Lead, Follow or Git Outa the Way!

[Calimusjohn]

Drat! It’s colder outside than a spinster sister’s brass bedstead. The Spyder needs an oil change and a new rear tire. I’m stuck inside. What can I do to escape this cabin’s closeness? Remember a better time!
I dig around in a carboard box and discover the ride report of a trip taken when I was a mere seventy-three years old. I throw another log on the fire, pour a small libation, and settle down to read.
The title reads, “Lead, Follow or Git Outa the Way!”
I arose at 0700. I stood in the shower wondering why I was up so early. It dawned on me that a new Suzuki Vstrom 650 sat waiting in the daylight basement. After feeding my face, I crept down the stairs to find the mountain of “necessities” for touring had not packed themselves. Carefully, I winnowed away the non-essentials. I discarded the seed catalogs and a symposium invitation on “Raising Worms for Profit.”
I pumped the tires to maximum inflation to counter the weight of the huge tank bag mounted on the front and the folding chair, sleeping bag, tent, air mattress, cooking gear, drink bottles, camera equipment, clothing, toiletries, tool kit, good luck charms, and Captain Morgan perched on the rear.
At 0900, I squished myself between the two mounds and turned the key. The computer whirred. Lights flashed. The starter spun. The bike and I vibrated as one. A memory surfaced of my doctor saying, “John, you have to slow down. You’ve broken your back in four places, have scoliosis and God alone knows what else. No more sky diving, or bungee jumping. Watch TV. Play games on a computer. Act your age.”
I took his advice. Sorta. I bought a new motorcycle and found a new doctor.
I kicked the bike into gear and headed north from Oregon.
The Super 8 hostess in Ellensburg, Washington, reduced the rate from $110 to $ 81 because I displayed cards from AAA, MasterCard, VISA, Medicare, Social Security, The Lone Ranger Fan Club, and the Neptune Society. It pays to be prepared.

[ARtraveler]

Do I see another adventure brewing.... ???? :bowdown:

[Poppie65]

Subscribed!
Looking forward to more tales from the road trip wordsmith.

[Bangorbob]

Oh ya, get it on. I waiting.

[Calimusjohn]

Preface: Background information explains some of my actions and reactions. My sciatic nerve was crushed several years ago. The resulting pain comes and goes. Seventeen days before starting this tour, I participated in the Rattlesnake 1000. The “Snake” is routed down two-lane back roads of Oregon, Idaho, and Washington. Two hours into the ride, I dropped the bike and broke two ribs. Twenty hours later, with the ride complete, I qualified for membership in the Iron Butt Association.
Day two. I started in Ellensburg, Washington. I planned to ride to the Canadian border, find a campground and kick back. A pleasant 72-degree temperature greeted me as I climbed aboard my trustee steed. The temperature rose as the day progressed. At the border, cars lined up for a mile, awaiting passage. My boots slipped on the melting asphalt. Cement walls on either side of the road concentrated the heat. My handlebar-mounted thermometer read 119.2 degrees. No way am I sitting here! I pulled out of line and sped forward. I spotted a spot of shade under the roof adjacent to the Custom Agent’s kiosk. I no sooner parked than I found myself surrounded by uniformed shouting men. “Put your hands up!” “Don’t move!” “Get down on the ground!” “Put your hands on your head!” This was not my first rodeo. I sat. Hands on handlebars. Silent. A senior agent finally asked, “What are you doing?” I explained. “I sat in the sun, I would probably die from heat stroke.” He assigned a guard to prevent me from stealing the shade. I sweated water faster than I could drink.
Eventually, I crossed into Canada on an unknown holiday and encountered a traffic jam of monstrous proportions. Cars and trucks parked at angles, jamming the road. Radiators steamed. People cursed. Honked horns. Waved arms. Sat. Stuck. I couldn’t split lanes, ride in the ditch or escape. People splashed in the water-filled ditches, trying to survive the heat. A lady in a motor home refilled my four water bottles―twice. Three hours and fifty miles later, I was free. The best/worst sight of the day had to be a couple on a Harley. He wore a Speedo, she a string bikini. He rode with feet stretched forward. She was lying back with her assets pointing skyward. Both sported shower shoes and an incredible red sunburn.
Oh, I apologize to anyone I offended when I stood in the middle of the traffic jam and peed into an empty water bottle. A teenager asked, “You recycling that?”
All motels, hotels, campgrounds, parking lots, church yards, any place to spend a night, were rented or filled. Gas stations ran out of gas. Convenience store shelves were empty. After riding 265 miles, a country store provided me with cold drinks. Its single gas pump spit out 5.5 gallons of gas to fill my bike’s 5.7-gallon tank.
A roadside diner delivered two pieces of dead chicken which I think was a road-killed seagull, a glob of lumpy potatoes, and seven green beans for $16.
A woman speaking Cantonese or Manderin, I can never keep them straight, rented me a motel room in Grande Cache, British Columbia. I was done in. Captain Morgan washed down ibuprofen tablets in an effort to appease my sciatic nerve doing the hokey-pokey and jostling my sore ribs. We celebrated surviving the day.

[Bangorbob]

:2thumbs:

[Calimusjohn]

Day 3. This morning revealed what eleven hours of dehydration does toward shrinking the brain. I discovered that I’m in Cache Creek―not Grande Cache. The towns are about a hundred miles apart. I’m happy to be anywhere. Another 72-degree day greets me as I slither onto the bike.
Cache Creek has a population of about a thousand people. Eleven motels employ and support a great many of them. Tourism is big business.

I ordered my breakfast eggs “over easy.” They could have been used as hocky pucks or door stops. Whew . . . tasty, too.
Okay, on to the road north. No, yesterday deserves a few more words. Highway 97 north of Ellensburg meandered up a wide, flat-bottomed valley with sides that looked like moraine . . . known as eskers in Alaska. It’s the stuff dropped beside moving glaciers from way back when. The valley narrowed as the moraine rocks increased in size until they became rock-scarred walls that reminded me of those found in Yosemite.
The road swooped up, curved around rock outcroppings, leaped off ridgetops and swirled down into the next valley. Each subsequent valley held its own clear water pond varying in size from a flat rock double-skip to ones exceeding forty acres.

Back to today. The road continued to be a biker’s dream, sweeping curves, ridgeline crests that lifted me from the seat as I plunged into the next canyon. The temperature climbed into the nineties.
A sign read, “Fresh Fruit.” A young lady said, “I picked the peaches this morning.” A fuzzy peach joined my collection of blueberries, strawberries, and a plum. I munched on red raspberries and Bing cherries. “What do I owe?” I asked.
“Uh, $2.50,” she said.
I glanced at the signs on each basket. Peaches = $1.00 each. Not only had I filled my belly, but I also had a “Care Package” tucked under my arm. I suggested that she undercharged.
“Perhaps I did. But I had a great conversation with a statesman.” Wow! I’m a statesman. I gave her the $2.50 . . . and a significant tip.
The next gas stop sucked $25. out of my wallet. A bathroom sign advertised, “Showers $5.” A Dairy Queen chocolate shake fought the 96 degrees registering on the thermometer. I missed an airshow in Quesnel by thirty minutes. Drat! I’m a pilot and always like to see others demonstrate their skills.

It was hot. Really hot. I drank water. I dripped sweat . . . and then I didn’t. I felt queasy. Dizzy. I pulled off the highway. Bonked! I started shaking. I slid off the bike, staggered to a cement picnic table located in a shady nook overlooking a lake. I chugged a “Monster” energy drink. I swallowed two ibuprofens, an anti-spasm pill and a Vicodin. I crawled onto the tabletop. I began talking to my legs . . . relax . . . hips . . . relax . . .. I massaged cramped muscles. The drugs kicked in. Twenty minutes of lying flat on my stomach and I knew I’d survive.
Sweat bees marched along my arms. I didn’t mind contributing salt to them. I didn’t appreciate them biting, as a means of thanking me.
My focus changed from “Woe is me” to “I can do this.” I sat up. Hydrated. Slid off the table. Stood semi-vertically. Stuffed my head back into the helmet that felt like a microwave, climbed on the bike, and stared at my gloves lying on the picnic table. A lady standing nearby saw my dilemma and fetched my gloves.

Twenty miles later, the Sandman Motel in Prince George looked like paradise.
To be continued.

