherwise simple feat of pulling out a five-dollar bill was turned into a challenging, monumental and very wet task. Thanking the gate keeper for his patience, I inquired into the location of the campground area:
"Oh, its another four miles up the winding road ahead."
Groaning audibly and setting myself up for a short but long wet and cold ride, I shifted and pulled out. He was right; it was indeed up, up, up and winding tightly left and right. Holy crap. In dry weather this would have been a fun ride, but then it was anything but with visibility restricted and the wind pushing me this way and that. I didn't get out of fourth gear until I hit semi-level road and found the campground registration area.
I noticed an overhang next to a building and pulled in out of the rain. Removing my wet gloves and wringing them out, I put them on the back case with hopelessness. They were not going back on my hands again that evening. With helmet in hand, I ran into the general store dripping water like a wet dog. I had an overwhelming sense of deja vu over the last several minutes; and an unwelcome one. With a keens sense of smell, I waddled over to the pots of coffee like a starving dog smelling food. The woman behind the registar took one look at me and poured a steaming cup of coffee for me while I sat in a chair defrosting.
And wondering for the first time in four days why I was doing this again?
To be continued...........
Continued.......
Two older couples came in to register for their camp sites while I sat like a wet dog, dripping and hands wrapped around the coffee cup.
"You having fun yet?"
I groaned.
"We're old time riders; we know exactly how wet and miserable you are....."
I listened to the story of the one couple riding all night through a rain storm in Montana, soaked and cold to the bone. Empathy was tangent and warmed me.
When the sky cleared enough to venture outside without being pummeled by rain, I picked a spot to pitch my tent. While putting on the fly, a woman from Ukrane stopped by on her way back to her camp and helped me finish the rest. She had a tent just like mine and showed me all the little quirks on finishing it off. While standing to admire our handiwork, the sky opened again and we formed a two-person chain in unloading the bike and throwing everything in the tent and under cover. While we both got wet.
Shaking the water off my riding jacket, the couple I met in the registration office pulled up in their car, inviting me to accompany them to dinner at the lodge. I greatefully accepted, realizing then that I was starving, and the thought of a hot meal and coffee was reducing me to Pavlov's dog.
We rode 14 miles up tightly twisting roads, five of us hunting for the lodge near the top of the mesa. The views were outstanding, but I kept my eyes straight ahead on the road. Even though I wasn't driving. Sheer heights and I are old-time expatriots.
All five of us enjoyed two hours of exchanging stories and jokes, while I munched on a fabulously cooked shank of lamb, and an Irish coffee to warm me and then some. The food was excellent, the view and ambiance wonderful and the meal ticket threw a punch in the wallet. I took back the remaining lamb, stuffing it in my dry bag and closing it to avoid unwelcomed big furry fat critters with long claws and keen noses. Finding my flashlight, I snuggled into my two sleeping bags with my cold weather UnderArmors to keep me warm. I smiled widely at the unexpected comfort of my sleeping set up. Hopefully I could get some real sleep.
It was a futile hope.
I woke to gusting winds and driving rain, which shortly sounded like bullets hitting the tent. Freezing rain. Yipes! I think I woke up once every half hour, paranoid that the wind would blow the fly off the tent, which would expose me and everything in there to all the elements. Once I noticed shadows on the walls and roof of the tent. As I climbed further out of sleep, I also saw that the top of the tent was drooping.
Holy crap! Snow!
I carefully pushed the mounting snow off the roof and walls of the tent to prevent it from collapse.
I turned and tossed and pushed and fretted in the wet cold, hoping it would be tomorrow soon...............
Miles: 252
Time start: 9:40 am
Time arrived: a very wet, freakin' cold 5 pm
Weather: chilly but sunny from Taos to east of Durango, Colorado. The sky opened west of Durango for 40 miles of cold, cold wet riding, going up, up, up.
All packed up and somwhere to go.
Blazing sunshine helped keep most of the chill at bay, the insulated gear holding its own. It would help if I remembered to close the vents in my jacket. Back on two wheels, the ride out of Taos weaved through morning traffic on Hwy 64.
The road cutting through the valley opened up before me with the mountains bordering each side like quiet giant sentinals. High desert always held an appeal for me despite the apparent emptiness. Whiffs of silver-blue sage registered long-ago memories of traveling through the New Mexico and Arizona deserts. The landscapes have not changed much in thirty years and the magic is still there. As back then, a sense of peaceful remoteness settled in, squeezing out the hurried pace of in-town Taos. A smile grew across my face hidden inside my helmet but feeling quite at home on my psyche.
The flatness of the desert floor was devided by a searing gap of a 650 foot drop to the Rio Grande River below. Slowing over the majestic bridge spanning the gorge, I pulled into a rest stop and dismounted. Following a foot path carved in the sandstone, cactus and sage, I walked a foot path on the bridge to view the vast chasm below.
An immediate sense of interrupted balance hit me, standing in space directly over a river flowing below like a shiny ribbon of molten metal. To think that over hundreds, thousands of years, this ribbon of water carved out such a deep chasm through the otherwise flat floor of this valley. The juxtaposition of depth with jagged walls and flat floor above it challenged my perception of time and space. It was as if the mind was challenged in perception of a reality below compared with that which flowed the landscape on either side of me; as I stood on the bridge over the middle of the gorge looking down and around.
Attempts to capture the vastness of these landscapes I've traveled through the last few days by camera is impossible. The vistas and horizons are too expansive and pictures only capture a small little square single-dimensional box as if looking through a pinhole. Only the true impressions and images can be captured and imprinted in your mind, recalling the images overlayed with your own narrative as if they were invisible pictures in a story book. And hoping the hard drive in your head had plenty of space to store all those images for later recall.
When will they invent a flashdrive that I can insert and remove from my brain to download life onto and transfer to immortal bytes?
A few other riders stopped at the rest area to use services or enjoy the view. A beautiful white full-dressed Harley pulled up next to me, the rider nodding to me as he removed his helmet. I smiled and left him as he was shedding his outer gear and pulled out back on the highway to head west again.
A few miles down the highway and over a knell, the wind decided to join us. In full force. Now quite familiar with the routine, I planted the balls of my feet on the pegs, wiggled my rearend back on the seat and planted my chest on the tank bag. Sometimes I felt as though I was riding a magical rocket on a sky of highway, body relaxed and hands gently controlling the throttle and directions. Lean this way, that way, roll on, roll off. What a great way to travel this wide open countryside. I feel like I am home.
Looking in my mirrors I noticed the white Harley behind me, a companion I would have for many miles and hours following. We rode through fantastic mountains and breathtaking passes and valleys. The smell of pine resin wafted into my senses, welcomed and greeted by memories of mountain pine forests in the Northeast and Northwest. Some things are universal and one is the smell of pine trees. Riding through winding, climbing ascents and descents, past yellow-leaved cottonwoods with their leaves twirling like tiny windmills. Majestic mountain vistas, craggy mountain tops, occasional colored mesas. The route through northern New Mexico and into southern Colorado was candy for the senses. North of Chama was especially delicious. I'd like to return there and spend some time exploring that area. Its beauty is captivating beyond words.
About half way between Chama and Durango, I pulled in for gas and restroom stop. Grateful to pull off some of the over gear, I picked up a protein bar in the convenience store and walked outside to rest a bit before continuing. The Harley rider walked up to me asking, "Are you the one I've been following all this time?"
Smiling, I responded, "Yes, that's me."
We exchanged "Where you heading" and "Where you from" greetings, laughing about the construction stops and sharing similiar perspecitives of the countryside views. He asked if I minded a riding partner on the way to Durango and I welcomed his company. It was a nice change to have a riding partner for several hours and many miles.
We pulled into Durango and dark ominous clouds ahead. As we waited at a light and a turn, the Harley rider pulled up alongside and announced he was turning south here. He asked if I still intended to head to the park to which I nodded yes. With a worried look on his face, he informed me that bad weather was forecasted in the higher elevations bringing snow with rain, and Durango.
And into a wall of cold, windy rain.
The sky darkened and dumped its content of wet cold rain on me as I rode the 36 miles to the Park entrance. My speed was barely 40 miles an hour with the slick roads and gusting winds, visibility barely 50 feet in front of me. It was a long 36 miles.
Searching for park entrance signs, I was relieved to find the exit to the park. Carefully pulling up to the gatehouse to pay my admission fee, I put my feet down behind the car in front of me and an immediate "Oh No!!!" emitted through my head and body: my boots and feet were in a puddle of four inches of water. I could feel the dampness seeping into my socks and feet.
