pegasus1300
Well-known member
I don't know which is funnier #39 or #40
-
There were many reasons for the change of the site software, the biggest was security. The age of the old software also meant no server updates for certain programs. There are many benefits to the new software, one of the biggest is the mobile functionality. Ill fix up some stuff in the coming days, we'll also try to get some of the old addons back or the data imported back into the site like the garage. To create a thread or to reply with a post is basically the same as it was in the prior software. The default style of the site is light colored, but i temporarily added a darker colored style, to change you can find a link at the bottom of the site.
Lead, Follow or Git Outa the Way!
- Thread starter Calimusjohn
- Start date
Calimusjohn
Member
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.
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.
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Bangorbob
Active member
(BTW, I am NOT saying anyone is old.)
No worries, we know who we are.opcorn:
Ya we do!!!
Calimusjohn
Member
Are you guys suggesting that I switch to this size print?
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BamaJohn
Active member
Nope, just keep on with the travel notes...lower size font means you can get more fun in each post.
Calimusjohn
Member
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 . . ..
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 . . ..
Last edited by a moderator:
pegasus1300
Well-known member
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.
Last edited by a moderator:
Calimusjohn
Member
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:
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
Member
Another memory.
OOPS!
OOPS!
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Calimusjohn
Member
Here is a photo of a memorable moment.
ARtraveler
R.I.P. Dwayne
Rats! I hate it when stuff like that happens. :bowdown:
pegasus1300
Well-known member
And out in the middle of nowhere too. At least you were alright enough to take a picture.
Calimusjohn
Member
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:
Nothing hurt or damaged other than my ego.
With an ego as big as mine, I could afford a small donation.
:helpsmilie:
pegasus1300
Well-known member
:roflblack::roflblack::roflblack:
doncanfix2
Member
Your initial sentence caught my eye... when I was 17, I broke my neck! Crusted two vertebrae, destroyed the disk, and what was left fused together... spent 5 weeks in skeletal traction... and lived to tell about it! Funny thing, the neck's fine, but the lower lumbar, shot. No more lifting, bending, twisting... I feel your pain! And that's why I luv my Spyder! Ryde on! - Don
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