[Calimusjohn]

Day 3 continues. My ground-floor room at the Sandman Motel allowed parking within ten feet of the entrance. I pulled the gear off the bike, dumped it on the room’s floor and fetched a bucket of ice. I peeled off the sweat-soaked clothes and stood under a cold-water shower. I chewed ice, drank water, lots of water, and became a lump on the bed.
I looked around. Nice room. Thick, fluffy towels. A guest bathrobe hung on a hangar. The place looked spendy. I should have asked the price. No. It didn’t matter. I needed pampering. By nine o’clock, I’d munched all the ice, drank enough water to float the Titantic, and needed food.

A door in the motel’s office led to an adjacent Denny’s Restaurant. The tables were all taken. I perched on a counter stool, looked around. No one had food. Faces displayed anger and dismay. Two tour buses were parked at the curb. I asked a fellow stool-sitter, “What’s going on?”
“One cook. One waitress. She went into the bathroom about ten minutes ago and hasn’t come back out. She may have climbed out a rear window.”

I wandered down the street seeking sustenance. A ubiquitous double-arched hamburger stand loomed across the street. A block away, a neon sign flashed, “Earl’s Lounge,”. Like a moth to a flame, I skittered down to Earl’s. A scantily clad maiden greeted me as I entered. “Walk this way,” she said. She slithered and undulated. I couldn’t move like that in a million years.
She deposited me in a dimly lit booth. Lighted sporting events on TV screens hanging from the ceiling revealed a couple in a nearby booth practicing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Another maiden approached my table. She must have had a bad back because she leaned forward, rested her arms on the table and whispered, “How can I make this a memorable evening, sweetie?” I was momentarily distracted by her loosely fitting peasant blouse.
I settled on two “virgin” iced tea drinks and one “Earl’s Macho Man Burger.” I’m guessing that the dill pickle spear made it macho. Thirty dollars poorer, I returned to the Sandman. I noticed the 24-hour Denny’s Restaurant was closed.

I reviewed my actions during the past few days.
Well, Dummy, you’ve overdone it. Your body is not at 100%. The weather is hotter than hell and you need to take more cooling breaks.
I drank a bottle of water and promised to take better care of my body’s needs.

[pegasus1300]

"I drank a bottle of water and promised to take better care of my body’s needs." Famous last words. BTW great story thanks for the trip. Can't wait for the next chapter.

[Calimusjohn]

Day 4. The motel’s checkout clerk revealed I’d spent a mere $100. It was a bargain. I felt refreshed and ready to conquer the world. Or the next few hundred miles.
The country flattened. Ridges rounded. Vegetation thickened. The trees along the highway were so numerous that passage between them was impossible. I saw three moose. Two stood staring at the trees seeking a passageway. The third was grimly smeared across a hundred yards of pavement. Millions of the trees infested by the Western Pine Beetle were dead or dying.
Birds were scarce. L.B. J.s (Little Brown/Black/Blue Jobbies) decorated a few bare branches. I spotted three ducks, two ravens, and one golden eagle.

I dawdled the day away, emphasizing hydration and recovering from previous abuses.
The campground at Peace River cost $15. No water. No showers. No electricity. No wi-fi. No problems.

Day 5. I’m somewhere near Summit Lake on an unremarkable day. After stopping, I scratched my helmet-scrunched hair and pondered on what I’d done and seen. Hmm. Uh, the temperature peaked at 94 degrees. Critters blocked the highway a couple of times . . . your typical run-of-the-mill moose, a herd of bison, and by one rambling bear. It was nothing to write home about.
I’m sitting in a very old log cabin. Future politicians will probably claim they were born in it. It’s unique. It has two sinks―no water. The bath is located down a path, a hundred yards away. The $75. rental fee certainly beats having the wind gusting to 60 mph blowing me away. Black clouds scurry overhead. A cold front is passing.

While traveling through Canada, I’ve always wanted to meet Sgt. Preston and his faithful dog King. I came close this afternoon. I was “in the zone” cruising past a line of slow-moving cars. The lead vehicle was a non-descript gray Dodge. The light bar mounted on the roof and the rear bumper sign reading, “State Trooper” clued me as to its occupant. I slowed, pulled in behind the Dodge, and matched its speed. Five miles of creep-speed later, the Dodge turned onto a side road. Its overhead lights flashed, and the driver waved as I accelerated away.
Reducing my cruise speed increased my time to gawk. Today’s winner of “Gawkiest Award” was an overweight (picture obese) man wearing a string bikini and flip-flops shopping in a country store. The clerk whispered, “He’s a tourist.” Whew! There oughta be a law . . ..

My body feels human again after an easy day’s ride. Whoopee!

[pegasus1300]

Thanks John for some great winter entertainment

[Calimusjohn]

Hi, Pegasus, I get cabin fever when the weather turns sour. I vicariously escape by reading other folks' adventures or following Itchy Boots on YouTube. Noraly is my inspiration. Anyway, here is another day's report, where not everything went as planned. John

Day 6. I’m tempted to say, “I slept like a log” in the log cabin. But that would mean I leaked water and moaned as the wind whistled around me. The cabin did not have a key for the door. The manager gave me a cinnamon bun instead. Cinnamon buns in Canada and Alaska are not like those found further south. One is a meal. They are huge!
The gas station pump carried a sign over the price per gallon numbers. It read, “Stop whining!”
Virga curtained the horizon as I topped the first ridge. Two miles later, the curtains became liquid blankets. The deluge eased to where only ice-cold puddle-sized raindrops drenched me. Visibility meant riding by instinct. A seer couldn’t see.
A sign appeared in the murk. “Jack’s Diner.” I parked between a mud puddle and a moat. I splashed my way into the café. A man wearing a grimy t-shirt emblazoned with “I’m Jack” shouted. “Sit down over there. I’ll be with you when this f…ing idiot gets the f…ing order straight.”
I sat.
Eventually, the f…ing idiot got the order right. “Whatcha wanna eat?” roared Jack.
“Uh, ham and eggs, over easy, hash browns, sourdough toast and a cup of hot tea,” I said.
“Well, ya better rethink that. Ya cain’t eat all that much. Order the geriatric plate,” Jack snarled.
“What? No. I want what I ordered.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn ya. Ya cain’t eat that much.” Jack glanced out the window. “Damn. I’ll be back. Gotta open the post office next door.” He took a package from a waiting woman and returned to the cafe. He glared at me as he stepped behind the counter and reached for a skillet.
Minutes later, Jack delivered my meal. “Wow!” I said. “That ham steak covers an entire plate, and the eggs look like quail eggs atop that mound of hash browns.” Jack snickered as I dove in. Forty-five minutes later, I gave up. I ate the ham, the eggs, the hash browns, and washed it down with the tea. But the final piece of sourdough toast stymied me. Each piece was six inches by six inches and two inches thick. I left a crust.
“Told ya,” Jack barked as I paid the fare. I heard him laughing as I waddled out to the bike.
A grocery store in Watson Lake provided the basics for dinner. The first campground I checked was full. The second gave off vibes that made my hair stand up. I rode another hundred miles and stealth camped.

[Calimusjohn]

Day 7. My route ran northward through Whitehorse. The airport had a unique windsock―a twin-engine airplane perched atop a pole. A downtown restaurant had a multi-page menu. Most patrons ate hamburgers.
A Carmack’s motel became my temporary home. The town’s five hundred citizens didn’t throw a parade in my honor. With my ego crushed, I left after breakfast.

Day 8. The road to Dawson City is long, mostly straight, and flat. The notable difference from other roads is the mile upon mile of rubble left behind by mining barges of yesteryear as they gobbled the earth in their quest for gold.
Dawson is a colorful town. Unpaved streets surround houses and businesses painted in pastel colors. Boardwalks keep pedestrians out of the mud. Honkytonk music leaks from the open doors of saloons featuring the infamous “Sourtoe Cocktail.” The 2,500 residents work hard during the short summer season to separate tourists from their money. They do it with such finesse that you’ll thank and “tip” them for the privilege. Gasoline is pricey. It’s trucked five hundred miles from the nearest terminal.
The annual (June) Dust to Dawson Ride (not a rally) is a hoot. Hundreds of riders from all over the world gather for fun and games. Unlike Sturgis, there are few Harley-Davidsons in sight.