Being pounded with wind and water, the otherwise simple feat of pulling out a five-dollar bill was turned into a challenging, monumental and very wet task. Thanking the gate keeper for his patience, I inquired into the location of the campground area:
"Oh, its another four miles up the winding road ahead."
Groaning audibly and setting myself up for a short but long wet and cold ride, I shifted and pulled out. He was right; it was indeed up, up, up and winding tightly left and right. Holy crap. In dry weather this would have been a fun ride, but then it was anything but with visibility restricted and the wind pushing me this way and that. I didn't get out of fourth gear until I hit semi-level road and found the campground registration area.
I noticed an overhang next to a building and pulled in out of the rain. Removing my wet gloves and wringing them out, I put them on the back case with hopelessness. They were not going back on my hands again that evening. With helmet in hand, I ran into the general store dripping water like a wet dog. I had an overwhelming sense of deja vu over the last several minutes; and an unwelcome one. With a keens sense of smell, I waddled over to the pots of coffee like a starving dog smelling food. The woman behind the registar took one look at me and poured a steaming cup of coffee for me while I sat in a chair defrosting.
And wondering for the first time in four days why I was doing this again?
To be continued...........
Continued.......
Two older couples came in to register for their camp sites while I sat like a wet dog, dripping and hands wrapped around the coffee cup.
"You having fun yet?"
I groaned.
"We're old time riders; we know exactly how wet and miserable you are....."
I listened to the story of the one couple riding all night through a rain storm in Montana, soaked and cold to the bone. Empathy was tangent and warmed me.
When the sky cleared enough to venture outside without being pummeled by rain, I picked a spot to pitch my tent. While putting on the fly, a woman from Ukrane stopped by on her way back to her camp and helped me finish the rest. She had a tent just like mine and showed me all the little quirks on finishing it off. While standing to admire our handiwork, the sky opened again and we formed a two-person chain in unloading the bike and throwing everything in the tent and under cover. While we both got wet.
Shaking the water off my riding jacket, the couple I met in the registration office pulled up in their car, inviting me to accompany them to dinner at the lodge. I greatefully accepted, realizing then that I was starving, and the thought of a hot meal and coffee was reducing me to Pavlov's dog.
We rode 14 miles up tightly twisting roads, five of us hunting for the lodge near the top of the mesa. The views were outstanding, but I kept my eyes straight ahead on the road. Even though I wasn't driving. Sheer heights and I are old-time expatriots.
All five of us enjoyed two hours of exchanging stories and jokes, while I munched on a fabulously cooked shank of lamb, and an Irish coffee to warm me and then some. The food was excellent, the view and ambiance wonderful and the meal ticket threw a punch in the wallet. I took back the remaining lamb, stuffing it in my dry bag and closing it to avoid unwelcomed big furry fat critters with long claws and keen noses. Finding my flashlight, I snuggled into my two sleeping bags with my cold weather UnderArmors to keep me warm. I smiled widely at the unexpected comfort of my sleeping set up. Hopefully I could get some real sleep.
It was a futile hope.
I woke to gusting winds and driving rain, which shortly sounded like bullets hitting the tent. Freezing rain. Yipes! I think I woke up once every half hour, paranoid that the wind would blow the fly off the tent, which would expose me and everything in there to all the elements. Once I noticed shadows on the walls and roof of the tent. As I climbed further out of sleep, I also saw that the top of the tent was drooping.
Holy crap! Snow!
I carefully pushed the mounting snow off the roof and walls of the tent to prevent it from collapse.
I turned and tossed and pushed and fretted in the wet cold, hoping it would be tomorrow soon...............
9.19.2006,11:41 PM
Day Three: Taos
Taos
Miles: 15
Weather: sunny, cool
Sleep is calling me and I depart in the early morning. But I have a few photos to upload before I snooze. One a rare appearance.
One word to the wise: beware the striking bungee cord.
While chinching the dry bags to the bike before riding this morning, one end slipped my grasp and flew back, striking me in the left eye right on the top orbital (below the eyebrow). That hurt, and it's a good thing my eyes have quick reflexes and closed. I put ice on it, but it's a pretty hue of black and blue now.
Miles: 15
Weather: sunny, cool
Sleep is calling me and I depart in the early morning. But I have a few photos to upload before I snooze. One a rare appearance.
One word to the wise: beware the striking bungee cord.
While chinching the dry bags to the bike before riding this morning, one end slipped my grasp and flew back, striking me in the left eye right on the top orbital (below the eyebrow). That hurt, and it's a good thing my eyes have quick reflexes and closed. I put ice on it, but it's a pretty hue of black and blue now.
,9:43 PM
Day Two: The Road to Taos
Clovis to Taos, NM
Miles: 255
Time: 9 am to 4 pm
Weather: chilly but sunny with blue skies
Sunshine, YES!!!!
Loaded the bike and off I went, continuing on Hwy 84 all the way to Las Vegas (NM, that is). The high plains were lovely, accentuated by the mesas on the horizon. I have not ridden amongst the southwest plains since driving from Oregon to Texas eight years ago. That old thrill came back; the vastness and wonderment of mesas breaking the horizon and the plains dotted by low-growing sage. Black Angus were scattered on the plains like black spatterings of paint. The road opened wide and long, a ribbon of tarmac calling to the wheels underneath me and the wanderlust inside. I caught myself grinning occasionally, soaking in the vast openness. Some people are bored with the high plains, but not me. I love them.
The wind turbines on top of the tabletop mesas reminded me of vast sunflower fields in Montana: sunflowers as far as one can see. Here, the tall white slender posts were stems supporting the turning turbine blades like flower petals blowing in the wind. They may be manmade, but their majestic presence imparted a sense of belonging there. More than the other manmade obtrusions that appeared every hundred miles or so.
Slowly climbing in altitude and gently rolling down into the valleys the passes opened up to small towns smattering the landscape along rivers or interstates. Two short runs on interstates and I exited onto 518 in Las Vegas, riding north. Passing through Mora, the ride slowed to a crawl in one-lane traffic. One half of the road was dug up with backhoes playing chicken with the passing vehicles.
After filling up at the gas station in Mora, I used the toilet and refilled my camelbac. I had no idea how long the ride was to Taos and did not want to be doing a peepee dance on the seat of the bike. Asking the clerk, I learned Taos was 45 miles north.
Cool. No time at all.
Hah!
Riding north put me in the Sangre de Cristo mountain range and the Carson National Forest. The steady gentle climb in elevation passed through pine forests that reminded me both of Maine and Oregon. Grinning widely, I felt like I was transported back and ‘home’. The smell of the litter duff was heavenly perfume even through my plugged nose. A short descent into a valley followed a river lined with yellow-leaved cottonwoods. The fall color against the background of green pines was a feast for the eyes. I searched for a pulloff but never found one. The shoulders were either non-existent or hidden beneath inches of pea gravel.
That old dormant wanderlust was sparked and fueled again on that ride to Taos but this time so different, riding on a bike. A few times I wanted to share the marvels with someone. That intense feeling of wonder or discovery that nearly bursts your own seams to get out and be shared. So I shared it with myself, the road and the wind.
Several times I saw moments that should have been captured by a camera or appreciated for their beauty. Then other times seeing things but not wanting to stop, just seize the moment, the second, absorb it and ready yourself for the next one,
Twenty-five Miles of Adrenaline
Riding in the mountains and trying to pop my ears, the road began twisting, climbing and falling. We came upon newly resurfaced road and a sign that read:
Warning: Loose Gravel
30 mph
Next 25 miles
Oh crap!
The surface was that mixture of black tar and gravel laid down and rolled. No shoulder but about six inches deep of pea gravel. No center line. No lane lines at all. And ahead were passes and passes of twisting mayhem.
Going down.
Going up.
Twist this way and that way.
Shift down and steady as she goes.
Screw the two cars behind me.
I rode most of that in fifth gear, using the engine to control my speed and tug the many hundred pounds of human flesh, machine and gear up the winding road. After what seemed like a hundred miles, I saw gray road ahead. Oh good! Normal road surface.
Hah again!
Signs cautioning loose gravel again, 30 mph.
But this time, it WAS loose gravel. That loose gravel that is dribbled onto sprayed tar and left for car and truck tires to embed in the undersurface.
And we were going down, down, down, with tight twisties this time.
Shift down into fourth gear, sometimes in fifth. Adrenaline fueling my cardiac muscle and pumping blood into all my extremities and drying my mouth like cotton. And still trying to pop my plugged ears.
