Lead, Follow or Git Outa the Way!

[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.

[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.

[Bangorbob]

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

No worries, we know who we are.

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?

Nah, just making it Bold will probably work!

[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.