Day 9. A free ferryboat carried me across the Yukon River to the start of the “Top of the World Highway.” After passing a campground and a golf course, I entered another world. A forty-nine-mile stretch of gravel and broken asphalt carried me from one ridge to the next. No road signs or guard rails blocked the view of endless hills covered by low-lying vegetation. Faint trails led to abandoned mines.
My TomTom GPS indicated that the 110 miles from Dawson City to Chicken, Alaska, would take five hours and twenty minutes travel time. It only took four hours and thirty minutes! The road is not difficult. It just takes a little more diligence. There are no houses, cabins, or buildings of any sort. No services. Nothing but wide-open space.

Passing through Customs into Alaska took five minutes. Four of the minutes involved swapping lies with the agent. He said, “You’re the first traveler I’ve seen in two days.”
Chicken, Alaska, is supposedly named “Chicken,” because the settlers in 1902 couldn’t agree on how to spell Ptarmigan. The 2020 census lists twelve people as residents, up from seven in 2010. Every souvenir remotely associated with chickens is available.

A notice on a bulletin board advertised a motorcycle campground in Tok (pronounced Toke. Just don’t inhale.). I headed down the Taylor Highway. The hills flattened. Munching moose stood hip-deep in muskeg. It didn’t look to be a promising gardening place.

I was told that businesses must pay $1,500 for the government to place a small blue sign along the highways informing travelers of their existence. For Mom-and-Pop operations, it’s a non-issue. I found the unmarked driveway leading to the motorcycle campground. The drive formed a cave-like path through thick vegetation leading to a clearing.
(To be continued)

[pegasus1300]

Hi John I too am a big fan of Noraly. I've been watching her since the 1st season started appearing on youtibe.

[ARtraveler]

Day 7. My route ran northward through Whitehorse. The airport had a unique windsock―a twin-engine airplane perched atop a pole. A downtown restaurant had a multi-page menu. Most patrons ate hamburgers.
A Carmack’s motel became my temporary home. The town’s five hundred citizens didn’t throw a parade in my honor. With my ego crushed, I left after breakfast.

Day 8. The road to Dawson City is long, mostly straight, and flat. The notable difference from other roads is the mile upon mile of rubble left behind by mining barges of yesteryear as they gobbled the earth in their quest for gold.
Dawson is a colorful town. Unpaved streets surround houses and businesses painted in pastel colors. Boardwalks keep pedestrians out of the mud. Honkytonk music leaks from the open doors of saloons featuring the infamous “Sourtoe Cocktail.” The 2,500 residents work hard during the short summer season to separate tourists from their money. They do it with such finesse that you’ll thank and “tip” them for the privilege. Gasoline is pricey. It’s trucked five hundred miles from the nearest terminal.
The annual (June) Dust to Dawson Ride (not a rally) is a hoot. Hundreds of riders from all over the world gather for fun and games. Unlike Sturgis, there are few Harley-Davidsons in sight.

Day 9. A free ferryboat carried me across the Yukon River to the start of the “Top of the World Highway.” After passing a campground and a golf course, I entered another world. A forty-nine-mile stretch of gravel and broken asphalt carried me from one ridge to the next. No road signs or guard rails blocked the view of endless hills covered by low-lying vegetation. Faint trails led to abandoned mines.
My TomTom GPS indicated that the 110 miles from Dawson City to Chicken, Alaska, would take five hours and twenty minutes travel time. It only took four hours and thirty minutes! The road is not difficult. It just takes a little more diligence. There are no houses, cabins, or buildings of any sort. No services. Nothing but wide-open space.

Passing through Customs into Alaska took five minutes. Four of the minutes involved swapping lies with the agent. He said, “You’re the first traveler I’ve seen in two days.”
Chicken, Alaska, is supposedly named “Chicken,” because the settlers in 1902 couldn’t agree on how to spell Ptarmigan. The 2020 census lists twelve people as residents, up from seven in 2010. Every souvenir remotely associated with chickens is available.

A notice on a bulletin board advertised a motorcycle campground in Tok (pronounced Toke. Just don’t inhale.). I headed down the Taylor Highway. The hills flattened. Munching moose stood hip-deep in muskeg. It didn’t look to be a promising gardening place.

I was told that businesses must pay $1,500 for the government to place a small blue sign along the highways informing travelers of their existence. For Mom-and-Pop operations, it’s a non-issue. I found the unmarked driveway leading to the motorcycle campground. The drive formed a cave-like path through thick vegetation leading to a clearing.
(To be continued)

As a former Alaskan (lived there from 2001 - 2019) its great to hear about those many places we visited over the years. Sometimes, it's a whole different world from what most are used to. :yes:

[Calimusjohn]

Day 10
After waving goodbye to the hulk, I planned on stopping at the first café and enjoy a late brunch. I didn’t see any blue signs or buildings with indications of food available. Eventually, I found myself taking a street into Fairbanks. The street immediately became a signed detour. The detour led me down a one-way street, then an alley with a three-foot-deep ditch down the middle. The alley T-eed into a second detour.
I parked and consulted my world map. Fairbanks was a tiny dot. TomTom’s screen read, “You’re lost.” According to the bike’s odometer, I rode twenty-two miles in Fairbanks before finding my way back on the highway. (Note to future riders: There are no places to eat in Fairbanks.)

At 3:30 p.m. I decided “It’s too late for brunch.” I headed up Highway 2. I topped off the bike’s fuel tank. An adjacent café was closed for maintenance. I was sure there would be a blue sign to rescue me. I found a sign. It read, “The start of the Dalton Highway.” Well; any highway worthy of a sign like that is worth traveling. I rode up the Dalton. Local folks call it the “Haul Road.” Twenty miles later in Livingston, I discovered there are no services. Another seventy miles of riding and I crossed the Yukon River, again. I took a ferry boat at Dawson City, last time.
Poo. The Arctic Circle sign marked another seventy-mile stretch of nothing to eat. I should mention the road conditions. The Haul Road is primarily dirt. Occasionally gravel. Some spots are covered by broken asphalt. Dust covers everything. Including potholes. Fortunately, to reduce dust from passing trucks completely blinding drivers of lesser vehicles, the powers that be, spray the surface with water mixed with calcium chloride. This concoction has the consistency of snot. It’s slicker than a slippery doorknob.

I sat at the Arctic Circle sign and practiced math problems. I’d ridden 160 miles since I filled the gas tank. To return required another 160-mile leg or 320 miles total on a machine that has a range of . . . less. So, 5.7 gallons at 55 mpg = 313.5 miles to be completely accurate. I hummed, “North to Alaska” as I slalomed along the Dalton.
After a mere 549 miles after leaving Tok, I arrived in Coldfoot, Alaska. I fueled the bike before attacking the cook in the 24/7 Coldfoot Trucker’s Mecca.
Who would have guessed that the “Trucker’s Delight” would consist of two runny eggs floating in a puddle of sausage grease and a hocky puck-sized hard biscuit drowning in salty-tasting gravy?

A snow-covered truck pulled in. The driver stomped his feet on the porch and entered the restaurant. “It’s a f…ing blizzard on the pass. I had to chain up three separate times to get through.” So much for me going further north to Prudhoe Bay.
To be continued . . .

[Calimusjohn]

Day 10 continued.
Prudhoe Bay, a Bucket List destination for many a cyclist, is 240 miles further north. It may as well be located on the moon. Five inches of snow on the ground and more falling required a change of plans.

My decision lacked an appreciation of the situation. I’d just ridden 549 miles. It was dark. In the land of the midnight sun, it was very dark, dark as the inside of a cow. W.T.F.? “The sun is behind a mountain and the blizzard is blocking what light is left.” The truck driver had an answer for everything.

Fortified with a ticking belly bomb and a motorcycle with a full fuel tank, I headed south. I passed the hillside campground, ignored intermittent stomach rumblings announcing a problem with digesting the greasy glob I’d just ingested. It only took five miles of slipping and sliding along the gooey road to realize that the bike’s headlight was perfectly aimed to illuminate the top of trees, if there had been trees. I stopped, with the intent of adjusting the fork-mounted L.E.D. lights. I lowered the kickstand and did the sideways hop to slide out of the crack between the tank bag and the mound of essentials piled on the rear seat. As my foot slid across the seat, the kickstand punched a hole through the permafrost. My shouted expletive drowned out the sound of the bike slamming into the muck.

Drat! Under perfect conditions, I can raise a naked Vstrom. I removed the mountain of essentials. I took off the exposed saddlebag. I crouched, put my butt against the seat, grabbed the handlebar with my right hand, the lower saddlebag with my left and lifted. Ha! My feet slid forward. Expletives described the next few minutes. I was covered in mud and the bike still napped on its side.