The vistas were breathtaking, the views awesome. The elevation high in the mountains was chocking Whee’s engine, but we pushed through. I spotted a pulloff on the other side of the road looking relatively free of deep gravel, carefully navigated onto it and parked. Pulling my leg over the saddle, I walked around to loosen my tight spine and took some pictures overlooking the mountains and passes. Then magically uprighted the bike (dang, this bike’s heavy!) and somehow pulled forward out from the incline and canting left. I’m glad I had that throttle play fixed.
What seemed like more hours and hundreds of miles on loose gravel, wobblies and constant shifting, and almost popped ears, we rode down into a valley and I spied normal pavement. With a sigh of relief, I leaned forward resting my upper torso on the tankbag, planted the balls of my feet on the pegs, relaxed and opened the throttle in welcomed sixth gear.
Zooom....relaxed leans into the curves left me smiling again instead of gritting my teeth.
The last 25 miles rated an 8-10 on my Holy Shit! Meter.
The ride into Taos was easy despite the congested traffic. I found the Inn and checked in. I was able to pull the bike into the grassed and quiet courtyard to park it under a willow tree in the shade and 12 feet in front of my room.
All was well, and the hot shower was wonderful.
Miles: 255
Time: 9 am to 4 pm
Weather: chilly but sunny with blue skies
Sunshine, YES!!!!
Loaded the bike and off I went, continuing on Hwy 84 all the way to Las Vegas (NM, that is). The high plains were lovely, accentuated by the mesas on the horizon. I have not ridden amongst the southwest plains since driving from Oregon to Texas eight years ago. That old thrill came back; the vastness and wonderment of mesas breaking the horizon and the plains dotted by low-growing sage. Black Angus were scattered on the plains like black spatterings of paint. The road opened wide and long, a ribbon of tarmac calling to the wheels underneath me and the wanderlust inside. I caught myself grinning occasionally, soaking in the vast openness. Some people are bored with the high plains, but not me. I love them.
The wind turbines on top of the tabletop mesas reminded me of vast sunflower fields in Montana: sunflowers as far as one can see. Here, the tall white slender posts were stems supporting the turning turbine blades like flower petals blowing in the wind. They may be manmade, but their majestic presence imparted a sense of belonging there. More than the other manmade obtrusions that appeared every hundred miles or so. Slowly climbing in altitude and gently rolling down into the valleys the passes opened up to small towns smattering the landscape along rivers or interstates. Two short runs on interstates and I exited onto 518 in Las Vegas, riding north. Passing through Mora, the ride slowed to a crawl in one-lane traffic. One half of the road was dug up with backhoes playing chicken with the passing vehicles.
After filling up at the gas station in Mora, I used the toilet and refilled my camelbac. I had no idea how long the ride was to Taos and did not want to be doing a peepee dance on the seat of the bike. Asking the clerk, I learned Taos was 45 miles north.
Cool. No time at all.
Hah!
Riding north put me in the Sangre de Cristo mountain range and the Carson National Forest. The steady gentle climb in elevation passed through pine forests that reminded me both of Maine and Oregon. Grinning widely, I felt like I was transported back and ‘home’. The smell of the litter duff was heavenly perfume even through my plugged nose. A short descent into a valley followed a river lined with yellow-leaved cottonwoods. The fall color against the background of green pines was a feast for the eyes. I searched for a pulloff but never found one. The shoulders were either non-existent or hidden beneath inches of pea gravel. That old dormant wanderlust was sparked and fueled again on that ride to Taos but this time so different, riding on a bike. A few times I wanted to share the marvels with someone. That intense feeling of wonder or discovery that nearly bursts your own seams to get out and be shared. So I shared it with myself, the road and the wind.
Several times I saw moments that should have been captured by a camera or appreciated for their beauty. Then other times seeing things but not wanting to stop, just seize the moment, the second, absorb it and ready yourself for the next one,
Twenty-five Miles of Adrenaline
Riding in the mountains and trying to pop my ears, the road began twisting, climbing and falling. We came upon newly resurfaced road and a sign that read:
Warning: Loose Gravel
30 mph
Next 25 miles
Oh crap!
The surface was that mixture of black tar and gravel laid down and rolled. No shoulder but about six inches deep of pea gravel. No center line. No lane lines at all. And ahead were passes and passes of twisting mayhem.
Going down.
Going up.
Twist this way and that way.
Shift down and steady as she goes.
Screw the two cars behind me.
I rode most of that in fifth gear, using the engine to control my speed and tug the many hundred pounds of human flesh, machine and gear up the winding road. After what seemed like a hundred miles, I saw gray road ahead. Oh good! Normal road surface.
Hah again!
Signs cautioning loose gravel again, 30 mph. But this time, it WAS loose gravel. That loose gravel that is dribbled onto sprayed tar and left for car and truck tires to embed in the undersurface.
And we were going down, down, down, with tight twisties this time.
Shift down into fourth gear, sometimes in fifth. Adrenaline fueling my cardiac muscle and pumping blood into all my extremities and drying my mouth like cotton. And still trying to pop my plugged ears.
The vistas were breathtaking, the views awesome. The elevation high in the mountains was chocking Whee’s engine, but we pushed through. I spotted a pulloff on the other side of the road looking relatively free of deep gravel, carefully navigated onto it and parked. Pulling my leg over the saddle, I walked around to loosen my tight spine and took some pictures overlooking the mountains and passes. Then magically uprighted the bike (dang, this bike’s heavy!) and somehow pulled forward out from the incline and canting left. I’m glad I had that throttle play fixed.What seemed like more hours and hundreds of miles on loose gravel, wobblies and constant shifting, and almost popped ears, we rode down into a valley and I spied normal pavement. With a sigh of relief, I leaned forward resting my upper torso on the tankbag, planted the balls of my feet on the pegs, relaxed and opened the throttle in welcomed sixth gear.
Zooom....relaxed leans into the curves left me smiling again instead of gritting my teeth.
The last 25 miles rated an 8-10 on my Holy Shit! Meter.
The ride into Taos was easy despite the congested traffic. I found the Inn and checked in. I was able to pull the bike into the grassed and quiet courtyard to park it under a willow tree in the shade and 12 feet in front of my room.
All was well, and the hot shower was wonderful.
9.18.2006,11:28 PM
Day One: Are we out of Texas yet??
Home to Clovis, NM
Miles: 456
Time: 9:40 am – 7:00 pm
Weather: showers, monsoon, sunny but chilly: windy, wet and cold
I waited out the thunderstorm in the dark, surfing the doppler sites, tracking the storm, and sipping coffee. A green inchworm was slowly crawling from the south, mid-smack in the middle of Texas and through my intended route west. The other side of the worm, clear as a bell was Lubbock; over 300 miles away. I readied myself to ride in four hours of nasty wet weather and had warm waterproof gear laying out on the floor ready for me to don.
Two and ½ hours after I planned to leave, a gentle rain was all that remained behind of the thunderstorm. It was warm and humid outside, the air like the inside of a sauna, a present from the storm. After dragging everything outside and loading up Whee, I pulled out the liners of the side cases and repacked them. Repacked only once; I guess that’s not too bad. As you can see, the load has been attached, attached again, and again. It may be overkill, but I would prefer not to worry about something springing loose. Just like the front tire, I like peace of mind.
We rode through a few brief showers, nothing torrential. Until just east of Abilene. Then all hell broke loose. It started as big rain splats, and then a wall of water and wind hit us. I couldn’t see five feet in front of me. Neither could anyone else. All vehicles, cars and semis, slowed to a crawl. I searched for an exit, signaled, tapped brakes and crawled off the interstate. Many behind me followed suit.
Noticing a gas station with an overhang over the pumps, I carefully pulled in, opposite a cruiser hauling a small trailer. Pulling out my jacket liner, grabbing the keys and wallet, I ran for cover inside. A tall very wet man with a soaked T-shirt and denim vest stood inside with a disgusted look on his face. While stripping off my jacket and zipping in the liner amidst a growing pool of water at my feet, we exchanged personal weather reports:
“I left Fort Worth a while ago. A thunderstorm passed through, but it was clearing, humid and warm.”
“I came from Glen Rose, just south of there and I’ve been in this station for 45 minutes. It hasn’t let up yet.”
“Where you headed to?”
“Odessa”
Not knowing where that is, I just nodded my head. In response to his inquiry, I replied, “I’m hoping to make it to Clovis, New Mexico.”
A resounding, “You’ll never make it!!!” “You may as well find a room near here. Who knows when this will let up.” It echoed inside the store.
That was encouraging………
Groan. “My plan is to refuel, find some food, wait it out for a bit, and hit the road. I’m not staying here.”
