Four Corners of the US
This journal is dedicated to my bride of forty three years.
These are the musings of a motorcycle enthusiast. I created them to offset a memory that is in retrograde and for my amusement. If I misspoke or dented someone’s feelings, I can assure you it was not intentional.
Prologue
During 2007, my wife, Margaret, and I booked a river cruise down the Rhone River in France. The river cruise was loads of fun with great food, booze, and sights to see. The trip back to the US, however, was a dream from Dante’s Inferno.
In France, the right to strike is enshrined within their Constitution. Just as we began our return trip to the US, a portion of the employees of Air France exercised that right. The outcome for us was a four day stay in Charles De Gaulle Airport and an education in the personalities of the Parisian French. Neither of these two subjects were found rewarding. The details of this delay in our travel plans would seem petty and frivolous, but it was a wound of a thousand cuts and remains fresh in my mind today.
On our ultimate return to the land of the free, I called the company with whom I had scheduled a motorcycle tour of the French, Italian and Swiss Alps the following year and canceled the trip. The dollar to Euro exchange rate was also high on the decision to back out of the motorcycle trip. The catalyst for this chemical reaction was derived from a conversation I heard at one of the Harley Davidson dealerships in South Carolina. During this conversation, one of the participants was expounding on the merits of a trip to the four geographic corners of the forty-eight contiguous states. I found the idea appealing and began what amounted to almost a year of planning and preparation.
I knew from the outset that this was not a trip I would take by myself. Not because I could not ride the routes by myself but because much of the joy of trip like this comes from sharing the experience with those who have similar predispositions for long distance motorcycle riding and its in-your-face relationship with nature and machine.
My first call was to Rex Decker in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma. Rex once lived in the same subdivision that I do now, Cedar Creek. We came to know each other through resident golf matches and short distance rides through out Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina and Tennessee. Rex and I were also members of a very loose knit group of motorcycle enthusiast residing here in the Cedar Creek subdivision. As participants within the Cedar Creek motorcycling community, we made several trips to the Honda Hoot in Asheville, NC and Knoxville, TN. But our first ride of substance was when we rode to the Sturgis, SD bike rally in 2005. This ride was about 4,600 miles in length. Our second long trip was to the west coast and took place after Rex returned to Oklahoma 
Now my planning began in earnest. The goal was to touch and record our visits to Madawaska, Maine, Blaine, Washington, San Ysidro, California and Key West, Florida. All the potential riders agreed that we wanted to stay off of the Interstate Hwy system as much as possible. During the planning, I solicited input from all riders to ensure that all had an input and that each contributed ideas about where to visit and routes to take based on their past experiences. I was very apprehensive about this issue. Although the trip was an idea that I had pirated from another rider, I did not want it to be my trip. You would have to ask the other riders if we was successful at this or not.
First challenge, when to begin the ride. Rex and I, based on our experiences, thought that August would be a good month. In that way, our trip through the northern states and Canada would not occur at a time when snow or ice was a possibility. Clearly, the price you pay for starting in August is that the southern states are breath robbing hot and humid during August. Mike Sena had a scheduling conflict which made commencing in June or July a non starter. So it looked like August was the date. Now when in August? It turns out that the Sturgis bike rally would be ending on Sunday, 9 August. Rex could leave Broken Arrow, OK at a time that would put him in Sturgis on the 9th. This meant that all the rest of us would have to put together a plan that would get us to Sturgis on the same day. Stu’s family was planning a holiday in Vermont at a location just a couple of hours south of a proposed route through Montpelier, VT during the first week in August. My fellow Cedar Creek riders declined the ride on the Parkway, so I planned to ride it alone.
Mike Sena’s scheduling conflict turned into a trip out of the country and put him outside the window to join us for the trip. Back to four riders. I coordinated departure dates with Rex, Stu and Steve though email and we came up with a plan. Stu would leave Key West during the last half of July and stay with me over night on his way north and then proceed on to his family in Vermont and their holiday. I would leave Aiken on the 31st of July and spend the night in Asheville, NC. This is a pleasant four to five hour ride that would be a good work up for the rides to come. On the 1st of August, I would depart Asheville and proceed via the Blue Ridge Parkway to Afton, VA and spend the night. The following day, the 2nd, I would ride Skyline drive and meet Steve Sena in Front Royal, VA. The two of us would then ride to Hancock, NY and spend the night. The next day, the 3rd, of August, on to Bethel, ME with a stop in Montpelier, VT to pick up Stu. From here, the trip was timed to meet Rex on the 9th. Strangely enough, it all happened just that way.
Through out the trip, I suffered, unjustly I might add, the slings and arrows of my fellow riding companions over my reliance, trust and commitment to my digital wonder the Garmin, Global Positioning System (GPS). What my fellow analog troglobites failed to comprehend was this marvel of technology does precisely what you ask it to do. It does this even if you don’t understand what you are asking it to do. So if there was a fault in navigation, I don’t recall any, the fault was mine not the GPS. At some point during the trip, Rex asked me over the CB if the GPS had a name. “You know”, he said, “like some are called Tom Tom’s. What do you call yours”? I told him my marvel of engineering required no such identification but was high on respect for its capabilities. As you might imagine, this did not satisfy Rex the troglobite and he pressed ahead by saying he thought “Sue Sue” was a good name. Realizing that this was going to come to an unhappy resolution, I peered into my GPS’ display screen seeking guidance from its binary conscience. Instantly, digital stuff is fast, there flashed before me a subliminal message, a fractional second of the word Sue. I smiled back at my wonder and announced to Rex and the world that my wonder was now Sue.
Sue has a helper. The helper is the software that is loaded on my pc on which you can create routes and then download them to Sue. I have been using the helper for years and have never had a problem. This trip was different. I spent months going over road maps, using a US Atlas, researching scenic rides, etc. The end result was a string of 27 routes that took us around the US and ended near Tallahassee, FL. These routes were used to calculate route times, hours on the road, starting and stopping points etc. When the time came to download all 27 routes into Sue’s memory, she had a fainting spell and began to flash some disturbing messages via her LCD. Sue was unable to absorb all of the data I was trying to pass to her. There were hours on the phone and chat rooms and emails with “technical” support, but none could find a cause for this conundrum. After my problem had been escalated to higher and higher “technical” bubbas, one finally came up with the answer. Sue was perfectly capable of absorbing 27 routes, but her creators never accounted for the number of via points that might be associated with the routes. Although no one ever said it, I think that I might have been the first person to create this many routes and try to down load them all at one time onto a Sue like device. The bubbas came up with a work around that would cause some small concerns later in the trip. I would need to find a pc that had a user with administrative permissions to download grouping of routes to Sue. Although this worked, kind of, it was not as clean as downloading routes from the helper to Sue.
In preparation, I had had the bike completely serviced to include a change of all fluids to including servicing of the front forks. I replaced the Metzler rear tire with a Dunlop Elite 3. I had, over the previous months, purchased a replacement tire repair kit, a tire inflation bottle, a set of metric and SAE hex wrenches, a bottle of LockTite, a bottle of Super Glue, multiple electrical tie downs, five motorcycle tie down straps and a variety of bungie cords. In addition, I carried two bottles of Novus plastic windshield cleaner and several microfiber cleaning cloths. The Novus in conjunction with the microfiber cloth are the best combination for cleaning a windshield of bugs and road grime without scratching the soft windshield. Because of the added weight, I also pumped up the rear and front shocks to 5 psi below their maximum pressures. (I had to repeat the procedure on the rear shocks once more during the trip.) With a final check of the GPS, XM radio, CB radio and iPod Nano the bike was ready to go.
It’s instructive to remember that with the exception of the motel in Sturgis, SD our group had intentionally planned to avoid making motel/hotel reservations. We did this for two basic reasons. First, it would take a lot of the spontaneity out of the trip and second, it would force us meet time lines that might deter us from stopping and smelling the roses.
Although we did not anticipate any really cold weather, I packed my cold weather upper and lowers, the heated vest, upper and lower long undies and my heated gloves. (I never used them.) I wore my ventilated leather jacket and packed my unventilated jacket and my rain gear. With three pairs of blue jeans, seven sets of socks, skivvies and T shirts, a water cooling vest, a dop kit, medication, first aid kit, road atlas, 1GB flash memory with routes, cell phone, digital camera and charging equipment for all the electronics, I was ready to hit the road.
Day 1
When I entered the Blue Ridge Parkway, I stopped the bike and took a pic of the sign entering the parkway. It was so dark, you can hardly tell what the pic is. Oh well, onward.
It is hard to explain just how alone I was on the parkway. For almost 400 miles of riding, I passed three cars and was passed by none. I rode for hours and never saw another vehicle. It was very weird, but wonderful. The get-going-early event had many rewards, but mostly it was the sunrise. I had a dozen views over and between mountains of a most glorious sunrise. As a bonus, the classic air quality that gives the Smokies their name was in abundance. 
The Blue Ridge Parkway west of Asheville is a superbikers dream. Lots of tight turns with climbs and dives stimulating the soul, IV pushing adrenalin and challenges to one’s riding skills.
North east of Asheville the Parkway smooths out a little and is a touring bikes dream. Soft corners that allow star gazing while carving the turn. There are farm and mountain vista that drug you into a zone of pleasure and relaxation. In the background and between your legs…the rumble of 88 cubic inches of American history. What’s not to like?
The Blue Ridge Parkway ends in Afton, VA. I spent the night nearby and slept really well that night.
Day 2
Hit the road the next day at 6AM and started my second day immediately on Skyline Drive. Skyline Drive is just over 100 miles in length and is a wonderful experience. A lot of the riding is bracketed on three sides by the hardwoods. These trees make a tunnel of the road and generate almost permanent shade. This riding condition does not give you the same grandiose views offered by the Blue Ridge. It does, however, have lots of wildlife in the form of turkeys, deer and black bear. All of which I saw. I was sad when it ended in Front Royal, VA, but I was gladdened when my rendezvous with Steve Sena 
Day 3
We arose the next AM to a threat of rain. We suited up and hit the road. It was just a short ride until we entered the Catskill Mountains and were treated to a variety of scenic pleasures even though it was overcast and rained off and on. After an hour or so of riding we stopped for gas and were rewarded with a café next door. 