During the next twenty minutes, I was introduced to Alaska’s state bird―the mosquito. When they discovered my presence, they began entertaining me by humming snatches of The William Tell Overture. Frustrated by my protective layer of mud and my ATGATT apparel, they sought and found the openings between my helmet and jacket collar. They feasted.

A pair of headlights appeared. I had the motorcycle hazard lights flashing. I waved a flashlight as I jumped up and down. The pickup truck’s lights blinded me as the truck swept past. EXPLETIVE!
The truck stopped a quarter mile down the road and began backing up. It stopped. A burley, bearded man leaped out. “What the hell are you doing?” he shouted.
Initially stumped for an answer, I finally squeaked, “Homesteading.”
He stared at me for a moment, splashed his way to the bike, grabbed it by the scruff of the neck, and lifted it off the ground. I scurried forward and held it upright as my newfound hero entered his truck and sped off.
The bike stood upright. All of my treasures sat at the side of the road. Expletive! Another ten minutes provided a new batch of skeeters to drink their fill. A car stopped. Two airmen from Elmendorf saved me. With the bike reloaded, I returned to the campground at Coldfoot and pitched my tent.
My stomach gurgled and growled as I lay me down to sleep, perchance to dream.

My eyes popped open.
OH NO!
I tore open the sleeping bag, ripped open the tent's entrance, and barely made it outside before my body explosively expelled all internal contents. Whew!

[pegasus1300]

Just as I laugh and know thats funny now I also know it was not funny then and am very glad you made it out. Or did you?

[Calimusjohn]

Barely! In every sense of the word. :helpsmilie: :opps:

[ARtraveler]

I have mentioned in a few posts about Alaska over the years that the Alaska bush country is not for the faint of heart. It is not IF you are going to have an issue or two, it is WHEN. Most people are helpful to those that are stranded, and that is a very good thing.

CalimusJohn: Have you read the blog or two that cover more Alaska adventures like yours? Back in the early days of Spyder, Yazz did an Alaska adventure. She had some great experiences. That was shortly after I moved there and I got to answer some of her questions about things Alaska. She listened to me on some things, and proved she had a real will to do it anyway, on other things, and she did. :yes:

Another group came up a few years later. They were called North to Alaska. There were about 15 riders from all over the US, they got together in Washington State and headed North to Alaska.

Both groups spent over a week riding the "good stuff" in Alaska, and doing their things as they saw fit.

Happily, I can say I was part of the welcome for both groups and there are some great photos along with both groups adventures. A good read for any and all from the SL archives.

And now...back to the Program. :bowdown:

[BamaJohn]

Barely! In every sense of the word. :helpsmilie: :opps:

Been there more often than I care to admit....Glad you survived that night!

[Calimusjohn]

Yes, Artraveler, I researched the Archives and read other reports of Alaskan tours. There are some great stories and super photos. It's great that each rider had a different experience. The variations are fodder for future fireside chats with family, friends, and other riders.

Day 11.
It was a murky Monday morning. My stomach and intestinal tract were as empty as an I.R.S. agent’s heart. I folded and stowed the tent, straddled the bike, passed up another chance for poisoning at the truck stop, and slithered my way south.

The road crew was out early. They sprayed even more chloride over a thirty-eight-mile stretch of muddy roadway. Then I followed a Pilot truck for another nine miles. I’d have appreciated the stability of a three or more-wheeled vehicle today. My fingerprints were permanently embedded in the handgrips, regardless of the times I ordered my hands to relax.

Between stretches of riding on a "Slip and Slide," the road proved rough going. The bike shook, vibrated, and complained. I promised that if she carried me to civilization, I’d give her a bath, treat her to new tires, and an oil change. She rattled her approval.

Seven hours after starting the day’s ride I tried to turn left. The bike wouldn’t. I did a 270-degree turn to the right and pulled up at a gas station’s pumps. I poked, prodded, wiggled, and couldn’t find what jammed the front forks from rotating left.

After a humongous breakfast at the adjacent café (which opened after yesterday’s maintenance), I used zip-ties to replace missing bolts in the headlight fairing, and duct tape to secure a flopping brake line, and a loose fender. Another fruitless inspection and the handlebars were still limited to ten degrees of left turn.

Yesterday’s endurance run, three hours of sleep, bodily systems in full revolt, and a bike refusing to turn left, had my morale-gauge needle bouncing on the empty peg. I remembered from a post on Adventure Rider (ADV) or Horizon’s Unlimited (HU), that Dan Armstrong, located in Anchorage, 350 miles away, was the bike guru to see. I skirted Fairbanks and counter-steered my way to Neanna.

A nice lady in the Tourist Bureau telephoned all motels attempting to find me a room. No luck. They were all booked. She phoned the Railroad Museum and reserved the “Engineer’s Room.” The museum is housed in the town’s former train station. The museum docent (Christina, an exchange student from Moldova) allowed me to pile my goodies in a corner. I wiggled my way up a narrow staircase to the 1920s-style “Engineer’s Room.” It had an adjoining bathroom with a shower. Pure bliss.

Freshly scrubbed, I walked a block to a café. I ordered the “Special: potato soup, and a turkey sandwich.” The soup was green. Green? The soup’s main ingredient was salt. I passed. The turkey sandwich held an emaciated leaf of lettuce, a slice of tomato I could read through, and a deli-thin portion of turkey.

The movie My Cousin Vinny described my night in the museum. The train tracks were there for a reason. At oh dark thirty, a locomotive, twenty-seven feet, three inches away from my bed sounded its horn. There is a dent in the tin plate ceiling approximating my profile.

[Calimusjohn]

Day 12.
The 0530 train started my day. Refreshed by a good night’s sleep, I breakfasted on trail mix washed down with tap water. A review of notes revealed that Dan Armstrong resided in Fairbanks, not Anchorage. Good Grief! I packed up, made a right turn escape maneuver, and headed for Fairbanks a third time.

Inside an industrial supply store, I asked to peruse a Fairbank’s telephone book. No Dan Armstrong or shop was listed. The store’s counter lady asked, “Where would Mr. Armstrong buy his parts?” Duh!
The Harley-Davidson service manager gave me Dan’s telephone number. Dan gave directions to his home and garage-based shop.

“I can’t turn left,” I said.

“Really?” Dan shook his shoulder-length hair and began a ten-minute-long probing. “Eureka!” He fetched a magnet from his shop, taped it on the end of a wooden dowel, stuck it where the sun didn’t shine, and recovered an errant bolt.
Dan returned the bolt to its original hidden home and torqued it down. He spent the morning replacing missing bolts and tightening loose fittings. After a bath, an oil change, and a new set of tires, my Vstrom was ready for more adventures.

I don’t know if Dan is still in business, but contact me via PM if you want to know where I found him.

A super-sized Chef’s salad became brunch. I tooted the horn as I sped past Neanna and its museum. The hills located between Fairbanks and Neanna dribbled out onto a flat, scrub-covered plain. Far to the south, bumps appeared on the horizon. As I traveled, the bumps seemed to grow. The road snaked along the side of the Neanna River, between immense rock-sided canyons. I was in Denali country, home of Mt. McKinley, the highest mountain in North America.
An illegal roadside plywood sign led me to a unique motel. I rented a ten-foot, slide-in, cab-over, camper shell for $31. A shower, bathroom, and laundry perched a hundred feet away. A nearby café provided food that my body craved.

Day 13.
I ate, rested, did laundry, ate some more, took a nap, and ate, again.

I rode to the town of Denali and enjoyed eating a twelve-inch cardboard-flavored pizza for $27. Denali is a huckster’s paradise. Thousands of tourists arrive in tour buses, rented motorhomes, automobiles, and astride an occasional motorcycle. Hundreds of boutiques and small shops sell everything. If you need a yak-skin hat, or a glass globe containing brine shrimp―a Denali shop has it.

I needed to head south. The air was downright nippy. Trees have lost their colorful leaves. Tomorrow I ride.

[BamaJohn]

Enjoy your ride posts, and thinking that you're a better man than I. You seem to tolerate "challenges" much better than I. :thumbup:

[ARtraveler]

Day 12.
The 0530 train started my day. Refreshed by a good night’s sleep, I breakfasted on trail mix washed down with tap water. A review of notes revealed that Dan Armstrong resided in Fairbanks, not Anchorage. Good Grief! I packed up, made a right turn escape maneuver, and headed for Fairbanks a third time.