As soon as I pulled on another jacket and the Joe Rocket jacket with insulated liner (and closed the vents), I ran out to the bike, unfastened the tank bag and filled up trying to avoid letting rain water in with the gas. My gloves were soaked. I searched quickly for the new waterproof gloves but didn’t find them, cussing myself out for packing too much and not knowing where anything was except for the contents of the two dry bags.
And that is all that stayed dry.
Stuffing the soaked gloves in the end of a side case, I rode to a Cracker Barrel just down the road. The parking lot was packed full of Sunday After-church crowds, but I found a spot next to the same cruiser with the trailer. He must have liked my plan.
After walking inside and putting my name on the waiting list, I stood next to the counter, waiting, helmet in hand, dripping water all over their wood floor. People walked by me and gave me an assortment of looks from disbelief, disgust, pity, and amusement.
“You’re dripping, sweetie,” said a smiling older woman.
Genuinely apologetic, I said, “I know; I’m sorry.”
The assistant hostess brought me a cup of hot steaming coffee. I warmed my freezing wet hands on the side of the Styrofoam containing my favorite beverage and looked like a miserable wet dog. A young waiter brought me another cup of coffee; one for each hand. I thanked him, too. Two other waiters kept eying my growing puddle of water at my feet and I offered to mop it up. They smiled and told me not to bother; they would take care of it after I’m seated.
Finally, I was lead to my table. Strip off the wet jacket, then the camel pack, the second jacket underneath, the dripping helmet on the floor under my table, and wiped my face of remaining water. My sleeve ends were wet and my T-shirt damp from rain blown in through the jacket vents. All I wanted was hot coffee to warm me.
I placed my order and made two phone calls while waiting for the rain to diminish. An hour later it was still drizzling but it was time to go. Back on with the gear. People watched me shrug on all the jackets and the camel pack. I felt conspicuous, but didn’t care. I must look like a monster with all this gear on.
Searching again, I finally found my other gloves. The sheepskin pad was soaked and felt cold through the gear on my butt and thighs. I warmed it up soon enough after sitting for a while.
Back on the interstate and miles to go.
Riding on two wheels with no stereo, my thoughts run wild: from pondering the evolutionary merit of laughter since it seems so universal (all primates laugh, other animals are thought to laugh; do lizards laugh?), singing songs from cartoons and movie soundtracks, composing my own songs (Windy, Wet and Cold This Way), to soliloquies inside my helmet. We all talk to ourselves; now it was audible rather than just silent conversations. Audible writing, so to speak. I wish I had a voice recorder.
Sunshine and blue sky just south of Lubbock. Yes!!!!!
No reason not to make Clovis. On we went.
The countryside was beautiful. Flowing agricultural land, the sweet smell of hay being harvested, familiar musky odors of cattle and horses, grain elevators, hay fields with waving light green and yellow headed grass, trucks stacked with green gold alfalfa which smelled rich in nitrogen, horses grazing and tails flicking flies. A life I lived and sometimes long for. Days of hard labor, but each day ending with a satisfaction and fulfillment that city life can’t even closely resemble. The reward of simplicity with physical and mental challenges. And a sense of worth and satisfaction at the end of each day.
Riding by this all was like half of my life passing by me, a movie on both sides of me and everywhere I turned. Those years of living in the woods and on the ranch in Maine and Oregon were the most rewarding in many ways. I felt a longing to lay out in the pastures again under the sun with the sheep nosing me and chewing their cud, the horses pulling grass with their teeth and the swish of their tails flicking flies. Or sitting outside on the porch in the deep of night with a canopy of stars and planets providing a silent movie overhead. The only words you hear are the thoughts inside your head. And the melodious cacophony of the coyotes echoing between the hills.
That was life.
And here I was, riding on two wheels through a movie of my own life reflected by the lives of others acting in their own movie. We are but all actors on this stage called life.
Smiling, I rode through rural Texas and crossed an imaginary line into New Mexico and finally into a town called Clovis.
I made it after all.
I turned on the heat in my motel room, stripped the bike and unpacked everything, hanging it all to dry, took a hot shower and fell asleep until the alarm rang at 6 am.
Miles: 456
Time: 9:40 am – 7:00 pm
Weather: showers, monsoon, sunny but chilly: windy, wet and cold
I waited out the thunderstorm in the dark, surfing the doppler sites, tracking the storm, and sipping coffee. A green inchworm was slowly crawling from the south, mid-smack in the middle of Texas and through my intended route west. The other side of the worm, clear as a bell was Lubbock; over 300 miles away. I readied myself to ride in four hours of nasty wet weather and had warm waterproof gear laying out on the floor ready for me to don.
Two and ½ hours after I planned to leave, a gentle rain was all that remained behind of the thunderstorm. It was warm and humid outside, the air like the inside of a sauna, a present from the storm. After dragging everything outside and loading up Whee, I pulled out the liners of the side cases and repacked them. Repacked only once; I guess that’s not too bad. As you can see, the load has been attached, attached again, and again. It may be overkill, but I would prefer not to worry about something springing loose. Just like the front tire, I like peace of mind.We rode through a few brief showers, nothing torrential. Until just east of Abilene. Then all hell broke loose. It started as big rain splats, and then a wall of water and wind hit us. I couldn’t see five feet in front of me. Neither could anyone else. All vehicles, cars and semis, slowed to a crawl. I searched for an exit, signaled, tapped brakes and crawled off the interstate. Many behind me followed suit.
Noticing a gas station with an overhang over the pumps, I carefully pulled in, opposite a cruiser hauling a small trailer. Pulling out my jacket liner, grabbing the keys and wallet, I ran for cover inside. A tall very wet man with a soaked T-shirt and denim vest stood inside with a disgusted look on his face. While stripping off my jacket and zipping in the liner amidst a growing pool of water at my feet, we exchanged personal weather reports:
“I left Fort Worth a while ago. A thunderstorm passed through, but it was clearing, humid and warm.”
“I came from Glen Rose, just south of there and I’ve been in this station for 45 minutes. It hasn’t let up yet.”
“Where you headed to?”
“Odessa”
Not knowing where that is, I just nodded my head. In response to his inquiry, I replied, “I’m hoping to make it to Clovis, New Mexico.”
A resounding, “You’ll never make it!!!” “You may as well find a room near here. Who knows when this will let up.” It echoed inside the store.
That was encouraging………
Groan. “My plan is to refuel, find some food, wait it out for a bit, and hit the road. I’m not staying here.”
As soon as I pulled on another jacket and the Joe Rocket jacket with insulated liner (and closed the vents), I ran out to the bike, unfastened the tank bag and filled up trying to avoid letting rain water in with the gas. My gloves were soaked. I searched quickly for the new waterproof gloves but didn’t find them, cussing myself out for packing too much and not knowing where anything was except for the contents of the two dry bags.
And that is all that stayed dry.
Stuffing the soaked gloves in the end of a side case, I rode to a Cracker Barrel just down the road. The parking lot was packed full of Sunday After-church crowds, but I found a spot next to the same cruiser with the trailer. He must have liked my plan.
After walking inside and putting my name on the waiting list, I stood next to the counter, waiting, helmet in hand, dripping water all over their wood floor. People walked by me and gave me an assortment of looks from disbelief, disgust, pity, and amusement.
“You’re dripping, sweetie,” said a smiling older woman.
Genuinely apologetic, I said, “I know; I’m sorry.”
The assistant hostess brought me a cup of hot steaming coffee. I warmed my freezing wet hands on the side of the Styrofoam containing my favorite beverage and looked like a miserable wet dog. A young waiter brought me another cup of coffee; one for each hand. I thanked him, too. Two other waiters kept eying my growing puddle of water at my feet and I offered to mop it up. They smiled and told me not to bother; they would take care of it after I’m seated.
Finally, I was lead to my table. Strip off the wet jacket, then the camel pack, the second jacket underneath, the dripping helmet on the floor under my table, and wiped my face of remaining water. My sleeve ends were wet and my T-shirt damp from rain blown in through the jacket vents. All I wanted was hot coffee to warm me.
I placed my order and made two phone calls while waiting for the rain to diminish. An hour later it was still drizzling but it was time to go. Back on with the gear. People watched me shrug on all the jackets and the camel pack. I felt conspicuous, but didn’t care. I must look like a monster with all this gear on.
Searching again, I finally found my other gloves. The sheepskin pad was soaked and felt cold through the gear on my butt and thighs. I warmed it up soon enough after sitting for a while.
Back on the interstate and miles to go.