Once Stu, Steve and I hooked up in Montpelier, we found a place to have lunch and catch up on how everything was going. This is a college town with its share of young coeds strolling around even in the summer. The town may be one of the smallest capital cities in the US.
Day 4
Its eye opening. The impact geography and weather have on things some of us take for granted. For example, here in the south, the condition of the roads, for the most part, is good if not great. Now, when I say roads, I am referring to the US highways and the state and county roads. I have no interest in the Interstate highway system when it comes to motorcycle riding. Most riders don’t. But the good road conditions here are, to a large part, due to the fortunate mild weather that we have in the south east. As you motor north, beginning with Pennsylvania, you will note a gradual decline in some of the back roads of the north east. It’s not because our northern brethren don’t care, it’s because the damage to their road systems is a continuing thing brought on by inclement weather and the damaging cycle of rain, snow and freezing temperatures. The ability of the locals to keep up with this damage is a function of political will, money and priorities. This phenomenon was in evidence in abundance as we traversed Vermont, New Hampshire and Maine. Mind, all the roads and all segments of the roads are not in poor condition but many have sections that are under repair and this is where the cross country biker had better be on his toes.
Our group of three was well aware of these hazards and I hope we demonstrated good head work and motorcycling skills as we traversed these dangerous parts. These construction sites normally will have a combination of gravel, steel plates, metal grills, narrow bridges, diverted road ways and any other device that can reach out and bite a biker. Add rain and you have a soup that can swallow an upright bike. I can not speak for my fellow riders, but these conditions give me the creeps and make for adrenalin generating moments.
It’s a rule that when you think you have a thing mastered that the thing jumps up and bites you in the butt. I know this rule so I expect something to happen. The problem is I lack the ability to figure out when it’s going to happen. I try to stay very focused on riding in these conditions but after a while, this condition of focus becomes tiring. I don’t mean boring tiring, I mean exhausting. So, you unwillingly start to lose you intense focus and that’s when it happens! It’s always so simple. Something you have done a hundred times before now takes on the difficulty of a moon shot. For example, we were riding on small gravel that was inches deep in mud and water and we were crawling along just barely able to maintain headway because of the backed up traffic in front of us. We were forced to stop in this mess because a flag man had stopped the whole lane of traffic. Panic, I don’t want to stop. I have 900 pounds of metal and me balance precariously on two small patches of rubber. Stopping means putting my feet down in nasty stuff that may cause my boots to slip out from under me. Did I say I did not want to stop? Well, we stopped anyway and without disaster and now I have the added chore or metabolizing pounds of adrenaline. I keep asking myself, “What’s the big deal”? “Are you a girly man or something”? I don’t have a clue why I get so up tight about these conditions, but I know that most of my “moments” on a bike occur at speeds less than five miles an hour. This biking stuff is fun. On we go in the rain. It’s off and on all day to our first corner of Madawaska, Maine.
It’s on this leg of highway 11 that Stu exhibits a riding characteristic that will remain for the rest of the trip. Stu has this thing about any vehicle in front of him. He must pass that vehicle. The only salvation from this riding quirk is for the vehicle in front to be pulling away at a substantial rate. It is of no consequence what the speed limit is, how fast we are going, how fast the vehicle in front is going, we are going to pass. Now passing vehicles in a pack of riders is not the same as passing in a car or even on a single bike. If you want the pack to stay as one, you must pass and maintain the passing speed long enough that you create enough room between you and the passed vehicle for you and the following riders to fit. Additionally, the following riders must generate speeds in excess of your speed to catch you and pass the subject vehicle. So if you, as lead, pass a vehicle and do not maintain the passing speed until the pack is together again, you will have the pack crawling up your back side as they attempt to slow down to your speed. It’s a riding skill that every pack leader must master. Stu is an expert at this maneuver. To his credit, he never once passed a vehicle that put him or his following pack in a dangerous position. To accomplish this maneuver repeatedly, however, we, as a group, achieved some pretty amazing velocities that gave me pause. But, perhaps we are back to the girly man thing again.
Madawaska, ME is the northeastern most town in the US. It has a strong French influence because New Brunswick Province is just across the Saint John river and Quebec Province is just a stones throw from there. 
I must regress. Earlier, we had passed through the town of Ft. Kent, ME and had stopped to photograph ourselves in front of the sign documenting we had visited the northern most end of US Hwy 1. We would do this again at the southern end of the highway. When we found no rooms in the inns of Madawaska, a friendly lady in one of the motels called around and found us rooms in a motel. Where? Back in Ft. Kent at a motel, the Northern Door Inn, that was in the background of the pictures we had taken earlier that day at the end of US Hwy 1. These events and coincidences make the bad roads and rain all worth while. I can still feel the smile that came across my face as I turned into the parking lot to realize we had returned to the same motel we had visited earlier.
Day 5
Steve and I pressed ahead to the destination, pulled off to check voice mails. Steve had a message from Stu telling us where he had acquired rooms. Steve did a good job of finding the motel. We unpacked the bikes, stored them in a garage, the only time they would be covered the entire trip, and retired to our rooms. This was a good time to relax from the day’s adventure, tell lies about who did what and partake of the pale blue liquid. Since we spent close to an hour relaxing, we decided that riding the bikes to dinner was unwise. We got a lead from the desk person and started hoofing it to the restaurant. It was about a half mile away. On the way, we passed a night baseball game that was probably AAA or semi-pro type. The fans were having a good time.
The restaurant was a Lone Star type steak house and after a huge but average rib eye and a glass of red vin ordinaire, we hiked back to the hotel. On the way, we passed the ball park again and stopped for no more than ten minutes to watch the game when a pitch was knocked over the fence and drove in several runners to end the game. How cool is that! We all slept well that night.
Day 6
Two things happened at the station that I found of note. First, the attendant came out to every car and bike, removed the nozzle from the pump and lifted the leaver to start the pump then handed the hose to you so you could do your own refueling. He spoke not a word to me during this process. You still had to pay inside. To this day, I have no clue why he used these procedures. Second, after refueling, when I tried to start my bike, the starter solenoid just clicked and the motor did not turn over. Stu recommended that I let it sit for a while then try again. Sounded good to me so I went inside and purchased a Coke. When the Coke was finished, I tried the starter and the bike cranked right up. This event was to surface again later in way that did not end so easily.
Day 7
The next morning we departed Sault St. Marie and worked our way west and south until we intersected US Hwy 2. We followed Hwy 2 until it intersected US Hwy 8. Hwy 8 took us west through Wisconsin and halfway across Minnesota to a small town called Forest Lake just north of St. Paul. Here we bedded down for the night. We had some pleasant riding across the upper peninsula and Wisconsin but nothing sticks in my mind as memorable.
Day 8
Not so the following morning. I hit the road with the intention of transiting St. Paul on a series of interstates. Stu had mentioned that he would prefer to use the bypass but I held tight to my route. Since Sue had been told to take the shortest route, she took us off the interstate at one point and then put us back on again a mile or two later. I could sense that this was going to come up at a later time and that I was due some heat for Sue’s literal translation of shortest route. To keep this issue alive and as the gods would have it, the interstate we were on came to a dead end for construction. There was nothing to indicate where we should go to detour around the construction. I pulled over and instructed to Sue to recalculate the route. While she was working on this problem, Stu, with an understandable degree of irritation, took the lead and we were off back down the same stretch of interstate to find and turn onto the bypass. By this time, of course, Sue had a solution but we were off on a course that would do as well if not better. Sue and I both felt like we had let the pack down, so we brought up the rear with our tail between our legs. We circumvented St. Paul and drove south on I-35. Stu took a sort cut from I-35 to US Hwy 14 via state road 80. We took fuel on and Stu wanted me take the lead again. Sue had a route to return to Hwy 14, but it did not initially head west. More derision from the pack.
The roads in South Dakota were a continuation of what we had seen in Minnesota and led to an interesting town call Pierre, (pronounced pier)SD scheduled to be our bed down spot for the day.
We checked in to the motel and endured the two surliest attendants we experienced the entire trip. They were good for one thing, I must admit. They recommended the Cattleman’s Club about nine miles out of town, claiming it had great steaks. We had heard this before. Nonetheless, we hopped on the bikes and made the trek and were rewarded with a restaurant with a beautiful view of the Oahe Lake. This is a strange looking lake because it appears to be more like a wide river than a lake. The lake takes its name from its name sake the Oahe River that flows into South Dakota from North Dakota and joins the Cheyenne River north of Pierre. There is a dam just north of Pierre that creates a reservoir/lake that backs up into the Cheyenne and Oahe river valleys. There is a second dam down steam, Ft. Randall Dam, in Pickstown, SD which creates the lake in front of the Cattleman’s Club.
We took pictures of everything and then set out to town and the motel. On the way, Stu, I believe, spotted an antique car display in the parking lot of a McDonalds. We pulled over and took pictures and spoke with some of the car owners. It’s these little unintended detours from the planned trip that make our journey such a joy. Stu struck up a conversation with a particular owner who, in my judgment, was the biggest con guy around. He told one story after another about the car he had created that simply did make any technical sense. I think he just lied. We were there about 30 minutes and Stu spent most of that time with the con artist attempting to glean truth from BS. I am sure it was a waste of his time but interesting nonetheless and typical of Stu,s attraction to the unique and bohemian aspects of life.
Day 9
Sue found the motel with ease and we were soon shaking hands and patting backs as Rex was introduced to Steve. There was little time to waste, so we mounted back up and headed to downtown Sturgis.
Sturgis is most famous for being the location of one of the largest annual motorcycle events in the world, which is held annually on the first full week of August. Motorcycle enthusiasts from around the world flock to this usually sleepy town during the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally.
This from Wikipedia: “The first rally was held on August 14, 1938, by the "Jackpine Gypsies" motorcycle club (who still own and operate the tracks, hillclimb, and field areas where the rally is centered). The first event was called the "Black Hills Classic" and consisted of a single race with nine participants and a small audience. The founder is generally considered to be Clarence "Pappy" Hoel. He purchased an Indian Motorcycle franchise in Sturgis in 1936 and formed the "Jackpine Gypsies" that same year.
The focus of the motorcycle rally was originally racing and stunts. In 1961, the rally was expanded to include the Hillclimb and Motocross races. This could include half-mile track racing (the first year in Sturgis, there were 19 participants), intentional board wall crashes, ramp jumps and head-on collisions with automobiles.
The Sturgis Rally has been held every year, with exceptions during WW II. As an example, in 1942, the event was not held due to gas rationing.
In recent years, there has been a revitalization of motorcycling and a new group of fans that are interested in the old rallies. This has led to huge attendance numbers for classic rallies such as Sturgis. Attendance was estimated at 514,951 in 2004, 525,250 in 2005 (this is close to the population of South Dakota) and 754,844 in 2000. Many of the new attendees of the Sturgis Rally are families, bringing their children and driving trailers and campers to the rally, riding their motorcycles the last few miles. This has prompted several of the attendees to start wearing patches and shirts saying "I Rode Mine to Sturgis" with the date instead of the traditional patch stating that the wearer attended the event in that year.”
Day 10
I was still huffy at the lack of respect tendered Sue so I passed the baton to Stu and Steve to lead us out of Sturgis. They spent an hour or so huddled together putting finishing touches on their planned route through a portion of the Black Hills.
The two of them did a superb job and Steve led us through the hills missing only one turn that he managed to fake. It was well done and I enjoyed the leisure of taking up the rear and smelling the roses.
Speaking of incongruous, in the parking lot of the Crazy Horse Monument was a Harley Davidson 40 footer with a half a dozen historical bikes inside. The display was only mildly interesting and took less than two minutes to see it all and depart. Oh, while I am on the subject of departing, as we exited the HD display, a rider with a brown padded leather helmet that rose to a point like an upside down ice cream cone on his head with huge aviator goggles astride a 60’s vintage panhead cranked his motor and rode off into the hills. He was a sight! You meet the weirdest people on a Harley.
We stopped to get gas at the intersection of I-90 and Hwy 585 close to the town of Sundance. We also stopped at one of the very few fast food places on the entire trip. This place was a Subway. The place was packed.
Stu assumed the duties as pack leader and we headed out north on a surprise visit to the Devils Tower National Park. Thus begins one of the strangest and scariest days on a motorcycle I have ever experienced. Given the nature of the park and its role in the movie “Close Encounters of a Third Kind”, our experience was nothing less than “otherworldly”.
Like most of these things, everything seems normal with little warning of what is to come. The ride to Devils Tower was fun. The roads were terrific and Stu appeared to be successfully dodging thunderstorms along our route. We were not dressed for rain. There is a trading post just at the base of the tower and we stopped for a pee break, butt rest and the opportunity to suit up for what looked like a high percentage encounter with rain of some sort. I mentioned to Stu that he had been really lucky avoiding the rain. Although he will deny it now, he then harrumphed at my denial of his cloud avoidance skills and opined that luck had nothing to do with it. He assured me it was all experience and an in depth knowledge of meteorology salted with some Key West VooDoo that he doo so well. I, on the other hand, stung by this obvious rebuke of my opinions, noted that he would probably rue these comments at some time in the future. I would soon learn just how prescient my comments were to be.
I must digress. While we waited for a squall to pass over, we struck up conversations with several of the bikers who were also waiting out the rain. Of note were two really hard looking guys who were keeping separate from the others. This was too much to let pass. I asked them where they were from and was surprised to hear that they were from down under. Their accents were thick as maple syrup and just as sweet. I love the Aussies and Kiwi’s. These two guys were Harley owners back home but found that it would be too expensive to ship their bikes to the US compared to renting. That may be true, but the last time I looked it was $450 for five days. So, the duo were on a seven week tour of Canada and the US and had just left Sturgis and were headed into British Columbia. We spent some time talking bikes and trips we had been on until it was time to go. In the mean time we noted a white HD touring bike that looked like it had been in a mishap. On closer inspection, remember the rules, the bike was from British Columbia and clearly had been rear ended. There was a group of bikes with BC license plates and one of these guys approached me as we were checking out the bikes. He was really friendly and told us that when their group was leaving Sturgis, the white bike had stopped at a stop sign after one of his guys in front had stopped and then proceeded through the intersection. One of his fellow riders hit him squarely on the rear fender with his front wheel and did a job on the fender. The rider dropped his bike but was not injured. All were tail dragging at this show of amateur riding skills. This group set off just as the rain started to slack off.
As the rain stopped, Stu, then Rex then I set off toward Montana. Again we danced around thunderstorms for perhaps an hour. I could just hear Stu!
As we got closer, the lightning continued but was now invisible due to the darkness that was surrounding us. Then the rain came. Sheets and sheets of it blowing sideways from left to right. The combination of darkness and rain made Rex’s bike disappear from my sight. I was scared silly I was going to plow into him from the rear. I was already at a crawl but blind to the road. I could not see the road. What I mean is, I could not see the road below my feet. I tried to stop several times, but every time I thought I was going to be able to put my feet down, the wind, at approximately 70+ knots, would gust and almost blow me and the bike over and I would have to continue to stay upright. I was finally able to bring the bike to a stop and get both feet on the ground. I still could not see my feet. I turned my windshield and fairing into the wind to protect myself from the stinging rain when we were assaulted with nickel to quarter size hail. Since I was still holding the bike upright, I was committed to holding on to the left handle bar and my hand withstanding the beating from the hail. I have no idea how long the worst of the storm lasted, but it seemed to go on forever. In reality, the worst probably lasted no more than several minutes. As the wind slackened slightly, I looked around and saw that I had miraculously missed Rex and he was a bike’s length behind me and to my right. Stu was also to my right but a bike’s length in front. The hail continued to blast us until I noticed an 18 wheeler slowly coming in our direction in the apposing lane. He stopped next to us serving as a shield that protected us from the worst of the storm. We will never know if this was intentional or just coincidence. I like to think he was helping us out. The truck gave me an opportunity to put the kickstand down and dismount the bike and turn my back to the storm. With my helmet on, leather jacket and rain gear on, hands in front of me, I could weather the elements without much discomfort.
Two lessons here: Don’t screw with mother nature, and there is no fool like an old fool.
This is a neat tale to recount but I was personally embarrassed that I had demonstrated so little respect for weather that I knew was dangerous. What’s more, I did not press my fellow riders, who are close friends, to pull over and wait the storm out. Only luck separated us from a possible preventable injury. Thank the sages I did not have to live with the memory of an injured friend. Never again!
We settled on a Holiday Inn in Miles City, Montana. It was at this motel that we began to sleep three to a room with a rollaway bed. As usual, we checked with the locals on a place to eat and were guided down the road to a restaurant just a few blocks away. It happens we were out of the blue elixir so we pulled into a combo casino, road house and liquor store on the way to supper. These places are great! It was smoky and there were only three or four customers to be found with one bellied up to the bar. It was Rex’s turn to buy, so he picked out a bottle and was paying the lass behind the register. The guy on the bar stool was tall and lanky and from Texas. I know he was from Texas because our ambassador at large struck up a conversation with him while Stu and I listened as the Texan, Rex and the bar maid got to be old friends. I have said it before, but it’s pure enjoyment to watch and listen to Rex do his thing. There is no person regardless of gender, race or station in life that Rex can not find some intersection of his life with theirs. It comes to him as natural and easy as drawing his next breath. What a wonderful personality trait to possess.
Chow time! The restaurant was classic small town, but they had Specials of the Day and today’s special was chicken fried steak. I have no recall of what Rex and I ate, but I sat across from Stu and watched him place forks of the damnedest concoction of batter fried Salisbury steak invisible under a comforter thick layer of colored flour gravy in the opening on his face surrounded by a straggly gray beard. I do remember that I lost most of my appetite at the specter. Girly man again! I was sure he would have a coronary on the spot. You know what? I probably ordered the same thing and Stu was having the same visuals. Nah… never happen.
Day 11
It’s a brand new world the next morning. Target destination is East Glacier, Montana, 450 miles and some of the greatest plains country in the world. We headed north on Hwy 59, then west on Hwy 200 then 87 to Great Falls, Montana. From the start of this leg, we encountered substantial head winds but gave them little notice as our sturdy steeds were well capable of handling this weather. The plains were a combination of agricultural grains and cattle sustaining grass lands. A wonder to the eye these vistas stretching to the horizon. We made our first gas stop and I was rewarded with a traveled leg in which I made 24 miles to the gallon. This was down from approximately 40 miles to the gallon on previous legs. Rex and Stu were also down but just a couple of miles per gallon. I wrote the phenomenon off as the result of riding at 70 plus mph for long stretches on the last leg. It was the same story at the next fuel stop and I began to worry that there was something amiss with the steed. If this continued, the trip was going to be a lot more expensive than I had planned. Worse, however, was the paucity of gas stations in this part of the country and we would need to stop every hundred miles or so just to ensure I could make it to the next station down the road.
At this station, Sue found a HD dealership in Great Falls, Montana and she provided the phone number. I called the dealership and made an appointment for them to check out the bike. I was bummed. This stop was probably going to make us miss East Glacier that day. I would be more bummed as the day wore on.
On a previous trip to East Glacier, Rex and I had been warned by some locals at a restaurant that we should avoid Browning, Montana if we could. The locals explained that the town was mostly native Americans and that they had a very high crime rate with pale faces being their targets on occasion. We took this to heart then and rode through the town without stopping. Rex and I shared this story with Stu but when we got to Browning, I HAD to stop for gas.
I believe it was an Exxon or Esso station and it was mobbed with customers and lots of other folks just milling around. I gassed up and moved the bike to the road side away from the crowd. While I waited for Rex and Stu, not more than 10 minutes, two separate police cars on two separate occasions pulled up to the station, put someone in hand cuffs and took them away. This was a rough place and we hurried out of town towards East Glacier.
The ride from Browning to East Glacier was smooth and a visual pleasure but the fact that the sun was setting and giving beautiful vistas also announced the onset of darkness. When we arrived in East Glacier, there was not a motel room to be found. At one of the motels, there was a very pleasant young woman with toddler who called all over the place trying to find us a room. She called every place within a 50 mile radius with no luck. It looked hopeless. I was contemplating catching some shut eye on the couches in the East Glacier National Park Lodge. We decided to try the lodge and get some chow. We parked outside the lodge. It’s huge and beautiful. 
This person was a strange apparition. She was taller than I and had me by at least 20 pounds. I was introduced but continued to mount my steed. Rex told me he had offered to buy the person a hamburger inside and that we all needed food. I tried to beg off because of the failing light but it was a hopeless effort. The café was crowded but we managed to find a table in a corner and to get a waiter to help us with our hamburger order. Tommy was not eating! Why were we here I asked silently to myself? With the order placed, Tommy regaled us with stories of multiple motor cycles and Porches she owned. She revealed that she was on a long distance solo bike trip on her way to meet some friends. I took an almost instant dislike to this person because I believed her stories to be untrue and meant to impress. The stories included events during which she outran cops on her Suzuki Hyabusa 500 HP rice rocket. Her description of her life seemed to me out of context with her gender. A pig I may be, but this person fit none of the attributes I associate with a woman. I immediately jumped to the irrational conclusion that she may not have been a she. Later that night, Stu intoned that he felt the same way. Our judgment may have been unfair but this person climbed way pass the weird index on the personality meter.
We finally managed to eat, pay our bill and hit the road leaving Tommy to return to her life. The sun was well passed the horizon and the streets were dark in the “shade” of the trees lining the road. It was 45 miles to St. Mary’s and another five to the cabin. The way was mountain twisties with no shoulder markings and passing through free range cattle country. I lead the way and Sue advised me when turns were upcoming and how sharp they were. She was a life saver. After about 10 minutes of night mountain riding, I became cold with my summer gear on and began to shiver. While I was trying not to bite my tongue from my teeth banging together, I rounded a turn and there in the road were several BLACK angus cattle with many more on the shoulders and even more grazing within a few meters of the road. There was never a real threat of hitting one of these cows, but it was very disconcerting and added to the overall apprehension of this night ride. With teeth chattering, we pressed ahead and finally found St. Mary’s and then the cabin. To my fellow riders credit, they did a superb job of hanging on and even saw a sign to our cabin that I had missed.
I don’t recall the exact time of night, but I believe it was between nine and ten PM when we pulled up next to our cabin. Finding the cabin was no easy chore. It was dark as the inside of a can of fishing worms and the cabin numbers were nailed to the side of the cabins and were about the same color. Once located, we discovered that the cabins were actually duplexes and that we had neighbors. There were no street lights and not one cabin had a light on in a window. There were no telephones or TVs in the cabins so I guess everyone hit the hay early. I was sure we had awoken the entire community with our Harley pipes but no one complained or even turned on a light. We stumbled around in the dark trying to find a place to park the bikes and then unload them. Once in the cabin, the first order of business was to partake of a little pale blue elixir and unwind from a long and hard day of riding. Rex had gotten some ice while we were checking in at the lodge. While this was happening, each of us took turns using the shower and I shaved. This done, Stu agreed to sleep on the box springs of one bed and I would sleep on the floor using the mattress. Rex got the other bed. I was so tired, I slept like a log until sunup.
Day 12
Stu was missing from the cabin when I awoke. It was weird. I probably should have been concerned, but I was not the least. He had not had a good night on the box springs and had arisen early and departed for the lodge so as to not disturb his riding mates.
After breakfast, we started up the hill to the cabin when Stu noticed the gift shop was open. Stu went in to buy a copious number of post cards. He writes to all of his family and even creates poetry for some of the cards while he travels. It’s one of his more enduring traits and I am jealous of his discipline to continue this throughout the journey.
Rested and fed, we started out again. There are two motorcycle navigable roads into Glacier Park. The northern most is a dead end that starts at St. Mary, MT and passes Lake Sherburne to terminate in a hikers terminal with a general store, showers, toilets, etc. This is also the road our cabin was on so we turned toward the dead end. We 
The second road is referred to as the Rainbow Highway and bisects the park from St. Mary to West Glacier. The reference to a rainbow escapes me because we saw none. We did see lots of road construction, gravel repair sections and stop and go traffic. It was tiring and no fun but there more than a few beautiful sights to snatch between all of the above distractions.
Because of the traffic, this leg added an hour or more to this days riding so when we arrived at Three Corners, Idaho we were ready for a break. We gassed at Three Corners but there was no inn. With instructions from the friendly natives, we headed south to Bonners Ferry and the Kootenai Wildlife refuge. We found refuge at the Best Western Kootenai Travel Inn and Casino situated on the Kootenai River. Checked in but there were no no smoking rooms available. The helpful staff advised that they possessed a system whereby they fumigated rooms with some inert gas but it would take about an hour to do and for the room to clear. We immediately bought in to this wonderful technology and sought directions to the bar. The bar was a combo restaurant, but its salient feature was approximately forty feet of floor to ceiling windows that overlooked the Kootenai River. It was the perfect place to unwind, and we did with a couple rounds of hootch. The room was announced ready and we schlepped our stuff to the room. Since we had imbibed, we avoided the bikes and ordered pizza and began doing some laundry. With food and booze in our tummies and the clothes folded and repacked Rex and I watched a little news on the tube while Stu settled in on the veranda with a cigar and his writing stuff to document the day’s events. It had, overall, been a great day!
Day 13
From this northern location in Idaho there are no roads west that cross the Kaniksu Forest and the Kootenai and Priest rivers. So the next morning we headed north up US 95 into British Columbia to revisit our northern neighbors. We continued north until we hit Hwy 3 in BC then put the sun to our backs and head west until we have crossed the Kootenai, Priest and Pend Oreille rivers and its south back into the states. We enter Washington state and continue south until we find Hwy 20 west.
Now begins, perhaps, the most scenic leg of our trip. Hwy 20 runs the entire width of Washington state and crosses the northern Cascade mountain range. But, before you get to the Cascades, you are entertained with natures warm up band of the Kaniksu Forest, the first of two crossings of the Columbia River, Okanogan National Forest and the Pasayten Wilderness. All terrific examples of natures wonder.
Back on our mag wheels, the large sweeping turns are replaced with gentle twisties that follow the banks of the Skagit River all the way to our transition to a northern trek to Blaine, WA. Wow! Make Washington’s Hwy 20 one of the ten things you see before you die.
Its been a 500 mile day as we arrive at our second corner, Blaine, WA. Blaine is a small sea port town on Boundary Bay that may have been a fishing village but is now mostly tourist. Rex spots a likely motel and we drop kickstands in the parking lot.
When I dwell on the memories of this or any other bike ride, I return to the following with a wonderful sense of satisfaction: The ride, new experiences, eating excitement, the companionship of good friends, and the occasional toddy all combine at the end of the day to produce a sense of comfortable fatigue. I cherish and crave this fatigue. I thank the alignment of the stars and the fickle finger of fate that permits these experiences of retirement.
Day 14
The following AM we head out to the Blaine Post Office to photograph ourselves at the second corner. Without hesitation, Stu rides up on the sidewalk with Rex and I in trail and promptly blocks the entrance to the post office. 
The ride across Widby Island was uneventful. This was a disappointment because I was hoping it would be scenic. The ride back to the mainland on the ferry boat Cathlamet was fun but too short. We had time to get a drink and a readymade sandwich and it was time to mount the bikes and exit the ferry. (Oh, did I mention that I was asleep at the helm and missed a turn on Widby Island after Sue warned me! Probably not. We lost twenty minutes while I screwed around trying to get back on track.
Off the island, we head south east on US Hwy 2. Hwy 2 transits the Cascades which are nice but not the same as the northern version. The highway is also busy with traffic which always ups the state of focus and tension for me. Once we get off of Hwy 2 and on to Hwy 97 south, the traffic thins out nicely and we press on towards our rendezvous with I-82. The second highlight: I plan to gas up close to the intersection of 2 and 97 and pull into a station that has multiple motorcycles parked around. I pull up to a pump that does not appear to be operable. Strangely, there is a somewhat attractive blonde sitting on the concrete a few feet way painting a sign of some sort. I try to ask her what’s with the pump. She has an iPod head set stuck in her ears and only looks up at me out of curiosity. I mouth the question again. She rises from her sitting position and pulls the iPod ear plugs out. The music is so loud I can hear it through my helmet and my ear plugs. She leans in close, puts on a pretty smile and says “There’s no gas”. I look around again and then it hits home, this “used” to be a gas station. It’s now a place to sell bikes and scooters. I drag out my sheepish face again, thank her and pull the group back on the road. OK, Hwy 97 is a large road and we will get gas at the next station we come to. I have less than a quarter of a tank but that will get me about 50 miles at a gas saving speed. No sweat. Off we go. Forty miles later and no gas I pull over and discuss gas with the guys. Its 13 miles to the interstate but that is not a guarantee of gas. So I ask Sue, “Where is the closest gas station.” She points to a place ten miles away down a fork in the road. Sue never lies. Neither Stu nor I are confident we will make the station. Thank the stars its mostly downhill and we go to max conserve and make the station with out mishap and gas to spare.
A strange thing happens now. After filling the tanks we enjoy a Coke in the store next to the pumps. (First gas station I have visited that used port-a-potties full time.) While inside, Rex and Stu begin a verbal crusade deriding me and Sue for almost running us out of gas. This derision of my leading skills is hurtful to the max. It also demonstrates a lack of upbringing during their childhoods to publicly demonize the lady in our group. If that was not bad enough, they were universally critical of my defense that “almost ran out of gas” is a non sequitor. Either we did or we did not. To no effect, I explained that they had just experienced the results of perfect planning and execution. This was followed by a series of derogatory comments most containing some combination of the words “lucky” and “bastard”. Good thing I am comfortable in my own skin or I might have been scarred by this exchange.
Off to Maryhill, Oregon.
This portion of the route is marked by high deserts of brown and ocher with accompanying heat and high winds. The vastness of this desert is awe inspiring but not pretty in my eyes.
The third event: As we rode, Stu was in the lead and pointed out a dust devil at our 11 o’clock position. As we watched this phenomenon, it moved inexorably toward us. The dust devil was full of all sorts of flotsam including sage brush. Stu was able to speed up and the devil passed behind him and hit Rex and I square on. 
We rounded a switch back in Hwy 97 and immediately were greeted with a view of the huge Columbia River and bridge to match. The bridge terminated in the town of Maryhill, OR. Maryhill seems to have one function, service the multitude of trucks that cross the bridge. Just off the bridge, we located a motel suitable to our tastes, first grade 
Once our credit cards had been returned, we solicited the location of an ATM and places to do breakfast and supper. Our new friend advised that a convenience store, Denties, across the street could provide the ATM and breakfast. Supper could be had at a restaurant nine miles down a county road that paralleled the Columbia Rive. We drove the bikes across the street and I loaded up on cash while Rex, of course, and Stu engaged the very abundant woman behind the counter in a conversation regarding breakfast. As it turns out, breakfast was pre-made sandwiches in combinations of egg, sausages, ham, bacon and cheese. The special, however, was home made biscuits covered in beef flour gravy. Yum! They had two tables in an alcove in the rear so we decided to try the place the next AM. I inserted myself in the conversation by asking when the store opened. The hefty woman responded that the store opened at 0530 but that the only way she was going to get up that early was if she awoke in our motel room with the three of us. Whoa…. I was out the door with Stu in close trail. But not Rex, he was doing his, “let’s find an intersection in our lives”, thingy and seemed to miss the point of her conversation. Add this event to the “Tommy” debacle and Rex took deserved heat for the rest of his time with the group about his choice of conversation mates.
Mean while back at the Motel, I pulled a Rex and began a conversation with the two guys cooling their heels in front of their room. When I asked them where they were headed, they responded they had no clue but were waiting for a phone call with the hope of getting work. These guys were itinerant construction workers. One was a licensed boiler worker and the other a union iron worker. This is skilled labor and they spent their lives going from one job to another all across the US and Canada. If they had families, I have no idea how they made that work. They seemed quite satisfied with their way of life and the idea that they were out work was only a part of the fabric that was their robe of existence. They were friendly and interested in our bike odyssey and even had some recommendations about routes we might want to take to maximize our viewing pleasure.
I stood in awe at the character traits these two gents possessed. Traits steeling them effortlessly to accept the trials and tribulations of their chosen way of life. To each his own I guess. I wished them both good luck and departed their company with a new vision into the endless vagaries of life.
That evening at sunset, we traversed the county road along the Columbia River towards a steak house. The road bisected a narrow piece of land situated between the Columbia and a vertical bluff wall. Call it a quarter of mile wide. Call the bluff wall more than three hundred feet high. The space held a few mobile homes attached to small vegetable truck farms. Some of the homes were protected from the sun by clumps of scrub vegetation which made the sight depressing for my taste. In the middle of this scene of poverty, arose a home of staggering proportions. It was built of red brick and positioned right up against the wall of the bluff with large glass windows everywhere. It’s hard to imagine a structure more out of place. It bordered on anachronistic. Out of place perhaps, but they had one bodacious view of the river and the daily sunset. After we reached the steak house, I asked my mates what would stimulate a person to build such an edifice in such a remote and bizarre location. Surprisingly they both contributed multiple plausible explanations. I remained dubious.
The food at the restaurant was unremarkable in my view but we had a relaxing meal. By the time we exited the restaurant, it was night dark on the road but the rays of the sun were still alive on the horizon and produced just enough of a golden glow to provide a sweeping back drop to the lighted bridge over the Columbia. Chalk up another unintended goodie from our trip.
Day 15
We were up early the next AM and revisited Denty’s for breakfast. True to her word, our ample physique conversation mate of the previous day was absent. Whew! As we sampled our biscuits and gravy, we were joined by two elegant members of the Native American culture. These two guys had been members of the Wakima tribe and had lived on the reservation at one time. They both had seen the dead end of remaining a reservation resident and had booked for challenging and prosperous careers in the culture outside the reservation. Both of these gents were retired and were in great physical shape. The tallest of the two had to be at least six four. We chatted pleasantly for some while then they had to depart to meet a tee time some where. I would loved to have taken their pictures but resisted because I thought they might find it degrading. These gents were so confident and successful I held out hope for others. What an uplifting start to a day of riding.
Crater Lake is not a crater at all but is a caldera created by the explosion and collapse of Mt Mazama 7,700 years ago. The caldera is six miles wide and is partially filled with snow melt water 2000 feet deep and has 22 miles of roads that circle its circumference. Although we did not see it, there is a full sized tree bobbing up and down in the lake called the “Old Man of the Lake” It’s been floating in the lake for over a hundred years, preserved by the ice cold water.
Stu had been in contact with Steve and Rex the same with his wife. The outcome of these communications was an agreement to put all of us together again in Vallejo, California. To make this happen, we had to forgo our visits to Mt. Shasta and Lassen National Forest. With a short stop at the Annie Creek Restaurant for some butt rest and lunch, we pressed the ride from Crater Lake down Hwy 97 where it intersected I-5. The heat was unbelievable. By the time we reached Redding, CA, the temperature was 117 degrees. When we got off the bikes at the Redding Harley Davison dealership we were beat and you would get burned if you touched any metal part of the bike without gloves.
There was a Motel 6 next door to the dealership and Rex got us rooms while I checked my bike in for an oil change and a new front tire. I also used this time to purchase a new pair of boots to replace the ones that had split at the heels. I FedEx’d my old boots home so I would not have to find a place on the bike for them. Rex took a dip in the motel pool while I got ice and settled in with dame Saphire. We ordered in that night and slept well.
Day 16 and 17
The next day, while I waited for the dealership to open, there were a group of HOG members assembling for their monthly ride. I find it fascinating that HOG members seem to be the same nation wide. Most seem to be over forty and come from disparate backgrounds but share the same love of the outdoors, denim, leather and the Harley Davidson motor company.
Day 17
The next day, all except me, departed for the Napa Valley and enjoyed themselves immensely. I, on the other hand, cooled my heels, washed the road off my cloths and my motorcycle and ate at a Mexican place just down the road from the motel. The food was surprisingly good and they made a fair Margarita. I took a couple of needed naps and was completely refreshed when the Napa travelers returned and regaled me with tales of gastronomic delights and the fruits of Dionysus. Debra was especially effusive with her praise and pleasure. I am sure they all slept soundly.
Day 18
The Napa group did not exactly spring out of bed the next AM. So, we each attended the motel breakfast as we arose in turn. The ride that day to Monterey was a short one and there was no need to hurry. Stu had called ahead and made reservations for us at the Navy Lodge in Monterey. Stu and I both had attended schools at the Navy Postgraduate School (NPS) during our military careers. Stu for his graduate degree and I for graduate courses in metallic stress and stain as it relates to aircraft accidents.
We retired to the Navy Lodge where I had time to make reservations at the next Navy Lodge in the Navy Ship Yard at San Diego.
Day 19
The following day, based on some noise coming from the rear end of his motorcycle, Steve and Stu visited the nearest Honda dealer to determine the problem. The rear wheel bearing was going to have to be replaced and it would be two to three days before the bike would be rideable. Because he had family in San Jose, Steve decided to stay with them while the bike was being repaired and he agreed to meet up with us when and if he could. We departed ways for the second time and wished him the best for an early fix.
To put a cap on the morning’s doings, we rode the two-lane from Los Lobos toward Carmel Valley Village and back. The road is a good twisty with classical California scenery. The road surface had its moments but the thing that caught my attention was the lack of development in this most popular of states. It was mostly farm and grazing land browned by the sun and lack of rain. The farms are far from fancy. In fact, most of the homes I saw were humble in origin and the entire place lacked an air of prosperity. Perhaps it was just me.
We joined the Pacific Coast Hwy (PCH) south towards Los Osos. What are the best words to describe the vast arena that is the PCH? The highway is long. Our stretch is Hwy 1 from Monterey to Santa Barbara but this is only one segment of the phenomenon called the PCH. It has wide sweeping turns that suddenly expose shear rocky cliffs that fall hundreds of feet to the sea. Or, slide around another turn that will deliver beautiful rock and sand beaches that stretch for miles. It’s possible to have all these sights obscured by the marine layer, that’s fog to the rest of us, for days at a time and drop the temperature to an uncomfortable level for bike riding. No fog this trip. We enjoyed sunshine and beautiful views.
We continued south on the PCH and took in the sights and smells. To put it all together, I played the Greatest Hits of Fleetwood Mac from my iPod and welded the entire experience into a tableau of sensory pleasure. My riding partner and good friend would wrinkle his nose at such a departure from a more purist form of pleasure. It’s Nirvana. We simply reach the state of bliss through different heavenly paths.
Our time at Nepenthe and the late hour necessitated passing up a visit to Hearst Castle. This may be just as well as it will give me something to see when I return to the area. Our destination was Los Osos (The Bear) where my sister in law and her family domiciled. Los Osos is situated 12 miles east Moro Bay which is on the Pacific Ocean and about an hour south of the Hearst Castle.
We were joined for supper by my niece, Sally, her husband, Bill, their son Billy and their daughter Reese. There were few boring moments but the grown-ups managed some conversation. We discussed the trip, the price of gas and the latest on family doings. All seemed quite normal to me and I retired early. Sister and Gary were the ultimate good hosts and they made our short stay very comfortable.
Day 20
The next AM, Sister fixed a wonderful breakfast prior to our departure. We said our goodbyes and expressed our gratitude and hit the road toward San Diego. I had made reservations at the Navy Yard’s Navy Lodge and we would hold up there until we took Debra to the airport around ten the next day. It’s queer. I have no memory of how we got to Hwy 1 at Ventura. However, we followed Hwy 1 from Ventura through Malibu, Venice, El Secundo, Redondo Beach and rejoined the 5 at Long Beach. This stretch of road encompasses farm land, beaches and sardine packed eclectic homes. There are more cars and people than I can stand. Its allure completely escapes me. We simply ate up the miles on the 5 and there was little to see except miles and miles of pastel colored stucco homes. Of interest to me was a surprise new structure on the right side of the 5 just south of Camp Pendleton USMC training center. It was a large set of grandstands facing the ocean with its own exit and entrance ramps. I saw the word Navy on the back of the grandstands, so I assumed it was a viewing area for the Blue Angles when they do their yearly show from Miramar Air Station. This may be the safest and neighbor friendly spot to watch the Angles in the world.
Since Stu and I had not visited the San Diego Navy Yard’s Navy Lodge, we did not know its location so I just followed Sue to the address of the Navy Yard. Sue got us to a gate, but the gate was now defunct and we could not enter from this spot. I got off the steed and called the Navy Lodge. The desk clerk had a very strong Philippine accent and I had difficulty getting instructions. We were saved by a very friendly security guard who arrived at the scene and put us on the right track to the lodge.
The lodge was beautiful and very reasonable. Debra wanted to shower and freshen up so the three of us passed the time in the company of some Blue Saphire. By the time Debra was ready, we all had consumed too much booze to get back on the bikes. There was a food mall and liquor store within the compound of the lodge so we bought some wine and two or three pizzas and supped in our room. It would be my guess that Debra would have rather visited a decent restaurant vice sitting in a motel room with three guys smelling of the road. In retrospect, we were less than thoughtful of her presence that evening. My apologies Debra.
I believe during that evening, Stu made contact with Steve and they agreed to meet in Albuquerque, NM., three days down the road at Steve’s sister’s house.
Day 21
We had a leisurely get up and some coffee at the lodge office. Packed, we headed to the San Diego airport. Debra and Rex had a very brief goodbye because we were in the Departing Flights unloading area and needed to move for other departing passengers.
It was back on the 5 again. North, this time until we found Hwy 94 east toward Arizona. Once free from civilization, Hwy 94 was a thing a beauty. The highway was bordered on both side by huge round boulders of rock that universally were of a rust brown color. Rex noted the rocks looked like a giant dump truck had unloaded them from some mysterious source. Regardless, each turn brought a different combination of shapes that challenged the imagination to match them with something familiar. The road surface was great and we were enjoying the ride when from above another apparition! Skydivers. A stick of about seven individuals in multicolored parasails were descending from a crystal blue desert sky into what appeared to be one of the rockiest places on earth. 
After I had finished filling the tank, Stu and Rex were taking their turns at the pump when I asked a gentleman where was a good place to eat. He pointed to an eatery that was all but invisible from our vantage point. He noted we could find a name brand next to the interstate, but this was the place all the locals use. Nuf said. The man walked away and got into his truck. A minute or two passed and the man got out of his truck and approached me. He asked where I was from and how old I was. I thought all this unusual, but harmless, so I provided the information. He told me he was a member of the Minutemen Organization working alongside the Border Patrol to prevent illegal immigration. He pointed to the horizon and asked if I could see the fence along the border. With some squinting, I found what he was describing. With obvious pride, he said the Minutemen had funded and constructed a mile and a half of the fence I was viewing. He told me to go home and tell my children and friends that I had witnessed an act of patriotism in the works. I found it impossible not to admire this individual’s concern for his country and its borders. I never would have met this man riding the slab.
The eatery was as described. We ate a combination of lunch and breakfast. Not brunch. The food was great with an ample supply of grease for all courses. The staff cooked, waited tables, bused tables and rang up sales on the register. The atmosphere was thick with a friendly and welcoming aura. We left with regret.
To get through the passes of the Coyote Mountains, it was necessary to rejoin I-8. We did this and exited the slab just as quickly at Hwy 98 where the town of Ocotillo sits. The town is named after a variety of cactus that grows in the Imperial Valley desert. The cactus is a plant of multiple stems emanating from a common root system. The stems, at maturity, are as large as a baseball bat grip that narrows to a point. The stems may be twenty feet in height and are festooned with triangular barbs that cut the flesh with ease. I share this factoid with you for reasons that have long ago escaped me.
Hwy 98 parallels I-8 all the way to Yuma, Az. The road is flat with few turns and not much of interest. All statements have an exception. On the border side of the road, some group has provided large blue plastic containers every thousand meters or so filled with water. At least the containers had “agua” painted on them. The containers are also marked by long poles with fluorescent orange flags attached. I don’t know why I remembered, but each container had some sort of cover, wood/plastic, with a large rock on top of the cover to keep the wind from blowing it to El Centro. Connecting the containers was a dirt track that was obviously visited frequently. I assume that some of the visits must have been by the Border Patrol. I ponder who put this water out. Clearly, the water has no purpose but to sustain illegal immigrants making their way into the US across the border. Is this the misplaced (my opinion) humanism directed toward criminals entering our country? Whether it’s done by those sympathetic to the illegal’s cause or by our own government, it seems to be complicity in the act of a crime.
Midway between Ocotillo and Yuma is the community of Calexico. Although this town is on the US side of the border the only US presence is the Border Patrol. With that exception it is identical to its sister, Mexicali which is just across the border in Mexico.
Another feature of Hwy 98 is its proximity to the multiple pumping stations that lift water from the All-American Canal system and provide it to the farmers of the Imperial Valley. These pumping stations require huge quantities of electrical power and each station has its companion electrical substation. The magnitude of the All-American Canal system is staggering in its engineering and its efficiency. It is the largest irrigation canal in the world. The All-American canal system is politically contentious because it leaves little water in the Colorado as it flows into Mexico.
When we reached Yuma, AZ, we were hot and tired. We gassed the steeds and took refuge from the heat in the connected food court of the gas station. With Cokes, water and iced tea, we hydrated our depleted bodies and had a good rest. We departed this oasis to find the local Motel 6 which was less than a block down the road. The rooms were cheap enough so we got two.
As my room mate and I settled in, I pulled the shades aside and noted a Mexican restaurant across the street. As I gazed out the window, I asked my riding mates if Mexican was alright for supper. There was a unanimous assent.
While still absently looking out the window, I noted the name of the restaurant which had completely escaped my attention when I first saw the eatery.
The name was Chretin’s. This is a name known to thousands of Marine Corps and Navy aviators. Marine Corps Air Station (MCAS), Yuma is home to the Marine Corp’s AV-8 and F-18 Replacement Air Groups (RAGs). These squadrons accept newly minted aviators fresh out of flight school, and teach them the ins and outs of these specific aircraft. When they finish the RAG, they are posted to active Fleet tactical squadrons on the east or west coasts. Hundreds pass through this training center every year. Additionally, all Navy and Marine Corps Fleet tactical squadrons deploy at least once a year to Yuma for weapons training in the many restricted air spaces around Yuma. These air spaces allow for the delivery of live ordnance and unrestricted flight to include supersonic speeds. With few exceptions, each of these aviators makes at least one pilgrimage to Chretins during his time in Yuma.
The current Chretin’s is the third location since Jose and Engracia Chretin opened the business as an open air dance hall in 1930. Their offspring, Joe and Winne Chretin took over in 1946. The first Chretin’s was located in the barrio of Yuma and was a very small restaurant whose 
The Chretin family had infinite patience with these scenes of vulgarity and debauchery. Their business prospered. Chretin’s was, in my family’s minds eye, one of the best experiences we had together in Yuma. Alas, nothing remains the same. After Joe and Minne turned the business over to their kids, the food quality and service went slowly down hill. So, when we ate there on this trip, the Nachos were OK but the rest of the food was mediocre and the service less so. This disappointment notwithstanding, my memories are of Chretins in the seventies and eighties when it was a place to die for and more. With a full belly and some chemical depressants, we wandered across the street and hit the hay.
We had an early start the next AM. Black outside and cool. Rex took the lead and we were off headed north on Hwy 95. The first hour, I was pleasantly chilly. The desert is an amazing place. It gives off heat into a clear sky at night and heats up to the Devil’s Anvil in the day. Dawn. It’s my favorite time of day to be riding. (I probably have already said this.) When the landscape is flat with mountain ranges between you and the sun, you are blessed with multiple sun rises. The sun comes up over a mountain then sets again if the range gets higher and then rises again as your view passes through a valley. You get this effect until el Sol gets high enough to blaze over all the highest peaks. The road has only a few turns and the asphalt surface is terrific. Your only concern is the occasional varmint in the road and the INS road blocks. This must be a busy part of the desert because the INS had a small tethered sensor blimp keeping watch over these vast spaces.
Back to the bikes. The flatness continues until we start to climb the ranges of the Prescott National Forest. The road, Hwy 80, climbs in large sweeping turns that fit our pleasure and expose the desert looking toward Mexico over a hundred miles away. Close to the mountain range, we spy acres and acres of solar panels. I believe this was a research facility developing new technology for solar energy. They picked a perfect place to gather the rays.
We take our time with a wholesome breakfast and enjoy the atmosphere of the place. Marlon Brando leaves and we hardly notice. A new set of riders joins the group as we are heading out. A guy with a brand new Gold Wing intercepts Rex to seek advice about some metric bike thing or another. You don’t want to get to close to these conversations because you never know what metric thing might rub off and infect your inner ethos.
The rest of the ride from breakfast to Flagstaff is a beautiful and scenic wonder. The most interesting was the artistic community of Jerome, AZ. Once a silver mine built right into the side of a mountain, the place is now a Mecca for artisans of all stripes, roads that have turns so sharp that you put your feet down because you have to go so slowly, and a staggering view of the valley leading to Sedona, AZ I don’t recall seeing sidewalks. 
Then there is Sedon, AZ. I get queezy just thinking about Sedona. The town is located within the red rock mountains of the Kaibab National Forest. The landscape is a burnt red as far as the eye can see. The city council must have decreed that all man made structures within their jurisdiction would be built to match the color of the surrounding landscape. Some environmental movement I would guess. They succeeded beyond my imagination. The houses, condos, fast food places, malls, rock gardens, mulch, roofing tiles, everything is the same color as the background terrain, burnt red. To my eye, this was ugly and beyond. Everything ran together with out form. I could not wait to leave this place behind. Rex and Stu did not share my opinion of Sedona.
The rest of the ride was friendly and scenic. We cooled off in a Taco Bell within Flagstaff. After almost an hour, Stu had communicated with Steve and it was clear that he was not going to be able to join us in Flagstaff that day. We agreed to get a room in Flagstaff that night and then set off the next day and join Steve in Albuquerque at his sister’s house.
Almost every setback seems to have its silver lining. After we checked into another Motel 6, had a couple of toddies and generally relaxed, we set out to sup at a local steak house. It was a sports bar with TV screens everywhere and the decibel level at the deafening point. The only seats were three at a table occupied by single thirty something male. We asked permission to join him and he, with good humor, invited us to be seated. We ordered drinks and burgers and discovered that our eating mate was himself a biker and rode both metric and Harley’s. We shared riding stories and became quite comfortable with each other over about an hours time. Encounters like these continually reinforce our belief that bike riders are a friendly and gregarious species willing to establish momentary relationships and share experiences with complete strangers.
Day 23
Stu took us right to Steve’s sister’s house. As we pulled up into the driveway, we could see Steve’s Valkyrie. He had made it!
Steve introduced Rex and me to his sister, Barbie, his brother in law, Leo and his nephew, Peter.
We were given a tour of the garden and house and settled in to rest and relax. The house had a cooling device that I had not seen since I was stationed in Yuma. The device is named, in some places, a swamp cooler or evaporator. Its design is simple and efficient. It is a box about four feet square and has four sides lined with a woody fiber like hemp. There is a water pipe that runs along the top of the fibers and drips water onto them. The water is collected in a sump at the bottom and circulated. There is a sturdy electric fan that draws air in through the fibers, cools the air through evaporation and forces it into the house. It will not cool a house like an air conditioner, but it will clearly make the house comfortable and is a lot cheaper to purchase and operate.
Leo won my heart when he asked if anyone would join him in a gin martini. Leo, my new best friend.
Steve and Barbie spent most of their time putting together a wonderful Italian meal.
Now that we were back with Steve again, this naturally included a huge salad. (Tomato sauce, basil, oregano, cheese and pasta. It matters not what kind of pasta is used or how it’s combined. Heat it until it bubbles, serve with a hearty red wine, Chianti if you got it, oil and vinegar drizzled over fresh garden greens, a Baggett of bread with virgin olive oil and Balsamic vinegar to dip it in. I’m in heaven.) Barbie made it all happen and it was an enjoyable meal with Steve filling us in on his saga of motorcycle maintenance and a hectic trip from Monterey, CA to Albuquerque, NM. It had been a tiring day and we were still not checked into a motel yet so we regrettably offered our sincere thanks to Steve’s kin folks for their hospitality and set off to check in to another Motel 6.
While unpacking, our bikes at the motel, a hefty man in bib overalls began a conversation with Rex and I about our trip and motorcycles in general. Turns out he was a past resident of South Carolina and we warmed up to the game of “Do you know whatshisname in whatshistown?” We did not have a lot in common but it’s always interesting to meet these people and share your experiences with them. It’s never boring.
Day 24
This was a sad day because this was the day Rex had to depart our company and return to Broken Arrow, OK. He must have set some land speed record, because he rode 704 miles in one day without having to ride at night.
Steve joined us at the motel and we set off to try and make up the lost days. I am not sure I picked up on the fact that Steve had a commitment to be back in DC by the second of September before we started the trip, but it is what it is. Given my hateful memory, I chalked it all up to senility. It was now clear that we would not be able to ride the back roads, spend two nights in Key West and return Steve to DC by the 2nd. So… it was the dreaded slab to make the timing come out right. We hit I-40 east and started eating up the miles until we could make our way south east to I-20. We managed to get in some two lane riding on the way though. Sue found a route just north of I-10 that paralleled the slab and we rode it the rest of the way to Baton Rouge. I did not take a single picture on this leg of the trip.
We holed up in another Motel 6 and spent a lot of time with Steve trying to remember the name of a seafood restaurant in Baton Rouge that he had visited earlier in his youth. He made some calls and finally made a reservation at the eatery. I plugged the address into Sue and we were off to downtown Baton Rouge. We were about two blocks from the address when Steve blew his horn and took the lead and turned in the opposite direction we “needed” to go. We all followed, of course. Remember Montreal, Canada. Steve immediately pulled into the parking lot of another restaurant. It turns out that Steve had made reservations at the wrong restaurant and realized this when he saw the “real” place as we exited the freeway. We were seated at the “real” restaurant and Steve cancelled our reservations at the other restaurant via his cell. I left off the pre dinner booze because we were riding and made do with sweet tea. There were a variety of fish entrees on the menu from which I selected the blackened flounder. The blackened flounder was out of this world. The only better was at the Pink House in Savannah, GA. The place was a hodgepodge of add on rooms with lots of sea side atmosphere. The wait staff was young, cute and efficient. What more could you hope for? When we sat down, there was a table of eight or more just next to us. They had not been served yet, but soon were enjoying their evening repast. These guys finished, and the table was bussed and another large group sat down to order. This group received their food before we finally decided to be on our way. I guess that means we savored the food, scenery and atmosphere more than our fellow diners. It was a completely enjoyable experience and worth the mild hassle to find it.
On the ride back to the motel, I relearned why I don’t like to drive a bike at night. The road was unfamiliar with lots of turns and possible exits and bridges to cross with lots of traffic coming in the opposite direction. I was getting multiple glares from the windscreen, my goggles and my glasses. Each car, each stoplight, each street light had multiple halos and made situational awareness really hard. Don’t even think about looking into the rear view mirror. We still made it home safely.
Day 25
The following day we hit I-10 and followed it across the top of Lake Ponsitrain through Mississippi, Alabama and into the panhandle of Florida. We took two lanes south to Pensacola, Fl and entered the Naval Air Station at Pensacola to visit the Air Museum there.
The road awaits and tempus fugit. We take a bee line for I-10 and head east. I must confess that I fell victim to one of my own personal failings during this leg. I think that Stu was suffering from pain in his right shoulder/arm/wrist and found it uncomfortable to make throttle changes. (What follows is a guess/assumption on my part that I am not particularly proud off) To help his condition, Stu would use his throttle lock so that he would not have to continually make wrist movements that caused his pain. One of the results of this procedure was that our group would slow to 55 mph on a 70 mph freeway which I felt put our safety at risk. The risk, in retrospect was not worth my worries. So, lacking the restraint needed, I confronted my fellow riders at a gas stop in an attempt to fix what I thought, at the time, was a serious flaw in our group riding. To make matters worse, I lost my cool and showed my ass by expressing my emotional frustration. I don’t know if Stu and Steve felt this expression, but I owe them both a heartfelt apology for my lack of maturity. If I make more of this than the reader might think is appropriate, it’s because this guy’s ego hates the demonstration of a weakness in his character in front of those he respects. That’s enough self flagellations!
We finished this leg in Tallahassee. Checked in to a motel just off I-10 and completed our daily routine of checking in at home while relaxing with a cocktail. That evening, we walked several blocks to a Bar-B-Q place and partook of a giant meal of pulled pork, ribs, and chicken. Although I am not an expert on Bar-B-Q, I thought the sauce was good, but must of all I like their version of cole slaw.
It’s a little strange. I was born and raised in the south, yet I find that Bar-B-Q is one of my least desired food groups. Unlike some folks, I am not one to take sides on the long standing controversy regarding the sauce and meat. You know the issues. Should the sauce be mustard based, or vinegar based, hot/mild, oak/hickory/mesquite smoked, pulled or sliced, pork/beef/chicken? The battle of the sauces is amusing, but I find it matters little in my apathy toward the entire food genre. I can enjoy a meal of the stuff, but I would not select Bar-B-Q over another type of food.
Day 26
We drove through a morning fog for about twenty miles and then exited I-10 onto Hwy 27 south. As we exited the slab, I checked my mirror for Steve, who was last in line, and noticed he had pulled over to the side of the road. Since Steve and Stu do not have radios, I did a 180 and retraced my steps until I pulled up next to him. The shoulder was not very wide so I pulled into a driveway of a Wendy’s restaurant and gas station that was right there.
The impact on our trip was not yet clear so we put off any discussion on that subject, but told Steve we would hang tough with him until we got a definitive analysis of his problem. I believe we waited for about three hours for the tow truck to arrive. In the interim, we partook of the fine cuisine offered at Wendy’s. During the wait, Steve had set up an appointment with the same Honda dealer that he had visited that AM. The dealer was back in Tallahassee about a 40 minute ride from the Wendy’s. The bike was loaded onto the tow truck without incident and Steve rode in the truck to the Honda dealer. A few minutes later, Stu and I took off on the bikes to join Steve at the dealership. The way to the dealership seemed a simple thing but Stu and I managed to get lost and had to consult a map to find the place. This was not a problem because we had plenty of time in front of us at the Honda dealer.
The mechs approached the three of us and announced they had found the problem which was a spun drive shaft. This means the splined teeth on the drive shaft had spun in their female receptacle. Both would have to be replaced and it was a two day job perhaps less if a part could be overnighted to the dealer. Steve authorized the work and we set about organizing how we were going to get the three of us back to the motel. With some creative readjustments to our luggage, I made a space for Steve on the back of my bike. There was still not room for Steve’s stuff so I volunteered to return to the dealer and pick it up after delivering Steve to the motel.
Steve is a big man and his weight and excess baggage put the bike way over its max gross weight and made it squirrlly (sp) to drive but most of all made it difficult to stop and stay upright. Stu made a stop at a grocery store to pick up a bottle of wine and I pulled over on the shoulder next to the curb. This turned out to be a very bad idea. First, it took Stu much longer to get the wine than anticipated and second, cars on their way home passed really close to us as we waited. If I had not had Steve on the back I would have moved to a better place but I chose this option to avoid having to pull into small places with Steve two up.
Stu joined us and I dropped Steve off at the motel and immediately returned to the dealership to pick up the rest of Steve’s gear. When I returned, Stu and Steve were settled into two rooms. It was good to get off the bike this day. I think we ate in that night.
Given that Steve had to be in DC on the second of September, he made the unhappy choice of abandoning the balance of the ride and heading straight for home after the bike was fixed. When we left the next AM I looked back and gave a final wave to Steve standing in the doorway of the motel room. He looked terribly forlorn and lonely and I felt a tinge of guilt leaving him, but we had to continue.
Day 27
With Stu in the lead, we again made the leg down I-10 and turned off on Hwy 27 south. The highway was pretty good, but its transit through the city of Ocala was a grind. I don’t recall if it was Ocala or not, but when we fueled up, Stu spotted a café across the street and smiled and asked if I was up for breakfast. It was my time to smile. I am always up for breakfast. We took a seat in the place and were greeted by a very perky waitress. She engaged us in a mindless banter that was just up our alley. She kept this up each time she visited our table, which was several, and delivered a huge pancake for Stu and my normal scrabbled eggs, grits and toast. It was fun and delicious.
Back on the road, Stu lead us to Taylor Creek which is just north of Lake Okeechobee and we entered the north rim to view the lake. Stu was struck by how much the lake had risen as a result of the two hurricanes that had passed through earlier. It was pleasing to see a lake that was rising and not falling like so many across the south. We continued around the east border of the lake and passed through a village called Pahokee. To use Stu’s expression, it was a town that time forgot. He was right. It looked like it was stuck in the 50’s.
We continued around the southern border of the lake and stopped in Clewiston for gas and a motel. At the gas station, my battery was barely able to turn the engine over but I did get it started. We drove across the street to a motel that was also out of the fifties. Stu and I liked these kinds of places for their seediness and their architecture. Our room’s architecture was early bordello. It had been another long day so I had a toddy while Stu went out for take out and we ate chicken in the room. Calls to home as usual.
The next day I went out to make sure the bike would start before loading and discovered the battery dead. Well, it was five years old and had seen 55,000 miles of service. It was its time.
I removed the battery and Stu headed out to Advance Auto to get a replacement. He was back in about an hour and I started to install the new battery when we discovered Stu had left cable connectors in the store. This discovery generated an understandable blue streak from Stu. He was off again to get the hardware. When he returned, I finished the installation and… the engine would not turn over. Another blue streak and a direct order from Stu, “Gus, get that god damn bike started.” While I cogitated on what deities to implore for this miracle, I gave the starter another courtesy try. A miracle! It started right up. With the engine still running, we finished loading the bikes and hit the road for the Big Cyprus Seminole Indian Reservation.
The Seminole Reservation is a surprise. Unlike the Apaches of the west, this reservation seems to be a model of government largess that is well maintained. Although they may be present, I did not see the slums of mobile homes that were so prevalent out west. The community centers appeared clean and well kept. The roads were in good shape and there was no trash to be seen on the highways under their responsibility. It left a very positive impression and I enjoyed the ride through their nation.
As we worked our way further south, we connected to Hwy 997. This is an interesting road. It’s a two lane that runs due north and south, bypassing Miami, and ultimately connects to US 1. On the lower portions of this road there are tens of tropical nurseries growing all sorts of stuff that we plant in our yards. The nurseries make for interesting viewing because you find yourself attempting to name the plants you see. It’s a hopeless job because of the incredible variety of plants available. Also, there is a stretch of this road that is bordered on the right side, headed south, by thousands of dead bleached white trees. I have no idea what kind of trees they were or what caused their demise but they are a stark contrast to the flora growing on the other side of the road. I have driven this road two or three times and the trees have always been there. There is another element to these trees that also captures me. I am yet to ride this road and not observe the majestic immature and adult Bald Eagles in the tops of their branches. This trip was no exception.
When I submitted the draft of my journal for review to Stu, he was kind enough to supply the following information on the dead trees and the Bald Eagle: “I have some other stuff about your journal that might help with things that you were seeing down here in Florida. One is the trees that you see along route 997. They’re called Melaleuca trees that were brought in from Australia to control the flooding and hopefully dry up the swamps. Big effing eco mistake like kudzu. It’s a listed noxious weed since it is highly flammable (due to high oil content) and rapidly crowds out native vegetation and destroys key threatened species habitat. Florida has a massive campaign to eliminate these trees. What you’re seeing is the dead remains of trees killed during the past five years.
The reason you see so many eagles on these trees is that this area is along the main flyway for raptor semiannual migration. The flyway narrows way down in Broward, Dada and Monroe counties as the birds use the Keys as a short cut to Cuba and then to Central America.” My thanks to Stu..
We pay our toll, cross the bridge that separates the Card and James Sounds, and enter the island of Key Largo. In my mind, this short ride on Key Largo to rejoin Hwy 1 is the nicest of the trip to Key West. As you might guess, there are some beautiful scenes, especially at dawn and sunset, from many of the long bridges that connect the keys, but much of the ride is slow and passes through one tourist town after another. Still it’s a stimulus to the senses.
That PM, we finally arrive at the fourth corner town of our trip, Key West. We put off visiting the exact site until the next day and head directly to Stu’s condo on the north shore of the key. The condo complex is privately owned and is tucked back into a grove of tall trees that provide shade all around. The ground floor of the condo consists of the car port and a small enclosed area that contains the washer and dryer, a storage facility and the spiral stair case that leads to the second floor kitchen, dining area, and living space. A second spiral stair case leads up to the master and guest bed and bath rooms. There is a narrow deck that has a terrific view of the ocean and allows Stu to smoke his occasional stogie. Stu, his wife Marianne and their long haired cat come together to make a warm place to live.
Day 28
The following morning, we ate brunch at a Key West restaurant with a group of local friends of Stu and Marianne. Seems they meet regularly at this watering hole. Nothing organized just show up if you can.
We spent the rest of the morning taking pictures of ourselves at the end/beginning of US Hwy 1 (Remember way back in Fort Kent, Maine) and touring the southern most plots of land in the US. While walking the 
There was a football game that afternoon and Stu, Marianne and I visited friends of theirs, John and Janet Van Tyule, in their new house and watched the game. John and Janet were in the process of moving into this new house with boxes all over. This did not seem to bother John at all. He just sat on the couch, watched the game and allowed Janet to do all the work with the movers. It appeared that this was OK with Janet. It kept John out of the way. We had terrific take out sandwiches and wine for lunch. After the game, we went shopping for the evening meal.
Here, in Stu’s words, is the recipe for our evening meal. “The salad was made with Romaine lettuce stalks, washed, trimmed and cut in half lengthwise. Garished with fresh cracked pepper, grape tomatoes quartered and then halved, along with browned candied pine nuts, topped with a 50-50 mix of blue cheese and poppy seed dressing and shaved pecorino romano cheese.
The steaks were 1 inch thick 1 lb ribeyes. Moderately seasoned with fresh cracked pepper and sea salt, placed on a grill at 550 degrees twice per side for no more than 2 minutes each time to cross hatch mark the sides. Put crumbled Maytag blue cheese on top of each steak and place in oven preheated to 350 degrees for no more than 5 minutes or so until cheese is melted. This delivers a medium rare steak. For medium and medium well done steaks, they should be started first on the grill before the medium rare steaks (or cooked a bit longer there) and not in the oven since that dries steaks out rapidly.”
Stu invited, Jani, Janet and John to their place and we had a wonderful gathering of food, talk and companionship.
The stay in Key West and the non stop hospitality made for just the beak I needed to start my final two laps home.
Day 29
Marianne got up and fixed me breakfast and she and Stu saw me off around 7AM. There are no words except, “Thank you” that express the appreciation for the warm stay at the Schippereit’s.
My ride east on Hwy 1 from Key West to Miami was just as the sun was breaking the horizon. The view over the bridges was spectacular and the traffic was minimal. 
So, I change my plans and stopped at Bruce Rossmeyr’s Destination Daytona Harley Davidson dealership in Ormond Beach, FL. This is the largest Harley shop in the world. There is a Motel 6 across the street from the dealership and I check in with the intent of immediately taking the bike into their service department to get it fixed. When I come out of the motel’s office, the bike would not start. It’s Clewiston all over again. After I finish my blue streak, I try again and this time it cranks. A short ride across the street and the dealership, as usual, takes me right in. It’s late afternoon so they will be able to start work on the bike first thing in the AM. I’m in no hurry, so I unpack the bike, drag my gear to a local eatery, Friday’s type, and have supper. I hate eating alone.
Now it’s back across the street to the motel for a shower and call home. Margaret tells me the Tuesday riding group from Cedar Creek has planned to use this day to meet me on my way home. I check in with Jeff VanSyckle and we coordinate a meeting place in Georgia
Day 30.
I have a restless night worrying about the bike. I arrive at the service department and wait for the doors to open. The bike is in work. I kill some time wondering the multiple floors of bikes and biker clothing. The place is amazing. It is filled with people spending money. They even have a small eatery where I get some coffee and a couple of breakfast biscuits. Time just drags when I have a schedule to meet and no control over the events in the bowls of the maintenance department. At about 10AM, the guys come out to tell me they have cleaned the speedo sensor but can find nothing wrong with the battery or starter system. Not good. I pay them and by 11AM I am back on the road again. Five miles up the road, the speedo goes out again with no cruise control. It is what it is. I press ahead and finally meet my buddies in Nahunta, GA. We had originally planned to meet in Jesup, but my delay in Ormond Beach allowed them to ride farther south to meet me earlier.
This has been a work of months of writing and I believe I have said all that needs to be said. Except, Stu, myself and a fellow Cedar Creek rider, are planning a trip to the Arctic Circle in 2010.
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