Inside an industrial supply store, I asked to peruse a Fairbank’s telephone book. No Dan Armstrong or shop was listed. The store’s counter lady asked, “Where would Mr. Armstrong buy his parts?” Duh!
The Harley-Davidson service manager gave me Dan’s telephone number. Dan gave directions to his home and garage-based shop.

“I can’t turn left,” I said.

“Really?” Dan shook his shoulder-length hair and began a ten-minute-long probing. “Eureka!” He fetched a magnet from his shop, taped it on the end of a wooden dowel, stuck it where the sun didn’t shine, and recovered an errant bolt.
Dan returned the bolt to its original hidden home and torqued it down. He spent the morning replacing missing bolts and tightening loose fittings. After a bath, an oil change, and a new set of tires, my Vstrom was ready for more adventures.

I don’t know if Dan is still in business, but contact me via PM if you want to know where I found him.

A super-sized Chef’s salad became brunch. I tooted the horn as I sped past Neanna and its museum. The hills located between Fairbanks and Neanna dribbled out onto a flat, scrub-covered plain. Far to the south, bumps appeared on the horizon. As I traveled, the bumps seemed to grow. The road snaked along the side of the Neanna River, between immense rock-sided canyons. I was in Denali country, home of Mt. McKinley, the highest mountain in North America.
An illegal roadside plywood sign led me to a unique motel. I rented a ten-foot, slide-in, cab-over, camper shell for $31. A shower, bathroom, and laundry perched a hundred feet away. A nearby café provided food that my body craved.

Day 13.
I ate, rested, did laundry, ate some more, took a nap, and ate, again.

I rode to the town of Denali and enjoyed eating a twelve-inch cardboard-flavored pizza for $27. Denali is a huckster’s paradise. Thousands of tourists arrive in tour buses, rented motorhomes, automobiles, and astride an occasional motorcycle. Hundreds of boutiques and small shops sell everything. If you need a yak-skin hat, or a glass globe containing brine shrimp―a Denali shop has it.

I needed to head south. The air was downright nippy. Trees have lost their colorful leaves. Tomorrow I ride.

Super "Right On" about the town of Denali. :yes:

[Calimusjohn]

Day 14
The day was spent riding in fifty-degree rain. The heated grips and a vest made the experience less unpleasant. I admit that there are days when riding in a cage is preferable to the freedom felt on the bike.

A Subway sandwich imitated breakfast and lunch. My atlas listed Anchorage as being home to 291,826 residents. They were all in hiding as I splashed my way through. The number of single-engine aircraft at the airport impressed me. I’d never seen so many in one place. For sale signs decorated quite a few. Hmm . . ..

The Kenai Peninsula, with its snow-capped mountains and glaciers, reminded me of what I’d seen while flying over Tierra del Fuego, located at the tip of South America. Note: Before the advent of satellites, I piloted a U.S. Navy C-130 photographing the Palmer Peninsula for the Coast and Geodetic Survey. The photographs led to the first maps made of the interior of Antarctica.

On a straight stretch of highway, a leading black Chevrolet signaled. “Right turn.” My brain reminded me of a statement made by a Motorcycle Safety Foundation instructor, “A flashing turn signal light demonstrates that the bulb works. Nothing else.” The car slowed, I moved into the clear, left lane.

Yeah, you saw it coming. The Chevy turned left!

After 0.37 seconds reaction time, I simultaneously snapped the throttle closed, stomped on the brake pedal, strangled the hand brake, pushed on the left handlebar, pulled on the right, and uttered an expletive.
The bike shuddered as the ABS did it job. The bike slowed in direct relation to the coefficient of friction between the bike’s new tires and the wet road’s surface. Laws of physics took over as the bike’ s turn radius reduced as the bank angle increased.

If I lifted my foot from the brake pedal or my hand from the front brake lever―I could have touched the side of the car. The driver never saw how close I came to slamming into him.
Good grief! Even though I recognized a classic situation, I ignored the signs and nearly added to motorcycle accident statistics. I stopped a mile down the road. Adrenaline leaked from my eyeballs. My jittering nervous system screamed, “Why did you ever give up smoking?”

In Homer, my bike’s thermometer read 37 degrees. The rain made it feel colder. I looked for Tom Bodette’s house with “a light in the window.” He must have been out of town. The light was unlit. The Best Western Motel offered a room for $179 plus tax. The Beluga Inn invited me in at $139. A $25 dinner of fish and chips ironed the wrinkles from my tummy.

[BamaJohn]

WHEW...made my palms sweat just reliving a similar close call. Glad you made it ok!

[Bangorbob]

Glad to hear it went in your favor. BTW, this trip is done on a 650 cc, correct?

[1iHooligan]

Challenges are adventures in the making!

[Calimusjohn]

Yes, Bangorbob, I was riding a Vstrom 650.

[Calimusjohn]

Day 15
The TV weather guessers said, “Expect rain for the next five days.” Gag! I went to the ferry office. A sign read,” Open when ferry arrives, tomorrow.” Nuts! I rode to the end of the Homer spit looking for the “End of the Road” sign. The road ended, but there was no sign. Someone must have taken it as a souvenir. Drat!

Riding in the rain beats sitting in the rain―waiting. I threaded my way back up the Kenai Peninsula. Fishermen’s cars were parked in every available pull-out and along the highway’s edge. A visit to Portage Lake to honor my being raised in Portage, Indiana, was a no-brainer.

My head swivel needed oiling after thousands of twists and turns taken to scan glacier-scraped mountainsides, glistening mountaintops, miles-long, man-made waterways left over from gold seekers, and enough green trees to boggle the mind.

A second crossing of Anchorage revealed no inhabitants. They must have gone south for the winter. All had left except for a barber offering, “Walk-in haircuts $18.” I’d never seen a “Walk-in haircut.” I still haven’t.”

A hundred miles down the road, I found a food emporium. I ordered a “Dagwood” sandwich. It arrived twenty minutes later. The deli owner apparently did not know Dagwood Bumsted's approach to making a sandwich. The skimpy $16 sandwich rated a “two” on a scale of ten.

After enjoying as much of the day as I could stand, I found a lodge featuring $139 rooms. I considered pitching my tent in the rain . . . for about two and a half seconds . . . and paid for the room.

[Calimusjohn]

Day 16
After enjoying a blueberry pancake breakfast that smoothed belly wrinkles, I went cruising. I topped a rise cruising in the neighborhood of sixty-five mph. A white sedan followed a motorhome about a half-mile ahead. The gap between us quickly narrowed. Trained observer that I am, I read, “Patrol Car” displayed on the white car’s rear bumper.

I dawdled along at fifty-five for a minute until the way forward was clear. Tapped the turn signal and began a passing maneuver. When I started around the motorhome, I noticed a Christmas tree light show flashing in my rear-view mirror. A single “Chirp” on the patrol car’s P.A. system convinced me that the occupant wanted to do a meet and greet.

I pulled over, stopped, killed the engine, put the kickstand down, and peeled off my helmet. “Good morning,” came from my blind spot. I turned around and read “Christianson” on a name tag.

“Top of the morning to you, Officer Christianson,” I said.

“I have the feeling that you don’t know the speed limit,” he said.

“Sixty-five,” I answered.

“Nope. Fifty-five. I figured you thought differently. You did see the sign on the rear of my car, didn’t you?”

“What? Yeah, I may be prematurely senile, but I can still read. You must be kidding about the speed limit. We’re in the middle of nowhere. The road is straight as a string.”

“Yeah, it’s a good road. The speed limit is still fifty-five. It has been for the last twenty miles.”

I shook my head and laughed.

“Where were you a cop?” Christianson asked.

“San Diego,” I said. “How’d you come up with me being a cop? We didn’t do a secret handshake or anything.”

“Anybody that laughs after being stopped for speeding is either a cop or nuts. Maybe both.”

We spent the next ten minutes swapping lies. He then glanced at his watch and said, “John, I’m heading back to town. The baker should have some fresh donuts about now. Now, I expect you to stick with the speed limit. The next patrol officer is about 140 miles down the road. You don’t want him to stop you. Man, he’s one tough dude.”

Officer Christianson flashed the car’s overhead lights and blipped a “Whoop―whoop” with the electronic siren as he headed away. It seemed to take forever riding that next 140 miles without police protection . . . at fifty-five-miles-per-hour.