Riding on two wheels with no stereo, my thoughts run wild: from pondering the evolutionary merit of laughter since it seems so universal (all primates laugh, other animals are thought to laugh; do lizards laugh?), singing songs from cartoons and movie soundtracks, composing my own songs (Windy, Wet and Cold This Way), to soliloquies inside my helmet. We all talk to ourselves; now it was audible rather than just silent conversations. Audible writing, so to speak. I wish I had a voice recorder.
Sunshine and blue sky just south of Lubbock. Yes!!!!!
No reason not to make Clovis. On we went.
The countryside was beautiful. Flowing agricultural land, the sweet smell of hay being harvested, familiar musky odors of cattle and horses, grain elevators, hay fields with waving light green and yellow headed grass, trucks stacked with green gold alfalfa which smelled rich in nitrogen, horses grazing and tails flicking flies. A life I lived and sometimes long for. Days of hard labor, but each day ending with a satisfaction and fulfillment that city life can’t even closely resemble. The reward of simplicity with physical and mental challenges. And a sense of worth and satisfaction at the end of each day.
Riding by this all was like half of my life passing by me, a movie on both sides of me and everywhere I turned. Those years of living in the woods and on the ranch in Maine and Oregon were the most rewarding in many ways. I felt a longing to lay out in the pastures again under the sun with the sheep nosing me and chewing their cud, the horses pulling grass with their teeth and the swish of their tails flicking flies. Or sitting outside on the porch in the deep of night with a canopy of stars and planets providing a silent movie overhead. The only words you hear are the thoughts inside your head. And the melodious cacophony of the coyotes echoing between the hills.
That was life.
And here I was, riding on two wheels through a movie of my own life reflected by the lives of others acting in their own movie. We are but all actors on this stage called life.
Smiling, I rode through rural Texas and crossed an imaginary line into New Mexico and finally into a town called Clovis.
I made it after all.
I turned on the heat in my motel room, stripped the bike and unpacked everything, hanging it all to dry, took a hot shower and fell asleep until the alarm rang at 6 am.
9.17.2006,5:37 AM
Read and Waiting
Here I sit
Broken hearted
Only to wait
Not yet departed.
I'm ready as I'll ever be. Trying to prepare any more becomes an exercise in futility.
Everything is packed except this laptop that I type on now. It's home is in a water and impact-resistant case which will be strapped onto the luggage rack, the two dry bags strapped on to that.
I woke with a raging headache. I have my own internal barometer: my head. When the barometric pressure drastically changes, the blood vessels in my head constrict and make my head pound. Coupled with ragweed season allergies, It's pounding now like a giant kettle drum.
Lightening is flashing all around me in the dark, thunder rolling and echoing as if I were in a chamber of nature's last passionate symphony. Watching the Doppler map on the computer, an electrical storm moves like an hurried inch worm from the south and directly through my intended path west to New Mexico.
Normally lightening storms are embraced by me, fueling my spirit. But this morning I do not greet the storm with welcome. I wish it to be gone; 'Move on, Storm. I want to leave now.' If only rain was the single element, I would not hesitate to depart. But electrical bolts with unfathomable power shooting around unpredictably is another element I do not wish to ride in. Especially after hearing yesterday of a rider killed by lightening on the road.
So I will sit here and wait, watching the radar, sipping my coffee in the dark.
Waiting, waiting
Forever more.
For that knock, knock
Knocking at my door.
Bang, boom
All around.
Go away, today
And I will leave town.
Broken hearted
Only to wait
Not yet departed.
I'm ready as I'll ever be. Trying to prepare any more becomes an exercise in futility.
Everything is packed except this laptop that I type on now. It's home is in a water and impact-resistant case which will be strapped onto the luggage rack, the two dry bags strapped on to that.
I woke with a raging headache. I have my own internal barometer: my head. When the barometric pressure drastically changes, the blood vessels in my head constrict and make my head pound. Coupled with ragweed season allergies, It's pounding now like a giant kettle drum.
Lightening is flashing all around me in the dark, thunder rolling and echoing as if I were in a chamber of nature's last passionate symphony. Watching the Doppler map on the computer, an electrical storm moves like an hurried inch worm from the south and directly through my intended path west to New Mexico.
Normally lightening storms are embraced by me, fueling my spirit. But this morning I do not greet the storm with welcome. I wish it to be gone; 'Move on, Storm. I want to leave now.' If only rain was the single element, I would not hesitate to depart. But electrical bolts with unfathomable power shooting around unpredictably is another element I do not wish to ride in. Especially after hearing yesterday of a rider killed by lightening on the road.
So I will sit here and wait, watching the radar, sipping my coffee in the dark.
Waiting, waiting
Forever more.
For that knock, knock
Knocking at my door.
Bang, boom
All around.
Go away, today
And I will leave town.
9.14.2006,10:07 PM
The Continuing Education of Whee: Quattro Parte. Whee gets new running shoes and gloves.
The alarm rudely awoke me from a good dream. I banged on the 'Sleep' button. It was no use; sleep was elusive, has been for a few weeks now.
Sigh.
Up at 4 am and start the ritual: toilet, coffee brewing, turn on laptop, stir together breakfast while waiting for caffeine fix and laptop to boot. Mind churning and stumbling over sleep residues and dream fragments. Oh God; I've been doing too much cloning at work. I now even sleep and think in DNA fragments and residues. Next I'll be reciting cutting enzymes in my sleep with giant hideous mutant fruit flies slapping my fingers if I forget one.
Checking email and weather nothing captivates my attention and the laptop is powered down to sleep. My little electronic friend that sits on the couch all day waiting for me to come home. The day I hear a voice when I open the door "Welcome home, Human!" I will hang up my computers.
All geared up and somewhere to go, pouring the remaining coffee in my thermos, I went out to pull the blanket off Whee: "Time to wake up, sleepy head!!"
The bike cover is covered with dew and my mesh pants are soon wet while removing it. Stuff items in side bags, trying to balance the load, and the wet bike cover is rolled in a wedge, shoved into the tailbag. Start Whee to warm up while I don the rest of my gear.
It's pitch black outside, hardly a sound except an occasional car out on the road. The only lights other than the neighbor's outdoor lamp are the stars. And they shine bright this morning. I smile while stealing a few moments gazing at the bright pinpoints in the dark ceiling overhead. Thinking of how different it may look when I am out of civilization and enter another dimension of humanless landscape. And I am reminded of someone who shares my affinity for the stars, wondering if he has stolen any time to gaze at them, too. And wondering what he sees as they are reflected in his mind.
Literally escaping campus early and snoozing on the train home, I dread navigating in rush hour traffic to the bike shop. I'm already late. Pulling up in front of the overhead door, the helmet and jacket are nearly ripped off; sweat is dribbling down my back and chest. We talk suspension after prefacing with jokes. I can't provide him with an accurate estimate of weight load on the upcoming trip, but I hazard a guess of 75-100 pounds. Not including me, which is a topic of light teasing given my feather weight.
So we roll the bike in and tinker with back preload, damping and then the front damping. I sit on the bike while measurements are taken, then asked to bounce it. Eyes roll at my attempts to bounce the bike with my featherweight body and Cliff has to manually bounce the front and rear with his own weight.
Taking a sideview while Cliff bounces it, his tech and I see how unbalanced it is. The front has greater rebound than the rear, which may account for why the front tire is wearing faster than the rear, and why bumps are so jarring. Cliff adjusts the front damping to match the rear and asks me to test ride it before Saturday.
I asked their opinion of the wear on the front tire: the tread is significantly worn compared to that on the rear. Everyone at last Tuesday night's Meet 'n Greet scratched their heads on this observation , commenting that the rear tire usually wears much sooner than the front. My hypothesis was that most of the weight is on the front with this bike. Cliff confirmed that explanation.
Although he felt the tread was sufficient enough for round-trip (~2500 miles), the tire would require replacing upon my return. That degree of uncertainty and probability was enough to instill a discomfort with the safety of the tire. For my own peace of mind, we agreed that it should be replaced. Of course another tire couldn't be located in the Metroplex area so we had to order a complete set of Tourance Dualsport tires to put on. That's a hard blow to the financial pocket.
Feeling benevolent, he scheduled the bike in for Saturday morning to put on the new set of tires and a set of Probend handguards on the bar to deflect the wind and keep my hands warmer. The 40 minutes of shivering in the dark on the way to the train station the other morning was...... uncomfortable.
Whee gets a new pair of running shoes and gloves, Rider gets a big hole in savings account and a new pair of insulated waterproof overpants.
Closer to Ready for Take-off........
Sigh.
Up at 4 am and start the ritual: toilet, coffee brewing, turn on laptop, stir together breakfast while waiting for caffeine fix and laptop to boot. Mind churning and stumbling over sleep residues and dream fragments. Oh God; I've been doing too much cloning at work. I now even sleep and think in DNA fragments and residues. Next I'll be reciting cutting enzymes in my sleep with giant hideous mutant fruit flies slapping my fingers if I forget one.
Checking email and weather nothing captivates my attention and the laptop is powered down to sleep. My little electronic friend that sits on the couch all day waiting for me to come home. The day I hear a voice when I open the door "Welcome home, Human!" I will hang up my computers.
All geared up and somewhere to go, pouring the remaining coffee in my thermos, I went out to pull the blanket off Whee: "Time to wake up, sleepy head!!"
The bike cover is covered with dew and my mesh pants are soon wet while removing it. Stuff items in side bags, trying to balance the load, and the wet bike cover is rolled in a wedge, shoved into the tailbag. Start Whee to warm up while I don the rest of my gear.
It's pitch black outside, hardly a sound except an occasional car out on the road. The only lights other than the neighbor's outdoor lamp are the stars. And they shine bright this morning. I smile while stealing a few moments gazing at the bright pinpoints in the dark ceiling overhead. Thinking of how different it may look when I am out of civilization and enter another dimension of humanless landscape. And I am reminded of someone who shares my affinity for the stars, wondering if he has stolen any time to gaze at them, too. And wondering what he sees as they are reflected in his mind.
Literally escaping campus early and snoozing on the train home, I dread navigating in rush hour traffic to the bike shop. I'm already late. Pulling up in front of the overhead door, the helmet and jacket are nearly ripped off; sweat is dribbling down my back and chest. We talk suspension after prefacing with jokes. I can't provide him with an accurate estimate of weight load on the upcoming trip, but I hazard a guess of 75-100 pounds. Not including me, which is a topic of light teasing given my feather weight.
So we roll the bike in and tinker with back preload, damping and then the front damping. I sit on the bike while measurements are taken, then asked to bounce it. Eyes roll at my attempts to bounce the bike with my featherweight body and Cliff has to manually bounce the front and rear with his own weight.
Taking a sideview while Cliff bounces it, his tech and I see how unbalanced it is. The front has greater rebound than the rear, which may account for why the front tire is wearing faster than the rear, and why bumps are so jarring. Cliff adjusts the front damping to match the rear and asks me to test ride it before Saturday.
I asked their opinion of the wear on the front tire: the tread is significantly worn compared to that on the rear. Everyone at last Tuesday night's Meet 'n Greet scratched their heads on this observation , commenting that the rear tire usually wears much sooner than the front. My hypothesis was that most of the weight is on the front with this bike. Cliff confirmed that explanation.
Although he felt the tread was sufficient enough for round-trip (~2500 miles), the tire would require replacing upon my return. That degree of uncertainty and probability was enough to instill a discomfort with the safety of the tire. For my own peace of mind, we agreed that it should be replaced. Of course another tire couldn't be located in the Metroplex area so we had to order a complete set of Tourance Dualsport tires to put on. That's a hard blow to the financial pocket.
Feeling benevolent, he scheduled the bike in for Saturday morning to put on the new set of tires and a set of Probend handguards on the bar to deflect the wind and keep my hands warmer. The 40 minutes of shivering in the dark on the way to the train station the other morning was...... uncomfortable.
Whee gets a new pair of running shoes and gloves, Rider gets a big hole in savings account and a new pair of insulated waterproof overpants.
Closer to Ready for Take-off........
,8:00 AM
The Whirlwind
Three days left before takeoff.
My head is a whirlwind.
So much to do.
So much leaving behind.
Threads unraveled
Loose ends.
Will they haunt me?
Can I leave them behind?
Only the ride will tell.
My head is a whirlwind.
So much to do.
So much leaving behind.
Threads unraveled
Loose ends.
Will they haunt me?
Can I leave them behind?
Only the ride will tell.
9.12.2006,4:26 AM
Adrenaline
Sail through an empty night
It's only you and I who understand
There is no plan
Run through the speed of sound
Every thing slows you down
And all color that surrounds you
Are bleeding to the walls
All the things you really need
Just wait to find the speed
Then you will achieve
Escape velocity
Too much is not enough
Nobody gave it up
I'm not the kind
To lay down and die
Get closer to the thrill
Only time will kill
What's in your eyes
Is so alive
Wilder than your wildest dreams
When you're going to extremes
It takes adrenaline
Excerted from "Adrenaline," by Gavin Rossdale (theme song for movie "Triple X" ).
9.10.2006,9:22 PM
Are We Ready Yet?
The last week and this weekend have been a constant blur of preparing for the upcoming trip. It is increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything else but. I feel like a little kid waiting for Christmas Eve.
Horns
Packages of last minute inventory arrived all week, with the last one yesterday: the horns. I ordered a set of Stebel TM80 horns for Whee to replace and upgrade the stock horn, which is the call of a weak sick bluebird. I wanted the honking of a thousand geese at my fingertip to blast drivers awake or scare deer out of the road. I wanted a horn on steroids.
The TM80s comprise of two horns: one a low tone, the other a high tone. It is the combination of the two that sound like an airhorn but without the size and draw of a horn with an air compressor. The TM80s are light, compact and have less draw. Coupled together they are equivalent or slightly louder than Stebel's compact air horn. And very effective.
Being totally oblivious of electronics, and feeling like a fish out of water, a fellow TWT rider and electronics whiz lent his expertise and tools to help me install the horns on Whee. This was also the first time that Whee has been 'undressed'. The front fairings and most of the cowl were removed. I am still amazed at the ingenuity and simplicity of design. Almost everything is 'plug and play', even the body parts. After spending an hour of cussing and sweat taking the battery out of the Honda Shadow this morning, I am grateful that the electrical heart of the Wee-strom is under the seat, easy and quick to access.
Chuck learned of my tendency for OCD at my insistance of color coding the wire ties and tieing the wires and harnesses together in the most difficult areas to access. Yellow ties mean horn wires are bundled together, yellow wire for one horn, blue for the other, green for ground.
The only drawback of todays Mini-tech Day was the fire ants.
Stuff
Also arriving this week were the following items, classified into a collective 'Stuff':
Now if I can only sleep.
Horns
Packages of last minute inventory arrived all week, with the last one yesterday: the horns. I ordered a set of Stebel TM80 horns for Whee to replace and upgrade the stock horn, which is the call of a weak sick bluebird. I wanted the honking of a thousand geese at my fingertip to blast drivers awake or scare deer out of the road. I wanted a horn on steroids.
The TM80s comprise of two horns: one a low tone, the other a high tone. It is the combination of the two that sound like an airhorn but without the size and draw of a horn with an air compressor. The TM80s are light, compact and have less draw. Coupled together they are equivalent or slightly louder than Stebel's compact air horn. And very effective.
Being totally oblivious of electronics, and feeling like a fish out of water, a fellow TWT rider and electronics whiz lent his expertise and tools to help me install the horns on Whee. This was also the first time that Whee has been 'undressed'. The front fairings and most of the cowl were removed. I am still amazed at the ingenuity and simplicity of design. Almost everything is 'plug and play', even the body parts. After spending an hour of cussing and sweat taking the battery out of the Honda Shadow this morning, I am grateful that the electrical heart of the Wee-strom is under the seat, easy and quick to access.
Chuck learned of my tendency for OCD at my insistance of color coding the wire ties and tieing the wires and harnesses together in the most difficult areas to access. Yellow ties mean horn wires are bundled together, yellow wire for one horn, blue for the other, green for ground.
The only drawback of todays Mini-tech Day was the fire ants.
Stuff
Also arriving this week were the following items, classified into a collective 'Stuff':
- A second sleeping bag. The Big Agnes is rated to only 50F. Checking the website for Taos at 9 pm tonight, it was 59F. I needed warmer sleeping conditions. The second bag is rated to 40F, high loft goosedown and a mummy bag. It's slightly heavier, but the two bags, the new one inside the BA bag, should be warm enough.
- In case it's not, a coolmax sleeping bag liner arrived as well. It will add another 8 degrees of warmth, and wick moisture away. I am a furnace at night. I sometimes glow in the dark, too.
- Wolfman Explorer Lite tank bag. I installed that yesterday morning. I'm not very pleased with the mounting system; it's not specifically designed for the V-stroms, rather the BMWs and KLRs. But it has a sloping bottom that fits on the gas tank nicely. I may have to fiddle with the mounting straps a bit before it is optimal. I will miss the inner compartment on the top flap that was in my smaller tank bag. This one has only a large zip pocket, no specific compartments for keys, wallet, pen, tire guage, etc. I'll have to improvise. The map area is awesome and it's comfy to lay on.