The road skirted Matanuska Glacier. My camera’s battery died when I tried to get a photo. I flew over hundreds of glaciers in Antarctica. Seeing one up close and personal was impressive.

I rented a platform tent for $31 at the intersection of Highway 2 and the White River. The tent held a real bed, a table, a lounge chair, and a heating stove. The campground store offered a pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream for $9.95. My dinner consisted of a package of Top Ramen noodles and a can of chicken mixed with mushroom soup. Tasty.

[Calimusjohn]

Day 17
Detours and construction zones are sometimes a challenge. Flaggers in Canada and Alaska waved motorcyclists to the head of the line. When released, we didn’t have to fight the dust or take a mud-bath thrown up by the wheels of other vehicles. Thank you, flaggers!

Finding gasoline was a problem. Deliveries to remote stations were often disrupted. On multiple occasions, I traveled in excess of 250 miles before finding gas stations that were not closed or had fuel. I coasted down hills, rode at the most economical speed, and hoped for the best.

Meeting people and exchanging biographies was always fun. I met a helicopter pilot stationed at the White River campground. He flew botanists along mountainsides seeking certain plants. He said they had discovered a relationship between specific plants and the presence of gold. He would not identify the plants involved.

I related my history in helicopter operations and mentioned how expensive they were. When asked about their successes in finding gold, he laughed. “The company will do a lot better than break even. A whole lot better.”

The Teslin Café is across the street from the Teslin General Store, The Teslin Motel, and The Teslin Gas station. The sign maker loved painting Teslin. Two older BMWs followed me into the café’s parking lot. Two leather-clad really big guys dismounted. They appeared confused. They pointed at the various Teslin signs, consulted a book, waved their hands, and kicked the bike’s mud-caked tires.
They spotted me. One guy pointed at his mouth, rubbed his belly, and pointed at the café. I nodded.

Inside the café, they stood and studied the menu board and consulted their book. The waitress watched them point at Soup of the Day and French fries. She led them to a table at the far side of the café.

I finished my meal. I circled the mud-covered BMWs. Their license plates were fifteen-inch white squares. “RUS” preceded numbers. Country flag decals covered the saddlebags. Numerous stickers placed on the lower windshield areas represented cities and historic locations.

One of the riders came outside. I pointed at a license plate. “Russia?” I asked. He lit a cigarette and nodded. I pointed at the decals and stickers. “Wow!” I said.

He grinned, thumped his chest, and said, “Kamchatka, home.” A map from my fifth-grade geography class came to mind. Hmm. Kamchatka Peninsula, east end of Russia, the haven of volcanos and the place where a commercial airliner was shot down a few years ago.

He threw his leg over an imaginary motorcycle, twisted the throttle, and mouthed, “Varoom . . . varoom. Me go . . . Kamchatka, Mooska, Burrlin, Frankfurt, Lizbo, Mad-rid, Aero-fly, Bueno Aires, Oosha, Poonta Reenas, Valparaiso, Matshoe Peekshu, Mexico, U.S. A., Canda, Here, go home, Kamchatka.”

He “Varoomed,” one more time, turned off the key, put the kickstand down, and climbed off the invisible steed. I was in stitches. His partner arrived and began giving him a hard time. They inspected my Vstrom. One guy poked my rear seat pile of essentials. “Sink, too?” He laughed.

Their BMWs were eleven years old and had covered 40,000 miles in the previous months. The spokesman said, “We hard ride.” It was the understatement of the day.

When I turned onto the Cassier Highway, I recalled a conversation I’d had in Homer, Alaska. A man approached. “Hi, I’ve ridden Goldwings for the past twenty-five years. Had three of ’em. Rode ’em a total of thirty thousand miles. So, you know that I know what I’m talking about.” I nodded. “You thinking about riding the Cassier?” he asked. I nodded again. “Don’t! Don’t even try. It’s terrible. All gravel . . . potholes . . . no gas . . ..”

“Uh, excuse me. When did you ride the Cassier Highway.”

“Well, I didn’t ride it. I drove a car. Couldn’t have made it on a motorcycle. It was . . . oh, when? Umm . . . 27 years ago.”

Enough said.

[Calimusjohn]

Day 18
At some point in the past twenty-seven years, the Cassier Highway received a coating of asphalt. To keep things interesting, the engineers left a slew of potholes for drivers to sashay around.

For the first thirty miles, trees beside the roadway were blackened by fire. Bleak black. From the top of a rise, green trees appeared in the distance. Unfortunately, they were crowned by a plume of smoke indicating another fire was actively decimating the terrain. I later learned that the new fire had consumed over 5,000 acres. It would burn until extinguished by snow. Available firefighters worked fires closer to towns.

The Cassier is a two-lane black ribbon primarily lacking fog lines, center divider stripes, and signs announcing curves. Few guard rails block scenic views. A rider must adapt to ever-changing conditions. The road twists, turns, dives off ridgelines, swoops into canyons, curls along lakeshores, bores through tunnels, and leaps rivers on metal-gridded bridges. If God had money, the Cassier is the highway she would build.
Glancing sideways, I saw pesky glaciers slipping their way down mountainsides.

What a day! Good weather, a great road, little traffic, and my body not complaining. The bike felt like an extension of my body as we swirled through the curves and danced down the straights. Two Toyotas appeared in my rear-view mirrors. Evening was approaching, motels and resorts lay fifty miles ahead. I didn’t want a couple of cars to disrupt the rhythm I’d established.

The cars began tailgating. Well! Coming out of the next curve, I kicked down a gear, twisted the throttle to the stop, and rocketed down a straight-a-way. Braked hard, maxed out a curve, and accelerated again. My mirrors showed an empty road. I maintained a healthy pace for the next thirty minutes.

I pulled into a gas station for fuel. While filling the gas tank, the Toyotas arrived. A man from Japan leaped out of the front car. “You some rider! I ride Japan. I very good. You fast. Faster me.” I removed my helmet. His eyes appeared to grow. He shouted at the men sitting in the Toyotas, “Oh, you see this fast rider. Not a kid. He old man!”

They followed me until I pulled off the highway onto a road leading to a resort. The drivers honked and waved. I heard them cheer as they passed on down the road.

The resort offered me a tent site or the use of a cabin with a kitchen and bath en suite. I soaked my tootsies (and the rest of me) in a porcelain tub for an hour. Dinty Moore and Captain Morgan joined me at the dinner table.

[BamaJohn]

Day 18
At some point in the past twenty-seven years, the Cassier Highway received a coating of asphalt. To keep things interesting, the engineers left a slew of potholes for drivers to sashay around.

For the first thirty miles, trees beside the roadway were blackened by fire. Bleak black. From the top of a rise, green trees appeared in the distance. Unfortunately, they were crowned by a plume of smoke indicating another fire was actively decimating the terrain. I later learned that the new fire had consumed over 5,000 acres. It would burn until extinguished by snow. Available firefighters worked fires closer to towns.

The Cassier is a two-lane black ribbon primarily lacking fog lines, center divider stripes, and signs announcing curves. Few guard rails block scenic views. A rider must adapt to ever-changing conditions. The road twists, turns, dives off ridgelines, swoops into canyons, curls along lakeshores, bores through tunnels, and leaps rivers on metal-gridded bridges. If God had money, the Cassier is the highway she would build.
Glancing sideways, I saw pesky glaciers slipping their way down mountainsides.

What a day! Good weather, a great road, little traffic, and my body not complaining. The bike felt like an extension of my body as we swirled through the curves and danced down the straights. Two Toyotas appeared in my rear-view mirrors. Evening was approaching, motels and resorts lay fifty miles ahead. I didn’t want a couple of cars to disrupt the rhythm I’d established.

The cars began tailgating. Well! Coming out of the next curve, I kicked down a gear, twisted the throttle to the stop, and rocketed down a straight-a-way. Braked hard, maxed out a curve, and accelerated again. My mirrors showed an empty road. I maintained a healthy pace for the next thirty minutes.

I pulled into a gas station for fuel. While filling the gas tank, the Toyotas arrived. A man from Japan leaped out of the front car. “You some rider! I ride Japan. I very good. You fast. Faster me.” I removed my helmet. His eyes appeared to grow. He shouted at the men sitting in the Toyotas, “Oh, you see this fast rider. Not a kid. He old man!”

They followed me until I pulled off the highway onto a road leading to a resort. The drivers honked and waved. I heard them cheer as they passed on down the road.