- The Motoboss rain suit arrived. As usual, the small is equal to a large on me. I swim in it. But it folds up compact and is truly waterproof. And it is red and black; my standard colors of choice.
- I ordered a pair of First Gear insulated overpants after freezing on the way to work the other morning. The insulating liner is removable and they are also purported to be waterproof. I especially like the leg-length two way zipper! I ordered a woman's size small; I hope they fit.
- I braved Walmart at 10 o'clock last night to pick up assorted items: bungee cords, tent repair kit, space bags (squeeze the air out), head lamp (very cool!), batteries, waterproofing, a light fleece zip overshirt with a high neck, boot socks, leatherman's tool, relfective tape...... I almost forgot to get food to eat this week.
- Every time I cross something off the list, I add something else later.
- The big one: I ordered a new laptop. A MacBookPro. Since this will be not only a road trip, but a writer's trip, I needed a computer that was dependable and easy. The Mac was the top choice based on input by three friends who use Macs. A recent demonstration of one of their laptops was enough to convince me. I will be using this to write, download and edit photos, and upload to a website and this blog on the trip. Hopefully an article at the end of the road will help recover the investment outlay.
Now if I can only sleep.
9.04.2006,5:07 PM
The Ride with Heart
Like an onion each of us is comprised of many layers, peeling them back at our discretion. But rarely do we reveal the core of what we are. Likewise each of us exists in varying time dimensions, a combination of our chronological age and accumulated ages formed from our experiences, memories and expectations. Sometimes I am a sixteen year-old, other times a wizened 80 year-old. I woke up feeling like I was twenty-five again and later felt I was timeless, an accumulation of hundreds of years and thousands of souls, their lives streaming in my veins as they screamed into their world, lived, loved and died. For a few moments I was caught in the great Milky Way of humanity, lost and unable to find solid ground.
It was time to go for a Rideabout.
I peered inside me to find the box containing my heart and saw that it was pried open. The lock had been picked and the lid was a jar. Inside sat my heart in the corner recesses, quivering and shaking. The months since it was pieced back together healed the jagged scars, the wounds now only blemishes.
"What's wrong, Heart?"
"I'm scared and I hurt."
Nodding acknowledgment, I opened the lid and took out my heart. It was time to ride, my Heart and I.
The gentle rain outside did not deter me. Gearing up with appropriate protection and determination, I took my Heart and put it on my sleeve. It's time we have a conversation, Heart and I. No more ignoring the twangs and hints, hiding from each other. If my Path is to have Heart, if I am to be strong, I have to know my Heart. I have to listen. And so I did.
"Where are we going?" asked Heart.
"Does it matter?"
"No."
Trusting myself and the bike, we navigated the waterlogged gravel and emerged on the wet grey and black ribbon of road. Snapping the faceshield down, the sounds of tires on water and tarmac were replaced by faint tapping of water drops on my helmet and jacket and rain pants. We became lost in the gear and helmet, the fog and rain a gossamer curtain separating us from the rest of the world around us. And we rode on, turning down roads with no real direction or destination. Just riding and passing reality as though we were in a time capsule and watching another world outside the windows as we sped by. The three of us; the bike, my Heart and I.
The silent conversation with Heart passed as voices in my head, whispers, snippets of poems and confessions from the past, and memories conducting forgotten cantations. All the while processing information from my surroundings: road conditions, traffic, weather, and engine. But riding with no direction or destination in mind.
Just ride.
"You can't hide again, you can't ignore me, not anymore."
"No. You're right."
"Welcome to Humanity. You aren't a robot anymore."
"It isn't easy, and it hurts."
"I know. But with that comes joy and love of life. You can't have one without the other. And it is the pair that makes us strong. And lights our Path."
"And gives it Heart."
"That's right."
I stopped on the side of a road on a barren hilltop and watched horses and cattle graze in the rain. They didn't mind being wet. Into every day, every life, a little rain must fall. Night and light heralds the cycle of the days, warmth and cold the seasons. Birth and death define life and we are all just a passing speck in time. I smiled sadly at my Heart and put it back inside to warm me. It sits outside its box and beats with strength and purpose, with life coursing through our veins; we are alive.
Soon both Heart and I will embark on an adventure, a Rideabout that will rejuvenate us both. And Heart will be there at the surface, filling with wonderment at the marvels we encounter. Our Path, and life, will be good.
On the way home my cheeks were moist, but I know my helmet doesn't leak.
It was time to go for a Rideabout.
I peered inside me to find the box containing my heart and saw that it was pried open. The lock had been picked and the lid was a jar. Inside sat my heart in the corner recesses, quivering and shaking. The months since it was pieced back together healed the jagged scars, the wounds now only blemishes.
"What's wrong, Heart?"
"I'm scared and I hurt."
Nodding acknowledgment, I opened the lid and took out my heart. It was time to ride, my Heart and I.
The gentle rain outside did not deter me. Gearing up with appropriate protection and determination, I took my Heart and put it on my sleeve. It's time we have a conversation, Heart and I. No more ignoring the twangs and hints, hiding from each other. If my Path is to have Heart, if I am to be strong, I have to know my Heart. I have to listen. And so I did.
"Where are we going?" asked Heart.
"Does it matter?"
"No."
Trusting myself and the bike, we navigated the waterlogged gravel and emerged on the wet grey and black ribbon of road. Snapping the faceshield down, the sounds of tires on water and tarmac were replaced by faint tapping of water drops on my helmet and jacket and rain pants. We became lost in the gear and helmet, the fog and rain a gossamer curtain separating us from the rest of the world around us. And we rode on, turning down roads with no real direction or destination. Just riding and passing reality as though we were in a time capsule and watching another world outside the windows as we sped by. The three of us; the bike, my Heart and I.
The silent conversation with Heart passed as voices in my head, whispers, snippets of poems and confessions from the past, and memories conducting forgotten cantations. All the while processing information from my surroundings: road conditions, traffic, weather, and engine. But riding with no direction or destination in mind.
Just ride.
"You can't hide again, you can't ignore me, not anymore."
"No. You're right."
"Welcome to Humanity. You aren't a robot anymore."
"It isn't easy, and it hurts."
"I know. But with that comes joy and love of life. You can't have one without the other. And it is the pair that makes us strong. And lights our Path."
"And gives it Heart."
"That's right."
I stopped on the side of a road on a barren hilltop and watched horses and cattle graze in the rain. They didn't mind being wet. Into every day, every life, a little rain must fall. Night and light heralds the cycle of the days, warmth and cold the seasons. Birth and death define life and we are all just a passing speck in time. I smiled sadly at my Heart and put it back inside to warm me. It sits outside its box and beats with strength and purpose, with life coursing through our veins; we are alive.
Soon both Heart and I will embark on an adventure, a Rideabout that will rejuvenate us both. And Heart will be there at the surface, filling with wonderment at the marvels we encounter. Our Path, and life, will be good.
On the way home my cheeks were moist, but I know my helmet doesn't leak.
"The truth is that strength lies in the interior of the Warrior: in his
heart, his mind and his spirit. The heart is essential in helping the
intellect to understand the spirit." - Miyamoto Musashi, The Book of Five Rings
9.02.2006,5:18 PM
The Continuing Education of Whee: Due Parte. Whee's check up.
Pulling in front of the Suzuki dealer in Fort Worth, I was relieved to be the first one there. A blue-shirted young salesman unlocked a front door and the first bike was backed out by another blue-shirted salesman. Impressed as he navigated a large clunky shiny cruiser backwards out the door and over the narrow incline into the sloped parking lot, I jokingly remarked, "You make that look so easy!". He smiled without looking up; to do so would risk dropping the heavy chromed mechanical god. "Yeah, ya get used to it after doing it every day".
Walking up to the service desk, I dumped my list on the counter and looked the service boy in the eyes: "My DL650 V-strom is in front for it's first routine servicing. Here's what I want done...." and proceeded to point out the items on the list: oil, clutch, airbox, air filter, new clutch handle (brought with me), adjust headlights, check the brakes, oil and check the chain, adjust throttle freeplay (it's too sloppy), and synchronize the throttle bodies.
"I'm quite aware that all the SV-twins have jerky throttle, what we riders call 'throttle whattle' and it's a pain in my ass. Please deal with it and you will have me as a loyal customer."
{gulp} "Yes, mam!"
"And I'll be sitting in the shop waiting."
Then the question came: "How many miles?"
Since I always use the tripmeter, I haven't checked the odometer in....... way too long. I switched it this morning as the bike warmed up and exclaimed "Holy Shit!!"
3958 miles.
Oops.
Finding a shiny round table, I unloaded my helmet, heavy sweaty Joe Rocket Ballistic jacket that kept me warm and dry, tank bag and set the left case lining from the side case on the floor next to the chair. I pulled out two giant books of maps, a pad of paper, ruler, and pencil and started to chart my route to Moab.
A Blue-shirt came up to me and set down a cup of coffee with creamer on the table. Thankful and charmed, I looked up to see a smiling face which I remembered from months ago.
"I see your ankle is healed and you got yourself a new bike."
"Yup, I did. I love it."
{nodding} "I love my Suzuki's, too."
"You still going on wild rides?"
"Of course; isn't that what it's all about?" he responded smirking.
I grinned, now able to empathize with the passion with which he relayed his stories to me months ago. "Sure is, indeed it is."
Asked about the maps, I explained my upcoming journey to Moab. Responses ranged from "You're insane", "Wow, cool!", "That's a long way", to "Where's 'Moab'?" The young Telephone Girl sat down and chatted with me about her trip to Colorado with her Dad, brother and sister. "Going through Texas was boring", a frequent comment by most anyone who has ridden across Texas. If I could move at light speed, I would be happy to drop down to reality speed when I reach the New Mexico/Texas border. But Whee hasn't quite mastered that feat.
I ran back to the service counter twice to add a few more items to the list. The young man working on my bike was courteous and gracious, but I suspect he already labeled me as "Pain in the Ass Customer". I deliberately smiled and thanked him every time to ease the pain.
Tired of sitting and bummed that Taos is 828 miles from me, I wandered outside and over to CycleGear next door to the shop. I needed a good rain suit, especially after last Sunday's adventure. Vocally grabbing a blue-shirted sales clerk (what is it with all the staff wearing blue?), I asked to see their rain gear.
I immediately shook my head to the Frogg Toggs. They work, but not for long distance riding. I wanted something with more substance. I liked the Motoboss red and black two-piece suits for several reasons: good construction, mesh lining, built-in storage bag in front, snap closure over front zipper, velcro sleeve cuffs, and elastic webbed and velcro waist belt and buckle. The pants flared at the bottoms, closing with velcro tabs so that they go over the boots. Elastic bottoms that ride up and don't cover the tops of boots don't make any sense. As usual, no smalls. No smalls anywhere in the computer. I was out of luck.
Or I could choose black.
No, I want some color other than all black. Commons sense: increased visibility is a good thing.
I thanked the staff for their help and attempts to locate a suit to fit me and left. But not after convincing the Blue-shirted clerk that the Wee-strom is a good choice for a dual sport bike. I think there will be another Assimilation soon.
Walking back to the shop, I saw Whee parked and ready. The two Blue-shirts behind the counter commented as I wrote a check:
"Your bike is really comfortable! I like it...a lot"
"Yeah, I think our trip to Galveston would have been less of a pain in the ass if we rode that thing."
"By the way, what do you call it?"
"Whee."
"W-e-e?"
"No, W-h-e-e. As in Wheeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!"
{laughing} "Oh, now I get it! I'll back it out for you if you write 'Whee-strom' on the reference on your check."
"Its a deal",
writing "Wheeeeeeee!!!!!!" on the reference line at the bottom of my check.
An hour and a half later while eating lunch at a sandwich shop near downtown Fort Worth, I called CycleGear in Bedford and was passed on to Tim the Giant. I explained that I liked and wanted a red and black MotoBoss two-piece rainsuit, but no smalls existed anywhere.
"Yup, you're right. There are none anywhere according to the computer." he said after checking himself. "Wait a minute. Can you hold?"
Three bites of my sandwich later:
"I found one, in Sante Fe, New Mexico. I called and they're sending it here."
"Tim, you are the Magic Man!!! You rock!"
Every day can be an adventure. If you are willing to let it happen.
Walking up to the service desk, I dumped my list on the counter and looked the service boy in the eyes: "My DL650 V-strom is in front for it's first routine servicing. Here's what I want done...." and proceeded to point out the items on the list: oil, clutch, airbox, air filter, new clutch handle (brought with me), adjust headlights, check the brakes, oil and check the chain, adjust throttle freeplay (it's too sloppy), and synchronize the throttle bodies.
"I'm quite aware that all the SV-twins have jerky throttle, what we riders call 'throttle whattle' and it's a pain in my ass. Please deal with it and you will have me as a loyal customer."
{gulp} "Yes, mam!"
"And I'll be sitting in the shop waiting."
Then the question came: "How many miles?"
Since I always use the tripmeter, I haven't checked the odometer in....... way too long. I switched it this morning as the bike warmed up and exclaimed "Holy Shit!!"
3958 miles.
Oops.
Finding a shiny round table, I unloaded my helmet, heavy sweaty Joe Rocket Ballistic jacket that kept me warm and dry, tank bag and set the left case lining from the side case on the floor next to the chair. I pulled out two giant books of maps, a pad of paper, ruler, and pencil and started to chart my route to Moab.
A Blue-shirt came up to me and set down a cup of coffee with creamer on the table. Thankful and charmed, I looked up to see a smiling face which I remembered from months ago.
"I see your ankle is healed and you got yourself a new bike."
"Yup, I did. I love it."
{nodding} "I love my Suzuki's, too."
"You still going on wild rides?"
"Of course; isn't that what it's all about?" he responded smirking.
I grinned, now able to empathize with the passion with which he relayed his stories to me months ago. "Sure is, indeed it is."
Asked about the maps, I explained my upcoming journey to Moab. Responses ranged from "You're insane", "Wow, cool!", "That's a long way", to "Where's 'Moab'?" The young Telephone Girl sat down and chatted with me about her trip to Colorado with her Dad, brother and sister. "Going through Texas was boring", a frequent comment by most anyone who has ridden across Texas. If I could move at light speed, I would be happy to drop down to reality speed when I reach the New Mexico/Texas border. But Whee hasn't quite mastered that feat.
I ran back to the service counter twice to add a few more items to the list. The young man working on my bike was courteous and gracious, but I suspect he already labeled me as "Pain in the Ass Customer". I deliberately smiled and thanked him every time to ease the pain.
Tired of sitting and bummed that Taos is 828 miles from me, I wandered outside and over to CycleGear next door to the shop. I needed a good rain suit, especially after last Sunday's adventure. Vocally grabbing a blue-shirted sales clerk (what is it with all the staff wearing blue?), I asked to see their rain gear.
I immediately shook my head to the Frogg Toggs. They work, but not for long distance riding. I wanted something with more substance. I liked the Motoboss red and black two-piece suits for several reasons: good construction, mesh lining, built-in storage bag in front, snap closure over front zipper, velcro sleeve cuffs, and elastic webbed and velcro waist belt and buckle. The pants flared at the bottoms, closing with velcro tabs so that they go over the boots. Elastic bottoms that ride up and don't cover the tops of boots don't make any sense. As usual, no smalls. No smalls anywhere in the computer. I was out of luck.
Or I could choose black.
No, I want some color other than all black. Commons sense: increased visibility is a good thing.
I thanked the staff for their help and attempts to locate a suit to fit me and left. But not after convincing the Blue-shirted clerk that the Wee-strom is a good choice for a dual sport bike. I think there will be another Assimilation soon.
Walking back to the shop, I saw Whee parked and ready. The two Blue-shirts behind the counter commented as I wrote a check:
"Your bike is really comfortable! I like it...a lot"
"Yeah, I think our trip to Galveston would have been less of a pain in the ass if we rode that thing."
"By the way, what do you call it?"
"Whee."
"W-e-e?"
"No, W-h-e-e. As in Wheeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!"
{laughing} "Oh, now I get it! I'll back it out for you if you write 'Whee-strom' on the reference on your check."
"Its a deal",
writing "Wheeeeeeee!!!!!!" on the reference line at the bottom of my check.
An hour and a half later while eating lunch at a sandwich shop near downtown Fort Worth, I called CycleGear in Bedford and was passed on to Tim the Giant. I explained that I liked and wanted a red and black MotoBoss two-piece rainsuit, but no smalls existed anywhere.
"Yup, you're right. There are none anywhere according to the computer." he said after checking himself. "Wait a minute. Can you hold?"
Three bites of my sandwich later:
"I found one, in Sante Fe, New Mexico. I called and they're sending it here."
"Tim, you are the Magic Man!!! You rock!"
Every day can be an adventure. If you are willing to let it happen.