The resort offered me a tent site or the use of a cabin with a kitchen and bath en suite. I soaked my tootsies (and the rest of me) in a porcelain tub for an hour. Dinty Moore and Captain Morgan joined me at the dinner table.

:cheers:

[pegasus1300]

I loved the part about dinner of caned chicken Ramen a Canned Musgroon soup. In my camping days I had more then one meal from a can of Hormel Chili and a can of Cheddar Cheese soup mixed. Thank you for the parts about the two Russians a and the police officer.

[Calimusjohn]

Hi, Pegasus1300,

People in cars seldom talk with people in other cars.

When I am on a bike, I meet the most interesting folks. When I enter a small-town cafe wearing ATGATT, I'm inundated with questions. "Where are you from?" or colloquially, "Ware ya goin'?" It's hard to eat between questions. Local folks are the best source of information on . . . everything local.

It's amazing how many people live with regret. The ones who say, "I always wanted to . . ." or "Wish I could do that." or "When I retire, I'm gonna . . ." or my favorite, "Someday . . ." On AdventureRider, I wrote a Mexico tour report entitled "Someday." It's still there. I found it and other reports recently by searching - calimusjohn - . The bottom line - Someday is here!

I'm getting cabin fever. There is a foot of snow on the ground in eastern Tennessee with the temperature at a single digit. I just spent 12 years in the Sonoran desert with temps over 100. My body is in full mutiny mode from the snow and cold.

Will someone please write about a tour in the tropics?

John

[pegasus1300]

I have learned thru experience that someday never comes. It is right after the 12th of never. I have learned to enjoy that which I can do and enjoy the things I can't thru stories like tjis and videos like Itchy Boots. Thank you for generously sharing.

[Calimusjohn]

Day 19
My morning routine starts slowly. Not necessarily by choice. My body, like all machinery, works better when all of its parts warm up to operating temperature gradually. It takes less than twenty minutes for me to leap out of bed. I stagger around trying to remember if I took a shower earlier or just need to go stand in a rain locker. A damp towel sometimes yields a clue.

I peek into my mouth to see if I still have teeth, brush their stubs, threaten my face with a razor, brush hair out of my eyes, and I’m ready to tackle getting dressed. My bendy parts don’t want to bend or are bent in the wrong direction.

I sit on the edge of the bed, take a deep breath, exhale sharply, and swing a sock out in a graceful arc toward the toes at the end of my leg. Hmm. My leg grew in length during the night.
After three or four tries, the sock captures a toe or two. I put my heel on the floor and use the other foot to wiggle the sock up the length of my foot. If that procedure doesn’t work, I remove the sock from my foot. I insert the sock into a boot with the open end folded over the top of the boot. It is then a simple maneuver to insert foot into the sock and boot simultaneously.

Note: Don underwear and pants before placing a foot into a sock-topped boot.

That’s enough of my habits.

My motorcycle has a temperature gauge. Initially, it indicates zip. After riding a mile or three, it shows an increase in warmth. By the time ten miles have passed under the wheels, the individual parts have joined with their partners and are ready to perform as designed. Meantime, I’m tuning into the sounds: little squeaks, rattles, thumps, the swishing chain drive, humming tires, throbbing exhaust, and wind whistling through the helmet’s vents.
I transform from a lump straddling an inanimate machine into an android-styled, wheeled partnership. Throttle twists, clutch engagements, foot shifts, and braking maneuvers become synchronous movements repeated hundreds and sometimes thousands of times a day.

It’s like stuffing three pieces of bubble gum into my mouth. Initially, the gum is only a gagging glob. Over time, a transition takes place. The glob softens. My tongue pushes it from one side to another. My teeth work it. My tongue pushes it against the back of my front teeth, My lips part. I exhale. Drat! The bubble formed is now stuck on the inside of my helmet’s visor.

Anyway, as the day progresses, I ride better. My road scan from left to right, dip to the rearview mirrors, eye-shift back to the road, glance at the gauges, and back to the road is smoother, and faster. My reaction times are quicker.

I concentrate on traveling the perfect line through curves. I’ve successfully rated a nine many times. I have never scored a ten.

The Day 19 ride report follows . . .

[Calimusjohn]

Day 19 Ride

The road changed. Fog lines defined road edges. A centerline divided lanes. Curve signs suggested the speed to traverse them. Signs proclaimed: speed limit, no dumping, caution, yield, soft shoulder, no passing, no parking on pavement, and signs prohibited the posting of signs, signs. Squeeze me twice! Civilization kills creativity.

The lines and signs did not keep the rental motorhomes from wandering down the roads willy-nilly without regard to other vehicles. They stopped in the middle of the road. I assume the drivers spotted something unique . . . like a tree in the forest . . . or a black cow in a herd of black cows.

Today was a “hurry up and wait” day. I hurried from one construction zone to another. I came to a series of clear cuts. A path had been blasted and bulldozed through the forest. The downed trees and uprooted brush remained in piles fifty feet in diameter and thirty feet tall. A flagger explained, “They’re puttin’ in a big power line. Them piles will get burned after the first snow.”

At another construction site, I led another lengthy line of cars, trucks, and motorhomes past a huge machine drilling eight-foot diameter holes twenty feet deep. The holes were to be filled with concrete to form the base of the power-line towers.

A 4,000-gallon water truck broke down. The driver dumped the water in the middle of the construction zone where the asphalt had been removed. The resultant mud bath refreshed me.

A flagger waved. I stopped. “You brave?” he asked.

“I’m on a motorcycle,” I said.

“Okay. Try it.” He pointed at a bridge.

I approached slowly. Four guys wearing hard hats stood staring at the bent-steel overhead beams.

“What hit the bridge?” I asked.

“Dunno. It should be good to cross. Try it.”

Obviously, I made it across.

A gas station offered plastic-wrapped sandwiches that had no “created on” or “expiration date.” The store offered “1/2 can chicken noodle soup - $5.50.” I tried a mystery-meat sandwich. I should have eaten the wrapper.

Miles later, a black bear sat alongside the highway eating red berries from a bush. He didn’t offer to share. I didn’t push the issue.

Stopping and buying gas at every opportunity worked well. The longest leg without fuel was 259.9 miles.

[pegasus1300]

I don't know which is funnier #39 or #40

[Bangorbob]

Number 39 just like my first 20 minutes or so in the morning. I'm glad I'm still young (a couple weeks will be 74) cause I can't wait to get older, not more mature, just older. BTW, I am NOT saying anyone is old.

[Calimusjohn]

Day 20
At 11:20 p.m. an explosion rocked the motel. I thought the gas station next door had blown up. A bolt of lightning struck the ground a hundred feet away when I opened the door. Raindrops the size of golf balls drummed on the roof, splashed off, and washed layers of mud and grime from my motorcycle.

During the next morning’s dressing program, I sat on the edge of the bed. Unfortunately, my eyeglasses got there first. Scrunch. “SPIT!” My spare pair rested on a nightstand . . . at home . . . a thousand miles down the road. I picked up the two unbroken lenses and the bent frame and considered myself lucky.

A Harley-Davidson dealership at the edge of town indicated that Smithers was a large city. I stopped at a crosswalk and asked two indistinct individuals about the location of a Walmart store. The two blurs didn’t speak English. A third fuzzy creature said, “The city council voted against getting a Walmart.”

Further down Main Street, I made out a hazy sign, “Ye Olde Pastry Shoppe.” A door-mounted bell announced my entry. I pointed at a brown glob and asked for a cup of tea. The lump felt and tasted like a cinnamon bun. Whew! A shadow said, “The Eye Emporium is right down the block. They should be able to help you.”

A curvy shape listened to my tale of woe, took the remains of my DIY glasses kit, and said, “I’ll be back soon.” In the time it took to recover from the sugar high the cinnamon bun gave me, the young lady (they are all young) returned. “Here ya go. One of your screws was missing.” Was she referring to the glasses?

What a turn of events . . . a damsel rescued a knight in distress.

My second visit to Jasper National Park was a bonus. The lodge is spendy, but plush. Videos on YouTube show scenery beyond Spectacular! Just don’t get so overwhelmed by the mountains, glaciers, and waterfalls, to miss seeing the critters. I saw bears, elk, Dall sheep, coyotes, and tourists wearing plaid golf pants. The tourists needed culling.

Day 21
Eureka, Montana, appeared after 509 miles and a border crossing.

Day 22
Traveled 194 miles, stopped, and visited friends for two days in Missoula.

Day 24
Leaving Missoula, I followed the Lolo Trail. Lewis and Clark left their footprints there in 1805 and 1806. Chief Joseph and his entire tribe passed along the trail while evading General Howard and the U.S. Army.
I enjoyed watching rafters traversing rapids in the river. I didn’t enjoy setting a world record for the number of sneezes I experienced. I have no idea what triggered the actions, but they occurred three to four times per mile for a hundred miles.

Temperatures on this trip ran the gamut of nice, to hot, to freezing cold. It’s back to hot.

Kennewick, Washington, became a temporary home.

[BamaJohn]

(BTW, I am NOT saying anyone is old.)

No worries, we know who we are. :popcorn:

[Bangorbob]

(BTW, I am NOT saying anyone is old.)

No worries, we know who we are. :popcorn:

Ya we do!!!

[Calimusjohn]

Are you guys suggesting that I switch to this size print?

[Peter Aawen]

Are you guys suggesting that I switch to this size print?

:roflblack: :clap:


Nah, just making it Bold will probably work! :thumbup:

:joke:

[BamaJohn]

Are you guys suggesting that I switch to this size print?

Nope, just keep on with the travel notes...lower size font means you can get more fun in each post.

[Calimusjohn]

Day 25

Why does my TomTom GPS have a woman’s voice? I noticed when leaving the Dalton Highway, that when the lady said, “Turn right,” the screen showed an arrow pointing left. So? I will get to see some unfamiliar territory, no matter which way I go.

Normally, I went west on I-84. TomTom said go East. I went East toward John Day, a great riding area. Twenty miles later, TomTom suggested I turn right onto Highway 14. Okay. I turned.

Highway 14 is a two-lane asphalt ribbon that parallels I-84. I fell into line behind a Pilot Car. It led me for thirty-two miles at thirty mph. Gag! It was Sunday. There was no construction work on the entire thirty-two miles. We passed two other Pilot cars going in the other direction. The Pilot car operators must have had a government contract.

Bored, I counted wind towers. I counted 520 towers in fifty-two miles. None of them turned in the wind. Weird. My thoughts took a left turn. How long does it take to harvest an acre of wheat? The new $250,000 harvesters are forty-two feet wide. If it moves forward at five miles per hour, it covers 26,400 feet. 26,400 x 42 = 1,108,800. An acre = 43,560 sq. ft. 1,108,800 divided by 43,560 = 25.454545 acres per hour or one every 2.3571 minutes. Ha! And people think a biker’s brain is empty . . ..

I’m home after covering 8,082 miles. The bike lost a few bolts and nuts and some of its shine. It acquired a scratch or three and a broken turn signal.

I lost ten pounds. It wasn’t replaced with muscle. What once were “love handles” are now dust flaps. I added wrinkles.

I’ve crossed off Alaska on my Bucket List. Am I an expert on Alaska? Nope. I just got a glance at the Last Frontier. Alaska is huge. I noticed it suffers from mankind’s blight. Abandoned buildings and dead mining equipment described as historic, may be . . . trash. It’s all in the eye of the beholder.

As soon as I pay my bills and trim my “essentials,” I’m heading south to Cabo San Lucas, Baja California.

One last note:

The road to my home was covered with snow. I made it 100 yards off the highway before sliding sideways and laying the bike down. Nothing was hurt, other than my ego.

Another adventure awaits . . ..

[Bangorbob]

Following you was great. Now I don't have to actually make that trip, as if I ever was. Thank you very much for your most entertaining and narrative of your trip. A pleasure to follow.

[pegasus1300]

Thanks for a great break in the winter doldrums. Can't wait to hear about Cabo San Lucas. I was there in November but took a ship.

[Calimusjohn]

Well Pegasus 1300, here are a few memories . . .

When I mention that I ride my motorcycle in Mexico, people often ask, “Aren’t you afraid?”

“Afraid of what?”

“Crooked cops. Kidnapping. Food poisoning. Everything.”

“No! My first ride to Cabo San Lucas occurred in 1976. I’ve been back many times. I’ve not met a crooked cop, been kidnapped, or had food poisoning. Perhaps it’s because I don’t go down dark alleys, attempt to buy drugs, drink excessive alcoholic drinks, and flash a large bank roll, or eat at places that look quirky.”

Are there crooked cops, kidnappers, cases of Montezuma’s Revenge? Yes. I’m sure that there are incidents in every country in the world. I recall reading of cases happening here in the U.S. of A.
Here are a couple of things that happened to me in Mexico.

After a day where plans went sideways, I crossed the border into Tijuana late in the afternoon. I resisted the calls inviting me to sample wares in the hundreds of small shops. I followed the signs leading to the toll road to Ensenada.
A traffic accident further delayed my progress. The sun sank into the sea. I arrived in Ensenada in the dark. Like traffic in most cities, it was bumper to bumper. I traveled in the slow lane looking for motels. The cars suddenly stopped beside me as I sailed solo through an intersection.

My head swiveled. “What the?” A pickup truck directly behind me displayed red and blue flashing lights. DRAT! I pulled over and stopped beneath a streetlight. By the time I peeled off my gloves and helmet, a gentleman wearing a green windbreaker tucked behind a holstered revolver stood beside me.

He pointed and began speaking in Spanish. My blank face clued to him that I was not bilingual. He switched to English. “You just ran a stop sign. I’ll have to write you a ticket.”

“What stop sign?”

He pointed again. The sign was on the opposite curb. I shook my head, dug out my wallet and fished for my driver’s license. The policeman stopped me and tapped my wallet. “Let me see that.” He pointed at an I.D. card next to the license. The card showed that I retired from the San Diego County Sheriff’s Department.

“You were a cop.”

“Yes.

“I’m still writing you a ticket.”

“You should. I missed the sign. I didn’t stop.”

“Aren’t you going to try and talk me out of it?”

“No.”

“Okay. I won’t write you. Where are you headed?”

“Cabo San Lucas. Right now, I just need a safe place to spend the night.”

The policeman led me down side streets for five kilometers to a motel named, “Jokers.” It had an enclosed courtyard for safekeeping vehicles. A restaurant sat right next door. If I had known I’d get such great help, I’d have run a red light seven miles back.

In La Paz, a city of 250,000 inhabitants, I was stopped by the police three separate times. On each occasion the police officer was riding a Vstrom like mine. They wanted to know where I’d purchased the lowered footpegs, handlebar risers, L.E.D. lights, saddlebags, and other farkles. They then led me across town to my destination with their lights flashing and siren wailing. What a hoot!

Again, in La Paz. About fifty parked motorcycles lined the curb. I stopped to see why. Men wearing the “colors” of outlaw motorcycle clubs quickly surrounded me. My Oregon license plate brought an English speaker to the front of the crowd. ‘What’s going on?” I asked.

“It’s a wake for a fallen rider. He was killed while rescuing two children from a burning house.”

I paid my respects in the mortuary. The riders invited me to join them at a “Celebration of Life” party to be held the next weekend on a remote beach.

Military checkpoints can be intimidating. Soldiers that look like they are twelve years old carry large guns. Ninety percent of the time, motorcyclists are waved through checkpoints. I often stopped.

Soldiers looked confused. I speak Spanglish and asked, “Donde agua?” They looked more confused. A sergeant who spoke English explained that they don’t provide water to tourists. I could purchase water in the next town. Meanwhile, I fumbled a wiffle ball out of a pocket. I tossed it up and caught it, tossed it up and missed the catch. A soldier recovered the ball, and a game of catch began.

The soldiers spend three months in isolated spots along the highway before moving to another isolated location. They were bored to tears. Soldiers shouted, “Do wheelie!” as I left my new friends.

Mexico is a really scary place. :gaah:

All Americans should stay at home behind closed doors with 911 on their cell phone speed dials.

Or . . . discover . . . what a truly wonderful world we live on:welcome:

[Calimusjohn]

Another memory.
206577


OOPS!

[Calimusjohn]

Here is a photo of a memorable moment.
206578

[ARtraveler]

Here is a photo of a memorable moment.
206578

Rats! I hate it when stuff like that happens. :bowdown:

[pegasus1300]

And out in the middle of nowhere too. At least you were alright enough to take a picture.

[Calimusjohn]

Yes, pegasus 1300
Nothing hurt or damaged other than my ego.
With an ego as big as mine, I could afford a small donation.
:helpsmilie:

[pegasus1300]

:roflblack::roflblack::roflblack: