beyond the dogpark III . . . much less pavement

this page: a user's guide

2010-07-03T23:12:00.004-04:00

Hello everyone, welcome to the 2010 summer ride report. I'll be using this blog site again, but this time instead of holding the actual content, it will be content directory. Better said, to get to the content of the overall ride report you will want to use the five links on the upper right side of this page (repeated in this post below). I don't plan to update this page often, but I do plan to update the linked pages.

Here is a brief description of the linked pages:

1 - let's talk (BMWBMW discussion): this link will take you to the most recent online posts related to the ride. I'm active on a few motorcycle forums and I like the BMWBMW group the most. You will know my posts from my screen name, "griffin738" - others in my club will post too. If you'd like to sign up on this forum and participate then please do! To read the latest updates on this site, view the last page.

2 - where am I? (tracking map): this link points to a service related to a GPS device I carry with me. My "SPOT tracker" sends a signal every fifteen minutes and my subscription service plots my locations for all the world to see. Only the most seven days of location points will be displayed.

3 - see what I see (travel photos): this points to the 2010 travel photos category of my smugmug photo hosting account.

4 - helmet cam (youtube videos): i carry a small GoPro camera and turn it on now and then when something interesting promises to happen. I'll post as many videos as I can along the way, noting that bandwidth might be in shortage on the trip.

5 - trip preparation photos: this links to photos I've taken of bike modifications and test rides over the last five months.

Okay, that's all for now - - time to race around outside!

Paul

Hi - Updates Pending

2010-07-03T11:27:00.003-04:00

2008-08-26T08:05:00.002-04:00

The area surrounding Cairns includes some “yellow roads” – and we rode a few of them. But getting to them was a whole lot trickier than is should have been. Our tour organizer had suggested a route that would bypass a town or two, and with the proper programming, our GPS came to agree. We crossed our fingers and hoped that no gravel or dirt unsuitable for Victoria’s bike would be involved. But our trip map, our GPS and even our fingers betrayed us. One road in particular became quite narrow, then turned to gravel, then turned to dual-track dirt. I went ahead to see if conditions might ‘get better’ (tough phrasing for a GS rider) but no, they certainly didn’t. As I rode ahead, I crossed a bridge of sorts – one made of pipes perpendicular to the direction of travel with six inch tire-swallowing gaps between the pipes and no guard rails. That was a deterrent, but the deal was sealed when I later came to a locked gate blocking the road. According to the GPS I was only 2kms from an intersecting highway. Maybe the locals are tired of shortcutters (and I wouldn’t blame them a bit. . .).

So we retraced our route and took the ‘honest route’ to get to the ‘yellow roads.’

First the Palmerston Highway (through the Misty Mountains where we encountered our first rain), then the highly twisty descending Gilles Highway, then the ocean-facing Captain Cook Highway.

That day we came about as close as we might have imagined to realizing our goal of finding Doug’s missing chair, or at least explaining its disappearance. As we rode on, we came across this sign. . . .

“Douglas Shire?” – now even the hobbits seem to be involved. . .

And soon, a whole port named after Mr. D. G. Biv (who is apparently in cahoots with a shady character named “Mossman” – yikes!). . .

We faced our adversaries straight on and headed right into town. The plot was about as thick as it could get. . .

We found shelter in town and secured ourselves behind a locked door, preparing for a full day’s search. The following day Victoria took to the sea where she saw many a fish but very few chairs.

And I took to the surrounding area, the Kennedy Highway. Several horses, but also no chairs.

So close. So very close. Doug’s chair was close, we could just smell it (and that was not pleasant). Or could it be that we were mistaken? Later that day I received an urgent message from an anonymous source (for now we will call him Chiba). I’ll let the image do the talking. . .

Could it be that the Australia lead was a phony? Was the chair theft just a ruse to distract us from a much larger white board eraser plot??? Could it be that Doug himself set us up??? Dangitall – we’d been duped! Okay fine, back to the states. . .

But first, one last Australia shot, the obligatory roo sign shot. . .

2008-08-25T13:54:00.003-04:00

Some more chair sightings. . .

Doug, a cabana print for you perhaps?. . .

no paul. . .

Or maybe a spiritual lounger?. . .

no paul. . .

How about seating near some didgeridoos?

no paul. . .

2008-08-25T12:18:00.002-04:00

Continuing north, the temperatures continued to be more agreeable and the days seemed longer, in large part because we were eager to hit the road earlier. But still the roads weren’t much to comment on, mostly highways shared with cars and trucks, with speed limits topping out at 110 km/hr and dipping to 40 or 60 in towns. With little much to engage us on the road, we focused more on road-side attractions. Quite notable among such things was a very large Mango, perhaps even the world’s largest, but almost definitely this town’s largest. . .

Also of note was a winery by the name of Murdering Point. Considering the intrigue involved in our mission, we certainly needed to stop. But I wouldn’t turn my back on the place. . .

Having seen only one live roo-like creature so far, we stopped by a zoo of sorts to make sure that we’d see one or two of Australia’s finest (not including –of course- the police man who let me ‘borrow’ his bike). At the ‘animal sanctuary’ (or other similar term meant to justify crating a bunch of animals and then train them to feed from the hands of their worst nightmare) we came face-to-face with many a fine specimen.

Here we have a koala, seemingly cute and cuddly, but reportedly at the ready to rip your throat if you disrespect it in any way. . .

We met up with a kangaroo. It looked quite familiar from the MANY we’d seen along the road – it looked quite dead. But when it responded to a simple inquiry about a certain piece of office furniture, we realized it was merely snoozing.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, another hopper showed much more aggression as it charged me. I did the only thing I could think to do, I took its picture. . .

We met up with many other agents of Australia’s underground at that park. Gators, wombats, snakes, freaky birds. I could post pictures of them, but you probably know what they look like. Instead I’ll post a picture of me. Hi. . .

. . .and one of Victoria working some counter-intelligence with “the enemy.”

After such a focused encounter with the natives, a long run was in order. Here’s a view from the beach at sunrise. . .

And in leaving the rainforest-lined beach that morning, we were warned of yet more perilous creatures.

Cassowaries? Someone totally made that up. . .

2008-08-24T11:20:00.002-04:00

Later that day – after the fishtailing, and after giving the police man back his motorcycle – we followed our trip route toward Rainbow Beach (truth be told, when we asked the police man how he liked his BMW, he surprised us with the ‘good news’ that the beemers would be replaced with more affordable and less ‘fussy’ Japanese bikes).

As with other days on this winter trip, we found ourselves pressed for time, trying to reach our overnight location while the sun was out and the roos were in. But as had happened before, we found ourselves with more distance to go than sunlight to see by.

As we followed our instructions, our GPS and our noses, we found ourselves on a windy gravel road heading up hill. My GS was a good match for the road but Victoria’s low-riding heavy cruiser was not well suited. And what’s worse than an uphill ride in gravel on a cruiser? Hmmm, how about a downhill ride in deep sand on a cruiser. . . Yep, that’s worse.

As we reached a crest on the gravel road, I followed the well-intending GPS prompt to turn right. I didn’t even notice the sign that warned of impassable conditions ahead. But when I looked behind me and saw no Copernicus, I realized that she had stopped before making the ill-advised turn. Here are a couple shots from that crossroads.

While we turned the bikes around to orient them toward the lesser of two unpaved evils, a woman passed in a 4WD vehicle and advised us of a best and least-gravelly route. As we followed her advice, we headed first down one small road, then a second. In complete darkness the second road turned to gravel. We stopped and turned back (much against the advice of both the woman and my GPS). On our way back to pavement we saw two very speedy animals. The first was a deer or similar, just like at home. The second was smaller and did quite a bit of hopping. It was interesting to see our first live kangaroo but it was better to not meet it in person.

After several attempted routes, we found one that delivered us in good shape to our overnight.

Morning came early and we hopped on an impressive vehicle. It was a bus up top, with comfortable seats for a couple dozen people. But it was a massive 4WD attack truck underneath, capable of handling the deep sands of our next stop, Fraser Island. This would be the first day off the bikes in about a week. One day off was okay. I guess.

Fraser Island is remarkable in many countless ways. It is so super special that our tour guide could spend hours and hours telling of it’s uniqueness. I on the other hand can recall very little of what he said. But it was pretty. And there was a lot of sand. . .

And warnings of other dangerous animals. . .

We actually did see a couple dingoes – one milling around in a parking area, and another on a lake-side beach. The beach dingo provided the day’s best entertainment when it suck up on one sun-bather, grabbed his beach-bag and ran like hell back into the forest. Several signs warn to not leave bags unattended. I imagine the same holds true for chairs.

I was quick to mark and document the crime scene. . .

Neither of these people are actually dingoes, at least so far as you know. . .

From Rainbow Beach we headed north again. Other than the bit of off-pavement excitement we’d had two nights past, the roads have been unremarkable for the last few days. We hadn’t been on a “yellow road” (one’s highlighted as recommended by my Australia Motorcycle Atlas) for a while, but more lay ahead later in the trip.

But it has been getting warmer, as one might expect now that we’re officially in the tropics. Here’s a shot of a touristy marker for the Tropic of Capricorn. . .

And to commemorate that milestone, Victoria requested that I take a shower. We compromised with a healthy dose of “fly spray.”

A couple more points for this post, first about rotaries, and then about BMW dealerships. . .

Concerning rotaries, I find them to be quite fun. And they are well organized in Australia, at least based on the ones I’ve experienced. And taking a bonus loop or two has been particularly rewarding for me, as it’s fun to turn right in circles for a while. I think it’s evening out my ear fluid or whatever has been knocked out of whack from turning left endlessly at Mount Vernon.

While not a rotary, here is a shot of a beach-side cal-de-sac where I circled for a few minutes one morning before hitting the road for the day.

Concerning BMW dealerships, it is interesting to note that cars and motorcycles are sold side-by-side in Australia, at least in some cases. I don’t know that to be true (or acceptable) in the U.S.

And here are a couple shots of bikes not-so-easily-available in the states. . .

2008-08-24T11:15:00.003-04:00

The low temperatures robbed Victoria’s bike’s battery of all usefulness. . .

so with the help of our innkeeper and his son, we made a little one-way push start attempt down a gravel road – success!

We bundled up and rode east from Armidale toward the coast, taking another highly-rated road, the Waterfall Way. We stopped in Dorrigo and poked around the national park – our first rainforest visit of the trip.

Looking out from a certain vantage point, we couldn’t see the trees trough the forest.

Needing a closer view, Captain Copernicus did her thing. . .

To the east of Dorrigo the road becomes ideal for motorcycling. Tight turns, great views, well-paved roads. A shot of the bike. . .

and a shot of the view. . .

Heading north, we exited New South Whales and entered Queensland. Passing through Brisbane, we encountered quite a bit of traffic. And then it happened: the spookiest thing that’s ever happened to me on a motorcycle. We had been riding in the left (slow) lane and approached some very slow-moving traffic. Victoria moved over to the right (passing) lane but there was no time for me to move over to fall in with her. I came to a nearly complete stop while a few cars passed, then there was an opening. So I hit the throttle, turned first to the right and ten quickly to the left. I must have been too much on the throttle because the rear end started to slide out to the right - - the back tire must have spun and lost traction - - I fishtailed quite a bit it seemed. I let off the gas a bit, no clutch, no brakes - - I guess it was the right move as the rear came back to center, but then kept going. And soon I was fishtailing to the left. And then back to the right. And then to the left again. It felt like a ‘tank slapper’ except the front wheel wasn’t shifting from side to side, only the back wheel was. All I know is that I kept the front end pointed forward while the back end moved violently from side to side, and very quickly. No damage other then a bit of lost rubber and some bruising on the inside of my knees where the bike hit me, hit me a lot. I was shaken up a little but needed to concentrate on the traffic around me. I did notice that the car behind me gave me quite a bit of space after that. . .

We pulled into a gas station and I asked Victoria, “well, did you see that?” “See what?” she replied. “Oh, nothing. . .”

At the station we met two other riders. Ian told us that he was riding his R1150RT over to Hervey Bay, where the 2008 BMW Safari was to begin the next day. The “rolling rally” was to begin in that town and end up in Cairns - - a schedule very similar to ours. We’d make an effort to meet up with the crew. . .

We also met one of Queensland’s finest, a motorcycle cop. I envied his bike and thought it would make a much more credible vehicle to chase after those who may have stolen Doug’s chair. Plus, my bike could never again be trusted after trying to throw me. So I stole the police bike. Admit it, you’d have done the same thing. . .

2008-08-20T20:55:00.003-04:00

A couple recent chair sightings. . .

Doug, did you have a sweet Elvis chair?. . .

no paul. . .

Doug, were you up late eating burger rings?. . .

no paul. . .

2008-08-20T20:32:00.003-04:00

After the Putty Road we continued “northish” through the mountains. The Oxley Highway, Thunderbolts Way. We seem to be in Australia during a cold snap - - and at elevations reaching 1,300 meters, things got a bit chilly. Temperatures were below freezing in the evening, so we got a late start in the morning, after things had warmed up a bit. The problem with that approach is that we need to ride purposefully (few stops) so that we can reach our next overnight destination before winter’s short daylight hours come to a close.

Victoria truckin’ through the hills. . .

The 1200 looking out over the hills. . .

And although we’ve not seen any yet, apparently kangaroos come out at night, primarily to feed – and secondarily to scare and/or hurt motorists. (NOTE: while I say that we haven’t seen a kangaroo yet, in truth we have. But in more truth, we haven’t seen a live one – just a bunch of gross bloody ones at the side of the road).

Signs warn of spooky chair-stealing, car-jacking, pouch-nursing critters. . .

These are not words of complaints, they are just observations. The upshot of the cold temperatures is that in order for it so be so cold, the skies are likely clear (and they are). And if the skies are clear (as they are (like I said in the last sentence (don’t make me tell you this again))), then there is no precipitation. Victoria and I agreed that a chill is better than a soaking.

Also, I’ve been making progress on settling in on the “new” GS. The GPS is coming in VERY handy (although it occasionally sends us down unpredictable “shortcuts”). The radio feeds into a helmet intercom – Victoria has the same set-up. She TOTALLY loves it when I sing to her. Oh, and the little tube up front displays the bike registration as required in these parts. . .

For now I’ll end with a nice sunset shot. Here we’re staying at a winery (good call). It all looks peaceful, but remember – there’s a roo behind every tree, just waiting to do something unspeakable. . .

2008-08-18T17:02:00.003-04:00

After the first Captain Copernicus fly-about, we headed back east along the Bells of Line road – this was the first of many rides recommended by our tour organizer, by the Australia Motorcycle Atlas and given the true stamp of approval by the crazies on ADVrider.

With a bit of elevation gain v. Sydney, we felt a temperature difference and recalculated: if it’s August and therefore hot with Washington DC’s summer, then – yep, sure enough – it ought to be winter in Australia. As a point of reference, Sydney is about as far south of the equator as Raleigh NC is north of the equator. From Sydney, our plan is to ride north the Cairns. Cairns is in the topics, about 1,200 kilometers north of the tropic of Capricorn. Relative places in the Americas include Jamaica and Honduras.

We ended our first day of riding only an hour or two northwest of Sydney, fairly close to where we began. Although we did not find Doug’s chair, we found something nearly equally important: we found Doug’s plotter-printer. No, actually I’m just kidding – so far as I know, Doug’s printer is well accounted for. What we DID find was a bit of confidence in our rented bikes and some first-blush familiarity with our new environment, and a great place to stop for the night. . .

Day two put us on the Putty Road, one that was among the most recommended of the entire trip. Here are a few shots. . .

And while this might look all well, good and safe to you, I should make note that warning signs of our chief suspect, “the marsupial” were everywhere.

Lastly – for this post – I’ll note that I did bring my Cabana Boy hat. In my (un)official capacity as BMWBMW’s Cabana Boy, I can imagine no honor greater than to offer the symbol of my office to all people in all places. (But I will note that more than one person has asked if I claimed the hat at customs – it is after all a plant - - who’d have guessed?)

2008-08-14T17:41:00.003-04:00

Having given “a try for the chair” by plane and by taxi, it was time to head to the bike depot and pick up our rides.

To guarantee sure footing, Victoria opted for a low-to-the-ground cruiser type bike, a Honda Shadow 750. Like her bikes at home, this one is red - - and that color seems to imply a certain amount of mechanical uncertainty for her – perhaps a foreshadowing of future craziness down under. Here is a shot of the chair on the Shadow:

I opted for a bike similar to mine at home, a BMW GS. At home I ride an 1150 but alas that was not available, so I settled for a 1200 - -times are tough. Here is a shot of its chair. . .

Our first day of riding was brief - - familiarizing ourselves with the bikes and more significantly, riding on the left.

We made our way out to the Blue Mountains and stopped at “echo point” to view a valley featuring the “three sisters” rock formation.

Needing to take a closer look yet pressed for the time required to hike in, Victoria donned her Copernicus suit and took a fly-in. She reported, “no chairs here – they seem to be one step ahead of us.”

2008-08-14T07:40:00.002-04:00

We arrived at Dulles airport with very much time to baggage-check our chair-detection devices and pass through security. It was clear to us that “the opposition” had tampered with flight schedules - - our flight was delayed by 45 minutes, putting great pressure on our west-coast connection, initially allowing us nearly an hour to change planes. Thinking quickly, we headed for the bar - - this DID NOT help our timing but it DID help us not care so much. I made a point to sit in as many seats as possible, just to make sure that the object of our trip wasn’t under our noses, as it were(n’t)

We sweet-talked (and beer-breathed) the flight crew and they persuaded the pilot to place a brick on the gas pedal. We hopped our second flight with no less than 45 seconds to spare.

On the other end, two people and all bags arrived safe and sound.

From the airport, we grabbed a cab to downtown Sydney. Considering our quest, this image

We searched the streets for clues. Our initial survey of chairs yielded the following. . .

Operatives were everywhere. . .

But Victoria played it cool, taking full advantage of her name. . .

2008-08-05T23:45:00.002-04:00

At the Outback, Victoria and I played it cool (she better than I), as if we weren’t wise to their crooked business model. An operative approached, “hi, my name is Roy and I’ll be your waiter tonight. Can I start the two of you with an appetizer, perhaps a blooming onion?” I blurted, “ha! - no sale buddy – we’re on to you!” Then I replied again, this time actually speaking out loud, “no thanks, just a couple beers for now.” Quick on her toes, Victoria added, “you know, my chair isn’t so comfortable, could we please be reseated?” Brilliant work Victoria – way to make them sweat!

As we moved from chair to chair, Victoria and I assessed each one for it’s “fit.” By the time we’d been seated at each table and every bar stool, we concluded that none were “a match” for Doug – his chair must have traveled more quickly than we. Our think-globally-look-for-Doug’s-chair-locally approach flopped. Big-time.

We discussed the matter further and decided that the big trip was necessary and inevitable. I thought for a moment . . . Victoria would be very important on this mission. Her quick mind would keep us on the right track and her delightful manner and good looks would win the cooperation of others. Also, at 5’2”, she’s small enough that I could toss her into an open second-story window and have her ferret out any clues that may otherwise be sealed behind a locked door. And she could bring her Copernicus super-hero suit and look the part while kicking major butt.

I spoke. “Victoria, if you were willing, I think this mission would be most successful if you came along.”

Victoria spoke. “Paul, we’ve been planning this vacation for ages. We’ll have a great time in Australia on out rental motorcycles as we tour the eastern coast. It’s a much needed reward after law school and the bar exam. By the way, would you mind leaving my graduation photo behind?”

I replied. “That’s great news! I’m so glad you’ll join the mission. Hey, here’s an idea – let’s ride motorcycles! And you’ve totally got to bring the Copernicus super-hero suit – that thing is awesome. And this trip is gonna rule!”

Victoria replied. Wait, no, she just smiled and let me ramble on.

Victoria the bike mechanic

A photo of her in the Copernicus suit is pending – watch out, because she kicks ALL SORTS OF ARSE in this thing. . .

2008-08-05T23:26:00.002-04:00

I ran briskly into the office and headed straight for Doug’s desk. I blathered about the signs I’d received over the weekend: the large beer, the barbie, the basic fact that Nashville is south of DC and that

Australia

is still further south.

He seemed unsurprised by my weekend’s tale and he confided, “earlier today I received a message from a source identifying themselves simply as ‘the marsupial.’ There was a link. I think it tells all.”

I asked, “do you really think that your chair has been taken by a kangaroo?”

“It might not be that easy Paul; the photo doesn’t give a good sense of scale. If not a kangaroo, we might be dealing with a wallaby, or perhaps a wallaroo.”

Doug was right and we both knew it. Dammit, Doug is always right. . .

“So your chair has been taken to Australia?“

“It seems like a stretch to think that it’s there already, but I have no doubt that my chair attracts worldwide attention. At this point it’s a little early to rule anything out.”

I was preoccupied for the balance of the work day. If our hero’s chair was on its way to Australia, then surely I must take chase.

From DC, where would a chair thief begin their overseas journey? When it dawned on me, I wasted no time. I picked up my girl Victoria and lead-footed it to the Outback Steakhouse. We burst through the door and sure enough, CHAIRS EVERYWHERE! It was clear that restaurant serves as a thin cover for a much larger operation.

CHAIRS!!! So many Chairs!!!

2008-08-04T00:25:00.003-04:00

Having vowed to join Doug’s campaign to bring his chair back alive, I returned to my office to whiteboard a strategy (okay, my dry-erase markers had gone missing long ago, so I used a pad of paper). I drew a map, first of my floor, then of the building.

trust nothing on your floor

trust nothing on your city block

I studied my work products and tasked myself: “think Paul, think! Who would have a motive to take the chair?”

Was it the woman with the sweet corner office who wanted to have all the important meetings on her own turf? Was it the guy who recently moved offices and perhaps used Doug’s chair to move his PC monitor? Was it one of the smokers outside my office building’s front door who want to take a load off as they puff away? Was it the hot dog guy on the corner who wants to sit low while he serves meat from dirty boiling water? Was it one of the sketchy people in the office building behind mine – perhaps they wanted to study every angle of the engineering brilliance that defines Doug? Was it the cashier at Grumpy Pizza (who suspiciously recently started to wear a knee brace)?

My mind raced with the possibilities.

Then I had a recollection from my childhood. I recalled that I’d typically join my family in the early evening to watch the television. When my mom had her way, we’d tune into sit-coms: “all in the family” and “the jeffersons” were favorites - - but typically my father called the shots: “kojak,” “the streets of san Francisco,” and “ironsides” oriented my family’s pop-culture compass.

But I digress. . . the point of my childhood recollection is that it was a different Doug – one known to me from a much younger age – who was the first in my consciousness to steal a chair. At that moment I recalled how my brother – the original Doug – stole the chair that I had considered mine at family TV time.

Abandoning all local conspiracy theories, I focused on my brother. Had he moved recently to Nashville and I have visited him once at his new home. I distinctly recall that he had more chairs that I could ever recall him having before.

Wasting no time, I sped to Tennessee.

I burst into my brother’s house only to see him give me a wry smile and a knowing nod. “Yes Paul, we’ve been expecting you” he said with a wiry grin that was completely unfamiliar to me from any results we’ve had with our orthodontist. I hadn’t uttered a word when he continued, “The chair you seek – you will not find it here. But please stay for the night. BWAAA HAAA HAAA HAAA.”

Pretty typical stuff.

Brother Doug served some drinks: wine for some, and a large beer meant specifically for me.

Ah, a large Australian beer, how refreshing and delightful. And large! . . .and LARGE!

The next day – after the Beerzard of Oz vacated my head – we celebrated my niece’s sixth birthday. Her cake featured Barbie, as in “cake on the barbie.”

The Australian references were thickening. . .

My mind raced as if after a third cup of coffee, I flew home to report back on my findings. I didn’t even check any bags.

Stay tuned – it’s just starting to get good . . .

2008-08-03T22:07:00.003-04:00

I’m writing this evening on a matter of great urgency, a matter concerning a man – an innocent man – who has been done wrong. A matter that has caused this man – our hero – to devote himself to righting the wrong that has been done to him. A matter that has inspired your writer to join our hero’s cause restlessly, devotedly, absolutely.

Troubled to find words to soften the harsh reality of “the matter,” I’ll hope that you can handle the cold truth in its most gut-wrenching form, the haunting pleadings of our hero himself. For now we shall call him Doug.

-------------------------------------------
From: Biv, Douglas G.
Sent: Thursday, July 31, 2008 9:44:06 AM
To: {workteam}
Subject: The case of the missing chair

All:
Yesterday when I left the office, my desk chair, that I have had for over 3 years, was at its normal location behind my desk.

This morning there is a different chair behind my desk.

If anyone knows what happen to my original chair, please let me know because the one I now is unacceptable.

I will also talk to other people on the 6th floor to try to get the original chair back.

Douglas G. Biv
Office - 202.555.1212
Cell - 202.555.1213
-------------------------------------------

As you might correctly assume, Doug and I are co-workers. True to his role as an engineer, Doug is meticulous in his detail and engrossed in routine (the technical among you might appreciate that after his flawless implementation of a SONET ring, he was dubbed “Doug of the Rings” - - all hail. . .).

I ask you, what could be more crippling for such a man than to endure the senseless loss of that to which he is closest to at work, his trusty office chair? A chair with which he has shared the challenges, triumphs and tragedies of government telecommunications. A chair that he has come to know for three years. Three Years people, THREE YEARS!!!

When he shared the news, I ran quickly to Doug’s aid.

PB: “Doug! When did you last see your chair!?!?”

Doug: “Yesterday evening Paul, just like I wrote in my email.”

PB: “Ah-ha! I see! So it couldn’t have gotten far, right???”

Doug: “I was hoping that someone took it to a conference room and returned the wrong one by mistake.”

PB: “That’s horrible! Can you describe the chair so I can identify it?”

Doug: “I don’t remember what it looks like. I don’t really look at it, I just sit in it.”

PB: “Oh Doug, this is clearly upsetting you. Are you okay?”

Doug: “Well this replacement chair is a bit uncomfortable. Other than that I’m fine, but I’m pretty busy. Don’t you have any work to do?”

PB: “You bet I do Doug! I’ve got a lot to do. I’ve got to go find your chair!”

Doug, seated in an unfamiliar and unwelcome chair.

To be continued. . .

Home

2007-08-14T22:49:00.000-04:00

Hmmm, it’s August 14 and I’ve been home for three weeks. I’ve meant to write before now; ‘regular life’ has been consuming. So I’ll give a shot now at wrapping up the trip report and providing the third of three performance reports. After this post, I’ll likely write on two more topics: 1) a reflection about what the trip has meant to me, and 2) one or more gear reports about what I brought what I bought what I used and what I left behind.

I woke up at Chip’s home in Jericho Vermont on Sunday, July 22 and packed the bike (by then knick-named “beauty queen”) for the final push home. Inside the house, the gang was watching the Tour de France – it was too good to miss, especially with that day’s controversy over steroid use by the tour leader. 11:00 AM rolled around and it was time to head south. As I’ve done a half dozen times before, I started off on the backroads, enjoying New England’s winding green landscape.

Also as on other occasions, it occurred to me that if I were to hop on the highway, I could sleep in my own bed that night. It had been eighty six days since I’d even seen my town, let alone slept in my own bed. I pulled on the throttle. Then I reflected on my recent encounter with Ontario’s law enforcement community (henceforth referred to as “my little international legal matter”) and I relaxed my grip. As I thought more about home, the reading on the speedometer climbed again.

I arrived home in the late evening and was glad to return in the anonymity of darkness. I was ready to be home but I wasn’t quite ready for home to know that I was there. A few days of hiding out would be in order.

Dark or not, Griffin recognized me immediately. I’ve never seen him so excited! I knelt to greet him, but he ran laps through the yard and driveway. Endlessly he ran laps. “I’m over here Griff!” He ran more, forever, everywhere. I do believe that no being is as honest and transparent with their feelings as a dog. Griffin made me feel quite welcome indeed.

And so, in brief, I am home. And it’s good to be here. As mentioned, I have more to say, but noting as important now as “thank you.” Thank you those who supported my trip and my goals. A list of ‘thank yous” would doubtlessly start with my family – my mother, my brother Doug and my sister Cindy – each of whom realizes that Paul must now and then go on crazy missions. I thank those who contributed to the Dana-Farber Institute and helped to beat our goal. I thank the people I met up with while traveling – without doubt, travelers place their happiness and well-being in the hands of each other – and together we make it through quite well. I thank my friends for being the same pack of goons I left behind. I thank those at my workplace who respected my travel interests and welcomed me back. I thank those in my local club who helped my prep my bike and who taught me to not fear the wrench or the soldering iron. Quite importantly, I thank anyone who was in touch with me while I was gone – you all gave me a very much needed sense of community, at times when I was light years from anything familiar. And of course I thank Griffin who has always been an unconditional dearest friend.

PERFORMANCE REPORT THREE OF THREE

This report covers the July ’07 performance period and also gives trip-in-total statistics as I may consider them to be relevant, humorous or self-serving.

Again, I’ll recap my goals:

1) ride one huge loop around North America;

2) run 360 miles and

3) raise $3,600 for the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute.

RIDE ONE HUGE CIRCLE:

Success in this category involves a route that does not return to it’s origin by significantly repeating its “outward” path. I will admit that the return trip through northwest Canada involves a bit of redundancy through the southern Yukon and northern British Columbia. I assign responsibility for this ‘overlap’ entirely to mother nature. With good –no, outstanding- intentions of riding the Stewart Cassiar Highway (a north/south route in western BC, an alternative a part of the Alaska Highway), I was thwarted first by mudslides in Terrace BC on the way up, then by heavy rains south of Watson Lake YK on the way back. Accepting that this part of the route was twice diverted by a power greater than I, I claim enormous success in the One Huge Circle category. GPS output for the entire trip below:

RUN 360 MILES:

In evaluating this metric, it will be helpful (to me) to recall the RME, or the Road Mile Equivalent. As previously discussed, this is a proprietary measurement that normalizes energy spent doing various things against the amount of energy required for me to run a mile under certain conditions that appeal to me. My running goal for this trip was 360 miles. Conveniently, I ran precisely 360 RMEs. For those of you concerned with trivial statistics such as actual miles run, the figure is approximately 319. Again, I claim undeniable victory in this category.

RAISE $3,600:

The mission of the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute is important to me as they perform research for cures to cancer and provide assistance to those affected. In memory of my father, I decided to support this organization and I’m pleased that many of you have decided to show your support as well.

In my mind, this is where I did nothing and you all have earned big boasting rights. With a goal of $3,600 in mind, 28 of you contributed $4,295. Thank you! And thank yourselves!

If interested, it is not too late to contribute to this worthwhile organization.

The link to the donation page is https://www.kintera.org/faf/donorReg/donorPledge.asp?ievent=93429&lis=1&amp;amp;amp;kntae93429=885616D3D499435C9BE414B99C4E122D&supId=169175024

OTHER METRICS:

Total Motorcycle Miles:

May: 7,249

June: 5,370

July: 6,394

Cumulative: 19,013

Average Miles per Gallon: 39.76

May: 41.35

June: 38.69 (decrease primarily attributed switch to to knobby tires)

July: 39.07 (knobby tires for most of this period)

Tires Used: 6.7, consider the following. . .

IF Tires Installed:

May: 4 (started with new Tourance (street) tires, replaced both with TKC (dirt/knobby) at the end of May

June: 3 (new rear TKC early in month, new front and rear TKC late in May)

July: 1 (new rear Tourance early in month)

- - - - - - -

THEN Tires Used = (tires installed) – ( 1 * % of front tire tread remaining) – ( 1 * % of rear tire tread remaining)

Tires Used = (8 tires installed) – ( 1 * 60% of front tire tread remaining) – ( 1 * 70% of rear tire tread remaining)

Tires Used = (8) – ( 0.60) – ( 0.70)

Tires Used = 8 – 1.3

Tires Used = 6.7

States Visited (no double counting from prior period): 27

May: 16 (VA SC, NC, TN, AL, MI, LA, TX, NM, AZ, UT, NV, CA, ID, MO, ID)

June: 1 (AK)

July: 10 (WY, SD, IO, NE, WI, MN, NY, VT, NY, PA)

Non-Contiguous US Places Visited Even If It’s Not Cool To Group Them (no double counting from prior period): 6

May: 2 (BVI, PR)

June: 2 (BC, YK)

July: 2 (AB, ON)

Weddings Attended:

May: 1

June: 0

July: .025

Average: 0.3417

Years Aged (as measured by birthdays)

May: 0

June: 0

July: 1

Average: 0.33 years per month (dog year rules apply)

Tattoos that say “bubba”: 0 (phew!)

Tattoos that say something else: 0 (boring!)

Stupid Nights Drinking With Chip, Jim or the ADVRider Crew:

May: 0

June: 0

July: 10 *hick*

Rock and Roll and Family Values

2007-07-21T16:01:00.000-04:00

Hello now from Jericho Vermont, between Burlington and Stowe. I’m at the home of my longest-running friend Chip and his family – wife Janice and daughters Anna (shmooper) and Katie (bug). We have been doing our best to enjoy today’s fine weather and the wonderful assortment of microbrews that are the pride of certain Vermonters.

On my way into town I rode (through much rain) past the Champlain Valley Exposition Grounds, the home of last years’ BMW MOA rally. It would appear that all riders have by now successfully left the fair grounds. I just wanted to make sure.

Tomorrow I will start on the final push towards home. And there are many good reasons to return home. I will write more later about most of those, but for now I will mention that I need to limber up musically for a performance next Saturday, July 28^th. My most excellent rock band –Rival Tribe- will take the stage at Springfield Virginia’s JAXX night club, self-described as “DC’s Euro Metal Home” (whatever that is). As part of a day-long event, we are scheduled to play at 9PM, but these things have a tendency to change. I am 100% excited to play with my bandmates again and to play for those who might appreciate such things. And after three months on the road, I really ought to practice soon. . .

Understood that most readers here are not candidates to visit JAXX as they (you) live elsewhere or don’t necessarily gravitate to Euro Metal, but for those who do attend, I’ll be happy to buy you a drink if you identify yourself with either a BMW motorcycle shirt or a hashing shirt of some variety.

There are many band-related jokes, but my favorite applies to me – and I intend to demonstrate its accuracy next weekend. . .

Q: What do you call a person who hangs out with musicians?

A: The bass player.

And since the topic of music is at hand, I’ll also include the lyrics to the (incomplete) song I wrote over the past couple months. Called “Right of Way,” it reflects my propensity to yield to most any object larger or more menacing than I. . .

The right of way is what you’ll have if you’re as old as my granddad

Shorts with black sox, and you’re driving an RV

With a hearing aide that’s shot, the whole world’s in your blind spot

How the hell are ever gonna see me?

The right of way is what you’ve got if you’ve been drinking a lot

Seeing double’s no good when you drive

You might weave into the two of me, then the three of us might hit a tree

Then no one would make it out alive

The right of way is what you’ll feel if you drive eighteen wheels

Hauling logs and kicking up stones

On the Dempster or Dalton Highways or the Top of the World Skyway

I don’t want to be left with broken bones

The right of way for you is clear if you are a reindeer

Like the chicken, why’d you cross the road?

You and me we’re pretty scared about the narrow lane we just shared

One antler in my wheel and I’d explode

Okay, enough of faux-creativity, time to enjoy my time with friends. . .

Rally, then Over the Great Lakes

2007-07-19T00:34:00.001-04:00

Riding among many other motorcyclists can be a high-volume affair. Supporting slogans such as “loud pipes save lives,” motorcycles – especially in groups – have been known to send people running with hands cupped over ears. BMW motorcycles present a notable exception. They run quietly; at full throttle a BMW typically sounds like a washing machine in its final spin cycle. (Interpret no implication that BMW bikes are underpowered as I am referring to an industrial sized washing machine – one that could easily wash a blanket or half a dozen stuffed bears).

Approaching West Bend Wisconsin last Thursday, all must have noticed the progress of thousands of washing machines speeding toward a common location. It was the thirty-fifth BMW Motorcycle Owners Association (MOA) national rally. It was the second that I have attended.

A lot happens at a four-day motorcycle rally. Experts conduct seminars. Riders explore the region. Vendors pitch their products. Most importantly, friends meet.

I can’t readily count the number of people I met up with. Several were familiar from my local BMW Bikers of Metropolitan Washington (BMWBMW) club. Others were previously known to me from the contributions they’ve made to the MOA and/or the Adventure Rider (ADV Rider) forums. And of course new friends were made.

I was among thousands of people with specific interests in the exact activity I’ve enjoyed since late April. And I’ll admit that I did indulge a bit. This is an only-mildly-edited version of what I had to say to the ADV Rider group:

“Um, hello. That rally pretty much ruled. I didn't do so much over the weekend that was motorcycle-related. Instead, I made the failsafe decision to focus on beer. This can be justified by mentioning that after leaving home 10 weeks ago and riding 17,000 miles, it was time to flip the miles/beer ratio, at least for a couple days.

I am quite sure that I met more than one ADV rider. . . .and I do recall that you all were a pack drunken messes ready with distasteful commentary. As such, I thank you for being there when I needed you most.”

You get the idea.

I did manage to do a couple of constructive things at the rally. For one, I took the Motorcycle Safety Foundation’s Experienced Rider Course. When later asked what I learned at the course that I haven’t learned in prior years (and more specifically, in prior months), my answer is, “I learned that I can maneuver just fine, but I’m really good at stopping.” Certain buffalo-related incidences excluded, this is consistent with my stand-still-until-the-danger-passes approach to most things. I also went for several runs, mostly in search of coffee.

I should have mentioned this in a prior post but I forgot. . . Somewhere up in British Columbia I broke the frame of my riding sunglasses and while in Missoula, I bought some more, and having recently heard that polarized lenses provide good light protection, I selected a polarized pair. Funny thing, when I first put the new glasses on, all was fine – but when I lowered my helmet’s face shield, a whole new world appeared before me. It seems that some property of the face shield interacts with the polarized lens such that certain sources of light (reflections from car windshields, bodies of water, some well-worn sections of the road) appear to have distorted colors. The distortion is dramatic at times. An oncoming windshield can appear as bright purple, then in an instant appear as orange, then perhaps neon green. It takes some getting used to, but the distortion does not impact one’s perception of depth or speed. So who cares if a silver car is suddenly hot pink? And then turquoise? Truth be told, I’ve overstated the impact here – it is not the case that the entire world changes colors infinitely. It is the case that ‘patches’ exhibit the condition, sort of like a grouping of “hot pixels” in a digital image.

Leaving the rally, I rode for several days with my friend Jim (a.k.a. “JimVonBaden” on the forums). He and I had similar plans to loop up and around the great lakes on our routes back to Virginia. We both had grand images of what a place named Destruction Bay must look like – surely it would be spectacular to see, a combination of treacherous rocks, unforgiving waves and the scattered remains of boats that took a chance.

From West Bend, Jim and I headed northwest at first, barely missing the western edge of Lake Superior. We passed through a bit of Minnesota, then into Ontario were Destruction Bay presented a stifled post-industrial downtown area. It did have a Laundromat, so we were pretty happy about that.

We passed along the northern shore of Lake Superior and enjoyed riding through winding, pine-lined roads and getting periodic views of the lake. The lake, by the way, was brilliant blue – and through my miracle glasses, also lime green at times and sometimes also lavender.

After Lake Superior, we passed over Lake Huron and earlier today we parted ways, with Jim heading south to home and I making one last stop –in New England- before I too return to the DC area.

It turns out that Jim and I rode and got along quite well together – I’m glad we made the trip together. Note also that Jim is very savvy with motorcycle mechanics – so he’s a good guy to have around for all kinds of reasons!

Heading eastward toward Ottawa, I continued east along the Trans-Canada Highway. At one point, I found myself riding with much spirit along with two Harley Davidson riders. A moment later, the three of us were parked on the side of the road, having been flagged down by a policeman. He seems to be of the belief that I was traveling 141 km/hr in a 90 km/hr zone. I refuse to believe such nonsense as that is the hallmark of someone far less responsible than I. It seems that I’ve been invited back to Ontario next month. There seems to be no “decline with regrets” option on the RSVP card. . .

Heading East

2007-07-12T12:01:00.000-04:00

Leaving Missoula, I took to the interstate for a couple hundred miles to Bozeman, then dropped down to Yellowstone National Park. I’ve had the opportunity to visit the park in the past and while I’m certain that I haven’t experienced a half a percent of what the park has to offer, I was interested in making progress eastward so I merely dipped into the park so that I could exit to the east.

The mountains of northwest Wyoming are amazing to ride through. To make a comparison, the roads in the Jasper/Banff area pass near the mountains, along the relatively level (but winding) river. But in Wyoming’s Rockies, the roads pass right through the mountains, offering willing motorcyclists the opportunity to climb and descend. And turn. A lot. Given the right weather, it’s a great playground.

The mountain passes in the area provide terrific views from 9,000-11,000 feet. It seems that I didn’t take any good pass-view photos on this trip. Is it cheating for me to post one from five years ago? (Researching the rules of my travel post, I determine that no, it is not cheating – besides, seeing a photo of Griffin is far more appealing than seeing yet another of me in my power ranger suit). Here is a shot of the world’s best dog at Bear Tooth Pass. . .

It was later this day that I rounded a corner and came across the accident scene. And leaving that scene I saw what at first appeared to this nervous biker to be a bizarre cloud formation. The prevailing consensus is that it was actually the rising smoke from a nearby wildland fire. So much for my previously-rock-solid “mystical sign from mother nature’ theory.

After leaving the hospital the next morning, I again took to the interstate for a few hours and made my way to northwestern South Dakota to visit the Black Hills and the Badlands. Rounding one corner, I looked in my mirror to see George “Peekaboo” Washington lurking over my shoulder. I pulled over to re-create the angle.

Badlands National Park seems completely out of context with its surroundings. In the middle of an open and flat landscape, the Badlands present an eerie collection of jagged hills and spires. Pretty cool!

From the Badlands, I continued east. A mixture of highway and secondary road riding provided a mixture of fast-paced riding through mostly-flat grass and corn fields and slow-paced riding through mostly-flat grass and corn fields. I visited Sioux City for an oil change and went for a run that evening in which I took a bridge over the Missouri River into Nebraska. I’ll need to check the regulations of this thread, but I’m pretty sure that visiting a state briefly by foot does indeed contribute to the states-visited metric.

Yesterday I rode through Iowa and to Madison Wisconsin. Later today I’ll ride an hour or so to West Bend where the BMW Motorcycle Owners Association annual rally is already underway. It’ll be nice to be among 9,000 other riders for a few days!!

Fire Plume

2007-07-10T10:40:00.000-04:00

RE: " Your cloud looks more like a fire plume. I heard there were fires in that part. What do you think? "

Nonsense! Wildland fires are dangerous. I'm way to smart to ride near anything like that! But just to be safe, I'll avoid huge column-like mysterious clouds. . .

Kenneth

2007-07-10T02:34:00.001-04:00

Hello now from Murdo, South Dakota where a major thunder-ripper just swept through the area and I’m happy to be indoors and have the bike covered. I have a bunch of photos and descriptions to share about the last two days of riding, but I first need to tell you about the events of yesterday (Sunday) evening.

Winding my way in the early evening along Wyoming’s route 14, I was nearing a nine thousand foot mountain pass when I came across several parked vehicles and a group of people gathered closely. There were several parked cars and *gulp* one motorcycle on its side. I had come across an accident scene.

I parked my bike and ran to the people. A man was lying on his back in a position that couldn’t possibly be comfortable. Clearly he was not comfortable; he was hurt. But he was conscious and talking – those were good signs.

“Has anyone called 911?” I asked. A woman told me that several cars had sped away in either direction, all with plans to call. “Are any of you trained for emergency care?” I asked next. No. Another gulp. “I’m an EMT” I said, much to the relief of the others. Their relief was understandable, yet my confidence was low. I have taken all the right training and passed all the right tests, yet I’ve never really put the training to use.

I kneeled before the injured man. “Hi, I’m Paul. I’m an EMT and I’d like to help you. What’s your name?” (This much I remembered from class). He responded. Kenneth knew where he was and he knew the date. He had a strong pulse and was breathing without difficulty.

A man at the scene mentioned that Kenneth’s pulse had been much faster at first but now was about normal. That same man had checked for any major bleeding and had put a blanket on Kenneth. Kenneth complained about back, chest and leg pain. Happily, he was able to move his feet and hands and he sensed when his extremities were touched.

With an ambulance on the way, I felt there was little more we could do for Kenneth other than keep him warm and talking. And so we did.

An SUV pulled up and two real EMTs came forward. They had oxygen, a backboard and other equipment needed to prepare Kenneth for transport once an actual ambulance arrived. I helped by holding Kenneth’s head straight relative to his body while others moved him enough to secure him to the backboard. (From EMT class, this is known as “taking c-spine,” or supporting the cervical spine so to help minimize potentially-paralyzing damage).

As the EMTs asked Kenneth about his medical history and the medications he regularly takes, I realized that should have asked these and other questions earlier and recorded the answers. What if Kenneth had lost consciousness before real help arrived?

Soon an ambulance arrived, Kenneth was loaded in and he was on his way to the hospital.

When all others had left the scene, I took a moment to look around. I saw how Kenneth had taken a right-handed curve too wide. He crossed the oncoming lane and hit the sand. The bike dug in and he went over top.

Others had picked his bike upright and it looked pretty good to me, all things considered. A wrecker was on its way to pick it up.

The sun was setting as I left the accident scene. Off to my right I saw an incredible cloud formation, a huge column of clouds illuminated like crazy by the sun’s low rays. My thoughts were jumbled but the cloud formation provided an odd reality that helped me focus on what was happening in the moment rather than imagining different accident scenarios.

Night set in as I continued out of the mountains. Deer were out and free-range cattle were on the road, as were other motorists who wanted to travel more quickly than a shaken-up animal-shy motorcyclist. At one point a very large haul truck was following closely when I saw two cows directly in front of me. There was plenty of time to stop, but the circumstances of the evening were piling up to create a very unattractive package. I laughed nervously as the cows zig-zaged in front of me, trying to decide if they should exit the road to the right (over a guard rail, then down a steep decline) or to the left (up a similarly steep incline). Each cow chose a different path. The right-moving cow tried to jump the guard rail but didn’t do so well. It took several efforts to get her hind legs over. Then there was then much crashing as she scurried down the hill. The left-moving cow scrambled upward, dislodging a few rocks that fell and scattered across the road. Meanwhile, the haul truck (with only one working headlight) waited impatiently while I stayed put, sort of shaking, sort of laughing, definitely wide-eyed and jaw-dropped.

Then came the lightning. Not over me, but away in the distance, at the foot of the mountains in the area of the town where I had planned to spend the night. The weather function on my satellite radio-enabled GPS flashed a weather warning. “Yes, I know. And cows too.”

At the base of the mountains I came across a hotel. It was seedy, dark and neglected. I was glad to be there. (Actually, I spoke to the owner and asked if his “Western” hotel was affiliated with the “Best Western” chain – apparently it used to be but he lost the franchise. So now it’s still Western but far from Best).

This morning I drove to the Sheridan Wyoming hospital. Kenneth was there and I was allowed to visit him in the ICU.

In his early 70’s, Kenneth had ridden his new Honda Goldwing from Washington State to attend a rally in Billings Montana. He’s owned other goldwings in the past but this larger model was new to him. He reported that it handles differently in the turns. Kenneth is educated in molecular biology and –as a professor – has taught others the same. I was amazed with how articulate he was, considering his experience. I didn’t bother to tell Kenneth about the cloud, the cows, the truck and the lightning – I figured that he had a few issues of his own to contend with.

As a trained-but-not-practiced EMT, I realize that there are significant gaps in my skills. As a motorcyclist, I am reminded of the risks we assume. But as a human being, I’m glad that I did what I could to help. And most importantly, with a few broken bones and two damaged discs, I’m glad that Kenneth will be fine.

Into the Lower 48

2007-07-07T22:58:00.000-04:00

Hello now from Missoula Montana. This town has engaged me and I’ve decided to set some root here. Those roots will last no more than thirty six hours, but that is my longest run in one place sine Dawson City three weeks ago.

I pulled into town yesterday afternoon because the bike needed (big surprise) a new rear tire. From here to home, I’m going with street tires as they last at least twice as long as the more-fun-but-less-efficient knobbies.

But to jump into the details of Montana would be to shortcut a few experiences since my earlier-this-month encounter with a couple massive buffalo. . .

After flinging dirt and fear at a dejected buffalo, I flung my way down to Dawson Creek where I enjoyed some much welcome sunshine and even went for a run of non-trivial distance. In confidence of the Super 8 desk attendee, I learned that the police activity I witnessed when in the same town weeks earlier was a response to a drug-related gun killing. I was glad to learn this detail after I had completed my runs, both prior and more recent.

My return to mile zero of the Alaska Highway represented –for me- the end of the “oh man, you are way out there!” part of my ride. From there on in, all things would be resourced and calculated, right? Perhaps.

I rode the next day to British Columbia’s Jasper park. Jasper is at the north end of the Icefields Parkway which reaches southeast down to Banff, by way of Lake Louise. Wanting to allow ample time to enjoy these adjoining parks, I opted to stay overnight in Jasper. With very good weather, I set up my tent and headed out for a run. Funny –how even after a day of mind-cleansing riding- a run can really set everything right with the world. Great scenery doesn’t hurt.

Ok time for a couple photos, first of the riverside trail, then that evening’s river. . .

The next day I made good on my plan to ride the parks. As many report, the scenery is exceptional. The mountains are dramatic and usher glaciers downward form icefields that are unseen from the road – yet their cooling winds are felt. Parked at one moment, I could have sworn that a certain glacier has plans on encapsulating me and my bike. But realizing that it would take many centuries for the glacier to reach us, I acted –in relation- like lightning when I pulled away forty-five minutes later.

Leaving the Jasper/Banff area, I headed south toward the US. Wait, on more photo from Banff. . .

Entering the lower 48, I headed directly for Missoula’s BMW shop. Having made plans to stay there (here), for the night, I became enamored with the town and decided to spend a “day in place” so that I could enjoy the town’s amenities including highly-great running trails, lovely brewpubs and an opportunity to do a “star-wars volume 4” caliber clean-up of the bike.

Remember how in the very first released star wars, droids R2D2 and C3PO both received a good cleaning at some point mid-movie? It wasn’t the thorough cleaning they got before the movie’s end, but it was pretty darn good. That’s the treatment my bike got earlier today, while I got a back-load of sunburn. In other words, all is well!!!!

Performance Report 2 of 3

2007-07-06T00:13:00.000-04:00

Welcome to the second of three performance review reports. This covers the June ’07 performance period and also gives trip-to-date summaries or averages as I may consider appropriate or convenient.

I’ll start again by recapping my goals:

1) ride one huge loop around North America;

2) run 360 miles and

3) raise $3,600 for the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute.

Now to report on progress toward those goals and several other metrics.

RIDE ONE HUGE CIRCLE:

Last time I mentioned that success in this category would involve a route that does not return to it’s origin by significantly repeating its “outward” path. As of June 30^th, I can quite safely say that although I’ve begun the trip back southeast, I have repeated very little of my outward path. It’s too early to claim victory on this one, but I bet that I’ll do pretty well. And if not, I’ll gladly manipulate the facts until they fit my idea of a good story. Here is the output from my GPS for the trip so far (Late April through EOM June):

RUN 360 MILES:

This is a dicey category for sure. I am very pleased that last month I introduced the concept of the RME, or the Road Mile Equivalent. I’m quite sure that I’ll need it. I’ll allow a small table to give status on this item

The infinite flexibility of the RME will certainly pick up any slack should I not happen to run 158 miles in July. So again, I predict success!

RAISE $3,600:

Thank you again!!!! . . .to those of you who have given gifts to the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute. Their goals are important to me as they perform research for cures to cancer and provide assistance to those affected. In memory of my father, I decided to support this organization and I’m pleased that many of you have decided to show your support as well.

June’s nine additional gifts contributed $900 to the total, our net values are now $4,065 across 26 gifts. Thanks again!! Clearly, more clicks are welcome - if interested, the link to the donation page is https://www.kintera.org/faf/donorReg/donorPledge.asp?ievent=93429&lis=1&amp;kntae93429=885616D3D499435C9BE414B99C4E122D&supId=169175024

OTHER METRICS:

Total Motorcycle Miles:

May: 7,249

June: 5,370

Cumulative: 12,619

Average Miles per Gallon: 41.35

May: 41.35

June: 38.69 (decrease primarily attributed switch to to knobby tires)

States Visited (no double counting from prior period):

May: 16

June: 1

Provinces Visited (no double counting from prior period):

May: 1

June: 1

Weddings Attended:

May: 1

June: 0

Average: 0.5

Years Aged (as measured by birthdays)

May: 0

June: 1

Average: one half hear per month

Haircuts

May: 0

June: 1

Close-Calls with Buffalo:

May: 0

June: 0

July: 1 (projection)

Birthday Buffalo

2007-07-02T23:38:00.001-04:00

The Stewart-Cassiar Highway has intrigued me for the last five years. Running south from Watson Lake into central British Columbia, the Cassiar provides an alternate route to the Alaska Highway. I wanted to take this road when I visited five years ago, but two things convinced me otherwise:

1) While at the summer camping trip for the then-active Anchorage Hash House Harriers, one person told me about their experience on the road. While driving at a reportedly-reasonable speed, she ran over an aggressive frost heave, causing her to break an axel and lose two hubcaps. At a standstill, she also was visited by a bear. My takeaway was that the road is spooky.

2) The front drive shaft on my 4-wheel drive RV was rattling something fierce and I sensed that my miles were limited.

So I whimped out and boarded the ferry from Haines to Prince Rupert (and then had the front drive shaft removed a few days later).

On my way up north three weeks ago, I planned to take a ferry to Prince Rupert and then ride up the Cassiar, but as you may recall there was a road wash-out that caused me to re-route my trip.

My next chance to take the road was today. But alas this darn rain will not let up. And having heard that the Cassiar has some significant dirt sections, I opted out. I don’t mind gravel and I don’t mind dirt. But when deep dirt turns to deep mud, I mind a lot.

So dammit, that highway remains untraveled, at least by me. Perhaps one day I will return with a hardy riding pal and conquer the roads that have recently confounded me.

But this birthday was not without event. In the morning, Elizabeth and Michael, the owners of Watson Lake’s Air Force Lodge recognized my birthday with a nice card and candle (which at first I welcomed as food, only to realize that breakfast would be best found down the road).

My second-choice route proved to be rainy and chilly. But my rain gear works well. As does my heated jacket. And this road was paved. And my MP3 player played only the best randomly-selected songs. So all was well.

There were a number of animal sightings including caribou and deer. And the there was a most interesting encounter with some buffalo and a semi truck. Want to hear about that? No matter, because I’m going to tell you.

From about a quarter mile, I saw two formidable specs of brown on the road ahead of me. I slowed. And hen slowed some more, stopping about thirty yards from two enormous buffalo who seemed in no hurry to leave their lane, which also happened to be my lane.

A car approached from the other direction and stopped on the other side of the two roadblocks. I decided to pull over to the shoulder of the oncoming lane in case someone pulled up behind me and noticed the animals more than they noticed me. Other vehicles did indeed arrive from both directions. Two queues were formed, both waiting on two disinterested buffalo.

After a couple minutes, a car or two approaching from the other direction decided to ease forward and pass. They were successful, passing between me and the buffalo. The buffalo stayed put. Approaching next from the oncoming lane was an eighteen-wheeler. Because I’m smart, I recognized opportunity. If I were to advance past the buffalo in the oncoming lane’s shoulder while the very long truck also moved, the truck would provide a barrier between me and the animals while I passed. No time to think; time to act!

As the truck approached, I pulled forward. I did notice that one of the buffalo was heading toward the truck, which meant that I had better move quickly or the truck would be gone before mr. buffalo and I would be quite close to each other. So I pulled the throttle. A lot. With a nice spray of mud and rocks, I passed by the truck with a foot or two between us.

By the time I reached the end of he oncoming truck, I saw the buffalo also rounding the truck’s backside. While I pulled the throttle, sprayed rocks and listened to REO Speedwagon, the buffalo galloped and snorted, both of us about twelve feet apart. I looked in my mirror to see one dejected buffalo. He wanted my bike, I just know it.

Remember how I described myself as smart a moment ago? I might also describe myself as sarcastic. I’ve created a little graphic to help explain the spacing and timing.

It’s now 8:30PM in Fort Nelson and I’m going out to grab a bite to eat. If a buffalo burger is to be had, I’m all over it.

Heading Back from Alaska

2007-07-02T03:15:00.001-04:00

I camped another night at Anchorage’s House of Harley and then it was time to begin the (slow) ride back home. And what’s the best way to begin to come home? With a detour, of course!

Several people had strongly recommended that I ride the Denali Highway, a 135 mile stretch of (mostly) gravel road that runs east/west from near the park. So I headed north on the Parks Highway once again and took a right a couple hundred miles later onto the Denali Highway. I was not disappointed!

Bob at the Harley shop had described the road as the perfect place to run a large engine dual sport bike, which happens to be exactly what I (and he) have. All but the first few and the last twenty miles are gravel, but mostly not so deep that you’d wash out at speed. It’s the “mostly” part that makes it so fun!

I was also treated to a great view of Denali (Mt McKinley) on that very clear day.

I spent that night near the east end of the Denali Highway, where the view was wonderful, particularly in the very early morning. For no good reason, I woke up at 4AM and took a look outside, to the north. This is what I saw.

What a great example of the nighttime sky in the northern latitudes! It works like this: in the mid-morning, the sun is visible to the east. As mid-day approaches, the sun rises a bit more, but mostly swings to the south. Toward evening, the sun appears from the west. And during the heart of the night, the sun is below the north horizon, but it continues to light the sky; dusk and dawn sort of blend together.

Growing up, I always thought of mid-day as being a time when I’d have no significant shadow, as the sun would be –more or less- directly overhead. Not the case toward the arctic circle(s)! In the extreme northern (or southern) latitudes, you will always cast a shadow, unless it is cloudy or you are infinitesimally short, in which case you probably wouldn’t be too worried about this point.

Yesterday I rode nearly all day, covering about 530 miles. Perhaps not a full day’s mileage, but considering that I traveled through (literally) hundreds of miles of construction (read: gravel, mud, frost heaves and potholes) and considering that I got dumped on with rain for most of that, I did pretty well. . . .and don’t take any of this as a complaint; it was all awesome fun!

By day’s end I reached Haines Junction, where the Alaska Highway meets the road leading south to Haines, Alaska (I took that road five years ago on my way to board a ferry heading south – but this time I’m going to drive it all. . .)

Another item about yesterdays ride: I had traveled with two cans of beer in a luggage case. I even declared the two cans as I passed through Canadian customs. But immediately after customs, I stopped to get something out of the case only to discover that one can had ruptured and exploded everywhere. In some ways, I had lied because I actually only had one can of beer (another potential topic for debate). But of more importance to me was the havoc played on other of my belongings. It was ugly. With (appropriately) limited respect for a certain Oasis song, this incident will forever be known to me as the “Molson Supernova.”

Today is July 1, at least for another few minutes. It is Canada Day and I am somewhat disappointed that there hasn’t been more visible celebration of the holiday. But as one person notes, fireworks would appear lackluster against a sky that does not get dark.

Tomorrow (soon today) is July 2^nd. It is my 41^st birthday. I have many wild things planned, beginning with a fresh change of clothes. Then perhaps a ride down a road I was afraid of five years ago. . .

Grizzly bears: Cuties or Crazies? You be the judge.

2007-07-02T02:24:00.001-04:00

Aw, cute!

Dang, crazy!

RV Living and One Long Run

2007-07-02T01:59:00.000-04:00

I followed the instructions from my GPS to Anchorage’s Sand Lake Studio B&B. But I arrived at a single family home. I approached apprehensively and was greeted at the door by a man who introduced himself as Mike. Turns out that I was in the right place; Mike and his wife rent out a very nice loft apartment built over their garage. A very homey feel, complete with two great dogs. Mike was very kind to let me make a complete mess of his lawn and driveway as I tore apart my bike, gear and clothing for a little shake-down and cleaning. Mike and I were both glad that his wife wasn’t around to see the ugliness.

My cleaning and organization project took me up until late evening when it was time to head to the airport to meet Anna’s flight. Taking the bike would not have made sense as there would not be room to carry her and her luggage. So I went for run number two that day (RME factor increases for multiple runs in a single day). Anna arrived, noted my ever-stupid hair and we grabbed a cab back to Mike’s house.

The next day we headed to the BMW to drop the bike off for tires and an oil change. From the (campgroudless) BMW shop we took a cab to *gasp!* the motorhome rental place. In a heartbeat I was transformed from a motorcyclist into a motorcyclist’s worst nightmare, an RV driver. I had wanted a smaller camper, but the only RV available was 30 feet long. IT would be our home for the next week. IT would be monstrous to drive. IT would be an annoyance, threat and real danger to others. IT would eat fuel and produce waste water. IT would be hideous. IT would be fun!

(I forget the exact logistics, but we got a sweet shot of the RV and bike together).

* * I should definitely note that I’m not a complete stranger to RV living. As I think I mentioned, I owned a 21’ motorhome and traveled in it with Griffin the dog for eight months about five years ago. But this motorhome, with its 30 feet in length and it’s “I’m a rental” graphics was a very different animal. Far more annoying. Perfect! * *

Anna and I were registered for the Mayors Marathon foot race, to take place in two days. So rather than leave town, we hunkered down in Anchorage to get settled in to our new home and prepare for the run. From prior travels, I think of Wal-Mart as the de-facto metropolitan place to park an RV on nights when water and electricity aren’t needed. And from prior experience, the Wal-Mart at the intersection of Seward Highway and Dimond Boulevard is the most happening party in town. Apparently my recollection is very accurate because overnight parking has been banned at all Anchorage Wal-Marts due to certain abuses of the retail chain’s generosity. So we headed up the road to Fred Myer (Alaska retail chain, similar to Wal-Mart) where we were greeted with much hospitality.

The Mayors Marathon was great fun. With fewer than 1,400 full marathon runners, the race is very small compared to, say, DC’s Marine Corps Marathon that has tens of thousands of participants. The small crowd size was pretty important as the first couple miles were on a ten-foot-wide path, where passing others was difficult. After a few miles, the course turned off onto a series of full-width gravel fire-roads (not unlike the Dempster or the Dalton!) and the pack thinned out nicely. The scenery was great – it was a bit overcast so some views were obscured, but there were plenty of mountains and wooded areas in full view. At about mile seven(ish), a moose ran onto the course and sort of jogged upstream v. the rest of the runners. Very odd, but very cool!

About half way in, I began to get fatigued. It wasn’t that I couldn’t keep running (I’ve run marathons from start to finish with far less preparation (not quickly of course, I never run quickly)), but that I didn’t want to keep running. I didn’t want to beat myself up so much that I’d hurt for days. I did, however, want to enjoy the city and the event that –ostensibly- I’d traveled so far to experience. I was glad that Anna was of like mind. We ended up walking quite a bit of the second half. And while that might decrease the RME factor, the true 26.2 miles will likely count for some value greater than 26. After all, it was breezy out and we were at about 300 feet in elevation. . .

I found a photo of us online – it’s tough to see us but that makes it sort of fun. I’m pretty much in the center and Anna is to my right, photo viewer’s left.

I should mention that the marathon has significance for me beyond being a great run. It represents the focal point of things done in memory of my father. While I don’t for a moment justify three months of self-serving fun as a duty performed for my family, I gratefully leverage the trip as an opportunity to reflect on my father and to raise some money for a good cause, in his honor.

Okay, this trip report is supposed to be fun – so back to lighter topics!

Leaving Anchorage, our first stop was Talkeetna, a small town about fifteen miles off the Parks highway. Talkeetna is interesting in several ways. Although it is not so close to the entrance to Denali National Park, it is actually one of the closest towns to Mt. McKinley. As such, the National Park Service has an office in the town and all expeditions to “the high one” are to register there – so it is sort of the seat of Denali expeditions. Also, the town has a fascination with the moose. And –strangely- with moose poop. Certain town events involve a moose poop throw competition. Just goes to show that there’s an activity for everyone AND that there’s a use for everything.

From our RV park, Anna and I took a walk into town. On our way we came across a dirt mound that appeared to be used as a bicycle jump. As pedestrians, we gave it our best.

We also stopped at a local bar for some beer, music and wet dogs.

From Talkeetna, we headed up to Denali National Park and into sections only accessible via bus. Our tour was in the evening, predictably the best time to see wildlife. Turns out that we did see an impressive bull moose. And also a wolf. And also some weird little rodent that we couldn’t identify (so we called it an octopus because it had approximately eight limbs). We also saw a lot of great scenery, thanks to clear skies and the angle of the evening sun.

After Denali we turned south again, this time south of Anchorage where we did some great sightseeing, first of glaciers, then of wildlife. I can’t believe how many amazing animals we were fortunate enough to see very close up. I’ll post the best animal shots separately; here is a one of a glacier in the saddle of two mountains.

I should say at least one more thing about RV living. In my own RV, I never really used the toilet as there are certain things I just can’t bring myself to do in my own car. But in the rental I figure that I wouldn’t be creating an environment any worse than had already been created by other renters. So bombs away! Anyway, the downstream part of the process involves a sewage dump. Pretty gross. Remember how my old rainsuit proved ineffective? Well it found its use! And then it got thrown away.

Into Alaska

2007-07-01T23:18:00.000-04:00

When last I wrote, I was in Dawson City. That was over two weeks ago! I’ve been (happily) short on time and internet access recently. Now oh man, I’ve got a bit of typing to do!

Leaving Dawson City is every bit as fun as getting there. The west-bound trip starts with a short ferry ride across the Yukon River; the ferry delivers its passengers to the beginning of the Top of the World Highway. “Top of the World” is a fitting phrase, as the road often follows mountain ridgelines. The upshot to this of course is the opportunity of great views everywhere. And although other roads are constructed similarly (Skyline Drive, for example), the Top of the World Highway is often through tundra or above tree line, so little can block the excellent views, save clouds or darkness. Fortunately the clouds were at bay that day and the sun was working around the clock that month.

A couple hours of riding delivered me to the Alaska border, where I showed my passport, set my watch back one hour and prepared for the road to turn from tidy to challenging. On the Canada side, the road is mostly chip-sealed with a few gravel sections. On the US side, gravel, dirt and potholes prevail. What fun! At least on a monster dirt bike.

I passed through Chicken Alaska, a town that seems to pride itself on having just about the lowest possible year-round population (single digits). I wonder how voting works out in that town. . .

After another couple hours of heading southwest, I met up again with the Alaska Highway and headed northwest to Fairbanks, where a large regional Harley Davidson rally was wrapping up. At my hotel, I met a bunch of nice H-D riders, including brothers John and Tom who I would see again off and on for the next several days.

The next day I started off from Fairbanks at about 10AM and headed north for the Dalton Highway. I had initially planned to ride the entire road to its end at Deadhorse, just shy of the Artic Sea’s Prudhoe Bay. But as with the Dempster Highway two days prior, once I was actually at the right spot, I wasn’t inspired to ride to the edge of the earth. I’m not sure why. Maybe I want to look forward to that for another day. Maybe I don’t want to ever see it, just in case it really is made of cheese. Maybe I’m too wound up and don’t want to take the time. Lots of maybes. I respect the ride and those who make it; it just isn’t for me (now).

But I did spend a few hours on the Dalton, just to take a look. I had planned to ride as far as the artic circle but while stopped at a construction site (with a wait time of at least half hour – both ways), I noticed some menacing clouds gathering. My understanding of the Dalton (and the Dempster and other ‘highways’) is that they become amazingly sloppy when wet. I turned back south.

At the bottom of the Dalton Highway, I stopped to top up the air in my tires and chat with a couple other motorcyclists. And after a moment, two people on bicycles came down of the Dalton. The bicyclists were at the beginning of a two year trip that will take them from the top of North America to South America’s Tierra Del Fuego. TWO YEARS! . . .and to start their trip, they rode from Fairbanks up to Deadhorse, just so they could officially cover the western hemisphere nose to tail. In speaking with these people, I was absolutely humbled. I most definitely didn’t share my “what’s the point?” perspective on riding to the top of the Dalton highway (that’s something that I’m sharing only with you and only in private, so shhhhh).

I looked to the sky again and quickly jumped on my bike. Still about an hour and a half out of Fairbanks I got dumped on harder than ever before while on a motorcycle. The Super 8 looked pretty darn super when I saw it.

I cleaned myself up a bit, then ran into John and Tom. They too had been caught in the rain. In fact they encountered hail. And since John was enjoying the no-helmet-law aspect of Alaska, he could quite vividly recount the size and frequency of the hail that hit him in the head. Ouch!

Over dinner, the three of us decided to head south together the following morning. They wanted to make it to Anchorage the next day and I was happy to be on my way south.

We left as planned and decided to stop briefly at Denali National Park. We rode in for the fifteen miles accessible to public vehicles, then returned to the highway. I wasn’t in much of a hurry so I decided to poke around the area a bit more while my new friends headed south.

I did end up making it to Anchorage that evening, in part because I couldn’t find appealing overnight options to the north. And when I recalled learning that the Anchorage Harley Davidson dealership allows for motorcyclists to camp on their property, I decided to head on down.

Anchorage’s House of Harley shares a parking lot with the Alaska Rider bike tour & rental company. Although the Harley shop was closed for night when I arrived, a few folks were still at the Alaska Rider shop. I knew for sure that I was in good hands when I pulled up and the first thing they did was offer me a “nice local beer.” Yes. Yes!

I’m not sure how much to talk up the Harley shop. My first impulse is to tell you all how friendly the people there are. And how they don’t care about what you ride, only that you ride. And that you can camp for free. And that as a camper you have 24 hour access to a secure bathroom and a hot shower. But if I were to tell you all those things, then maybe we’d overcrowd the place and a good thing would become over utilized. So I’ll just say that if you are visiting Anchorage by motorcycle, you should definitely stop by the Harley shop and have a cup of coffee and some good conversation. (oops, did I just tell you that they have free coffee?). And when you are there, be sure to talk to their finance manager Bob, who’s quite possibly reading this as he is a dual sport/BMW motorcycle forum type of guy. (In other words, thanks again Bob!).

I spent the next full day based out of the Harley shop’s camping area, as did a few other motorcyclists. It seems that several of us had been traveling for a while and welcomed a warm sunny day when we could tinker with our bikes, making repairs and adjustments. I visited Alaska Leather, where I picked up a sheep skin seat cover for the bike. The covers reportedly provide a huge upgrade to the comfort of any seat – I agree that it’s an improvement.

I slept in a bit the next morning and opened my tent flap to discover that I had been abandoned. All six other campers had hit the road. I had one more day to kill in town, so I got back to the business of running. I ran for maybe 10 miles (RME quantity pending) and when I returned to the Harley shop, I was greeted by John and Tom. “We found your bike, so then we started looking for you.” Small world!

Later that afternoon I headed over to a B&B where Anna had made a reservation for us to stay. I had a lot of work to do to clean my bike, my clothes and myself before her flight arrived late that night.

Dawson City and the Dempster Highway

2007-06-15T23:17:00.001-04:00

Leaving Whitehorse (on my new bumpy tire), I turned north off the Alaska Highway in the direction of Dawson City, a place that I visited five years ago and would like to return to from time to time.

I was recently asked why I like Dawson. And I was recently asked to tell the ran-out-of-gas story from 2002. These items go well together. After fueling up my beloved “The Chief” (my old camper) in Whitehorse, I refueled once along the way, but then passed by another gas station, faithfully anticipating that The Chief’s fuel capacity (never truly tested before, and there was no reliable gas gauge to assist with such things) would deliver Griffin and I to the next town, Dawson. With maps and road signs to help judge distances, I figured that I was roughly twenty miles south of town when The Chief began to sputter. Although there were few placed to pull off the road, luck delivered a The Chief-sized road-side gravel patch where I parked my home, walked Griff, gave him some food, put on my running shoes, grabbed my (empty – grrrrr) gas can and set out for a little evening jog.

Not fifty feet from The Chief, a car approached from the south. I held up the (empty – booooo) gas can and made some sort of gesture that identified me as a helpless tourist. The driver stopped and offered me a ride to town, and since she was on her way to drop her daughter off and was then to return, she offered me a ride back to the camper. Not only did she have the consideration to take me to the most reasonably-priced station in town, but she gave me a tour of the place, which she was quite qualified to do as she worked at the town’s information center.

I’ve not forgotten the hospitality that greeted me to Dawson City. And that same spirit seems to persist among most everyone in town, year-round residents, summer-time workers and tourists alike. Add the facts that the town is at the confluence of the Klondike and Yukon Rivers, that it is seated among rolling green mountains and that it presents a top-notch restoration of its gold-mining past – and I am sold. This is a great place (at least in the summer).

When in town the last time, I stayed in an in-town campground, which made sense since I was in an RV. But I recall visiting a pub named Bombay Peggy’s. It was in a restored (and relocated) house that also serves as an inn. The building has had a number of uses in the past but it seems to be celebrated most for the time that it served as a brothel. In 2002, I decided that if I were to return to Dawson, I would stay at Bombay Peggy’s. And so I have. This is my third and last night here. I’ve enjoyed the inn and the pub, but I have not even inquired about other services which have most likely been discontinued.

I’ve enjoyed my stay in Dawson. Again, the town is hospitable and charming. Highlights have been going on several runs including one to the top of Dawson’s Midnight Dome, where people flock to celebrate the 24-hour sunshine on the summer solstice, just a few days away!

Earlier today I took a ride about 75 miles up the Dempster Highway, where the word “highway” translates best to “gravel road.” The ride north on the Dempster shows the transition from forested land to tundra. TUNDRA! . . .where the latitude is sufficient that the tree line drops below the ground level. To continue on the Dempster would deliver one to the artic circle and then eventually to Inuvik. I did not go so far as either of these. I’ve got a couple reasons for that, but I’m very happy that I went as far as I did. To the top perhaps on another day.

To complete the ran-out-of-gas story, I should mention that my (empty – argghhh!) gas can held only two gallons. The Chief did well to get ten miles to the gallon. There was no assurance that I would make it to town even with the spare gas! Turns out that we were closer to fifteen miles out of town, but still pulled in on little more than fumes.

On this trip I know my vehicle’s range and I don’t pass gas stations without knowing I can make it to the next. My GPS helps!

Alaska Highway, First 940 Miles

2007-06-14T23:59:00.001-04:00

This report based on the 940 mile stretch of the Alaska Highway between Dawson Creek and Whitehorse. But first, some thoughts on common perceptions of the Alaska Highway and my recollections from traveling it five years ago.

When I first set out in 2002 to drive to Alaska, I was warned about terrible road conditions, unpredictable weather, dangerous wildlife and hostile logging trucks. I was told that I had better fortify my vehicle with items to protect against rocks that have taken flight to escape truck tires and to carry additional fuel as gas stations are far apart and sometimes closed.

When Griffin and I set out in our semi-reliable four-wheel drive motorhome, we did indeed encounter an Alaska Highway that was unique vs. other roads. There were stretches under construction or damaged by winter’s frost heaves. Some of these stretches involved dirt, mud, gravel, ruts and potholes. But I had no sense that the road was impassable. We found it to be a complete misnomer that the weather was unpredictable, since rain and fog were constants during our entire ride. Logging trucks were present, but the RVs were far more menacing, and we never encountered flying gravel. I was not cocky that I beat the road, I was thankful that it was easy on me. I did actually run out of gas at one point and I reacted by putting on my running shoes and grabbing my (empty – duh!) gas can – but that was due to my own stupidity and it’s a story for another day.

Although I believe that currently there is considerable construction further up the road, so far I have encountered very good road conditions. There have been a few 10-mile sections of gravel but they have been entirely manageable and actually pretty fun. For those sections, I stop and disengage the ABS, then stand on the footpegs and look straight ahead while motoring forward in low gear. Just like I learned at Jim Hyde’s class. No problem!

On this trip, the predictability of the weather has been a bit less reliable. But when compared to the all-rain condition of my previous visit, that is a good thing. I’ve stopped deliberating in the morning as to if I should start off with my rain gear. The answer is “yes, it will rain at some point.” While I’ve had my share of rain over the last few days, I’ve also had the clouds lift to reveal entire landscapes flooded with sunlight. And since the weather limited my view back in 2002 (and since my work-only-on-certain-days windshield wipers didn’t help matters), I’m truly seeing much of this land for the first time.

In my mind, there is an odd balance in this area between rain and sunlight. Although I’d prefer to remain dry, the rain surely must be responsible for the lush and life-full land. For that, I am grateful for the rain.

Speaking of the life in this land, I should report that while I’ve seen very little wildlife most days, I saw very many animals on the day I rode from Fort Nelson to Watson Lake. On that single day I saw no fewer than five moose, four buffalo, eight sheep and four thousand mosquitoes, each the size of a ham (okay, so the ham part was for fun). One moose encounter is worth further description. I had stopped along side of the road to take some photos (I haven’t been getting off the bike as much now that I’m all wired in with my heated clothing and audio system). And when I looked forward and prepared to start the bike, along came a moose. It was probably about 50 feet away but it was huge! My heart raced for a moment, then I noted that the moose wasn’t particularly anxious, so I didn’t feel that I should be either. I started the bike and edged forward. Looking straight at me, the moose took a few steps in my direction. I found this interesting, since I figured he (like most, since I am in need of clean clothes) would prefer to walk away. I pulled forward slightly, but ready to turn and speed off if needed. The moose took a few steps closer. Sort of neat in a way, but what would happen when we reached each other? At ten feet in height (seemingly), this guy was way bigger than me and my moose of a bike combined. In another moment, he crossed the road and headed into the woods.

I’ll end this post by describing how my bike (but not my wallet) had some very good luck in Whitehorse. You might recall that I put knobby tires on my bike in Spokane. And you might recall me saying that while knobbies are great for off-road and semi-off-road riding, they are good for far fewer miles than other “street” tires. Back in Spokane I calculated my expected mileage to Anchorage. I planned that a 3,000-4,000 mile tire would get me there easily with quite a few miles to spare. But when the roads in western British Columbia washed out and I needed to double back instead of take a ferry part way, my expected mileage increased significantly. I hadn’t thought too much about it until I was in Watson Lake, about 300 miles east of Whitehorse. In Watson Lake, I looked at the tires and realized for myself that I could make it to Fairbanks if I went there directly. But I really wanted to take a northern detour up the Klondike highway up to Dawson City. Out of sheer luck, the first bike shop I called in Whitehorse (no BMW dealership in town) had the exact tire I wanted, and they were able to install it exactly when I wanted. Guess how much that cost. . .

So from Whitehorse, I’ve headed north to Dawson City, a town that I really love. But more on that in my next post – now it’s time to find a bite to eat.

But wait! Just two more items:

1) When I told her I was in the Yukon’s big town (Whitehorse) my mom asked, “how big is a big town in he Yukon?” A web search gives 2003 data of about 22,000 people, 70% of the province’s population.

2) I have recently established a new policy that I will definitely wash my bike after each ride. I have also officially noted that this three-month ride is half over.

Candidate for Best Photo

2007-06-14T18:34:00.001-04:00

This might be my favorite shot from the trip so far. It's not often that I'm the toughest kid at the bike rack. . .

Alaska Highway, Mile Zero

2007-06-10T00:44:00.001-04:00

Hello from Dawson Creek, the beginning of the Alaska Highway. It’s Saturday June 9 and I’m hunkered down at the Super 8, which – for this town – is pretty super.

Without a whole lot to say, I wanted to post that the flooding issues in northern BC still persist but I have (pretty easily) found a way around the most troubled areas. Tomorrow I’ll start on the Alaska Highway. I plan to take my time and cover about 350 miles a day. This is a slow-paced goal but with construction and weather conditions unknown, I’ll be happy to feel no self-imposed pressure to put in very long days.

Also, short riding days mean that I can put in a few running miles. This evening I went for my first run since the Kelowna 25k. By some (legitimate) standards I probably ran about five miles. But at “Mile Zero” of the Alaska Highway, the RME multiplier is very high indeed (since it needs to be) – I’ll settle on an exact number after some “actual v. goal” gap analysis.

My run was interesting for the following two reasons:

1) At one point I passed a sketchy RV park / bar combination business. There were quite a few police at the edge of the driveway and all access was taped off. I jogged in that direction to see how I might help (read: snoop about what was going on) and they shooshed me away very quickly with not so much as an “eh” or a smile.

2) On my way back to the hotel, I picked up some Guinness beer (4-pack cans) and continued to jog purchase in hand. I saw two other GS riders and waved, then realized that without my bike or gear I appeared as a friendly jogging drunk. I was okay with that.

The bugs are getting larger and less shy as I head further north. When I stop roadside to stretch, eat, etc, flies and mosquitoes are upon me in a heartbeat. I understand that this condition will magnify as head still further north. No official complaint just yet; merely an observation.

Lastly, I’ll describe that riding in the rain is becoming routine. Other than once in Tennessee, I have yet to be dumped on in a major way. But over the last week or so, I’ve encountered at least some rain most days. I had brought rain gear with me, but it turns out that the stuff I brought leaked. So while on Vancouver Island, my new pal Lee took me to a shop where I was able to pick up a great jacket & pants. Also, he gave me his pair of gloves – neoprene in material, much like a dive suit – great idea! (for those interested, my frog toggs worked out horribly, the BC Viking brand work gear is working out quite well).

Ok, I’ve written more that you’d probably care to read. Time for a Guinness!

you can not get there from here

2007-06-08T03:42:00.001-04:00

Leaving Kelowna, I had about three weeks before I needed to be in Anchorage where I’ll meet Anna and where we’ll both (God willing) run the Mayor’s Marathon. My plan was to head west to Vancouver Island, travel to the north of that island, catch a ferry to the northern coat of British Columbia and then ride north. Things have not worked out that way. Instead, they’ve worked out as follows:

From the incredibly hot Kelowna, I headed northwest, then west, then southwest in a counter-clockwise direction to get to southwest British Columbia. The ride through Lillooet, Pemberton, Whistler and Squamish is jaw-dropping, especially on a clear day. Mountainous areas there range from very dry to quite lush. And at most time a view of a river, often right along the road.

Along this route I met up with five other bikers – we chatted for a bit and found ourselves riding together for a while, then grabbing dinner together. While at dinner, the sky clouded over, then thundered, then dropped rain. One of the people – Dean – mentioned that the rivers along roads we had just ridden may rise as a result of snow runoff from the recently-warm weather, soon to be compounded by predictably significant rainfall. Since I was headed in the opposite direction, such concerns were certainly not mine. Or so I thought.

The following day moose and I rode the BC ferry to Vancouver Island. On the ride I met up with John and Judy and we talked about a dozen topics, including where it might be good to stay overnight on the island. John’s solution to that topic was “another island.” He mentioned that he and Judy had built a home on a neighboring island quite a few years ago and more recently built a second, larger house. The offer to stay overnight in a house all to myself was not to be passed by.

I followed John, Judy and their son LJ from the ferry terminal for about twenty minutes to a shoreline area where they parked their car and launched a small motorboat. The four of us piled in and headed three miles to the very small island where they live. I would most definitely be lying if I were to say that I wasn’t slightly uncomfortable leaving my bike behind and boarding such a small boat headed for the unknown. At the same time, my gut was very comfortable with these three people. And I typically follow my gut (convenient, since it sticks out in front of me).

I absolutely loved the visit with John, Judy and LJ. Their home so far from the mainstream is admirable and inspiring. I’m not sure how I failed to get a photo of these new friends, but I’ll let a couple other shots do the talking.

In the morning, John took me back to Vancouver Island and I headed south to meet up with Lee, a fellow GS rider I had been in touch with via ADV Rider. Lee’s schedule allowed him to spend quite a bit of the day with me, riding the southern part of the island and showing me some f the best roads and views. While riding with a new friend was the best part, a certain errand is worthy of description.

As one of his several security-related work programs, Lee is authorized to work on ATM machines. At one point during our ride, he received a call that an ATM on the lower level of a nightclub needed work and so we visited the club. Since the lower level was not open during the day, Lee asked to speak with the manager – she reacted with great skepticism when she saw two bikers arrive to fix her cash machine. While a completely unique experience, fixing an ATM in the dark basement of a Canadian nightclub fits quite neatly into a long list of things that I’d never have predicted I might have done recently.

Incidentally, Lee did point out that quite a bit of Vancouver Island and certain other islands are below the 39^th parallel. Since that line defines most of the US/Canada border, I asked him if that land shouldn’t really belong to the US. I did promise hat I wouldn’t try to make a big deal of this with my fellow countrymen, so let’s handle this one gently, ok?

I headed north a couple hours to find a hotel a little closer to where I’d need to catch the ferry two mornings later. The ferry ride would begin at 7:30 AM and would deliver me to Prince Rupert late in the evening. From Prince Rupert I’d head east just past the town of Terrace, then head north on the Stewart Cassiar Highway on my way to the Yukon and Alaska.

At breakfast the following morning I spoke with a couple park rangers who stayed at the same hotel. I had overheard them speak about flooding to the north and mudslide that closed route 16, right near Terrace. I am REALLY glad I spoke with these rangers. If not, I may well have taken the ferry (15 hours, $350) to a town from which there would be no practical way to leave.

I left Vancouver Island later that day and returned to the mainland. I headed to Squamish, where I’d spent the night three nights earlier. While checking in at that night’s hotel, a person approached me and asked, “are you riding to Alaska?” “Why yes.” Chris introduced himself and told me about how he had tried to ride north two days in a row. Apparently, the same road that I had enjoyed earlier in the week had indeed flooded. It seems that Dean’s words were in fact very applicable indeed.

It seems that heavy snows last winter, combined with a hot spell last weekend (my warm run in Kelowna was – in fact – unseasonably warm) AND recent rain has caused the rivers to run quite full and certain flood plains to earn their classification.

So how will I head north? Tough to say at this point, but I’m pretty sure it’ll be interesting!

two pals, two runs, two countries

2007-06-08T01:54:00.000-04:00

Yikes!! I haven’t posted here with actual events for two weeks. A lot has happened! I’ll pick up where I left off last time and describe visits from two friends. Then (likely) in a separate post(s) I’ll describe my solo-once-more adventures in southern British Columbia.

As expected, the tire change went well and the very helpful BMW shop found a few other needed (and costly) maintenance items. Including brakes. I like brakes. At certain times I like them even more than the throttle. A few hours later, I rolled out onto the pavement and bumped my way along on the new knobby tires.

Bumping along, I headed over to the Spokane airport to greet my friend Debra. She hopped in her spiffy powder blue Taurus rental car (a.k.a. the “blue bull,” also “diablo azul”) and followed me back into Idaho. With the Couer d’Alene half marathon only a day or two away, we worked hard to carbo load on nachos. This is a very delicate training approach and I suggest that newcomers start small.

The race was great fun, especially before and after all the running nonsense. It was a crisp day, perfect for a long run. Debra ran like the wind and I lumbered over the finish line about ten minutes behind her. After the run we hiked some of Couer d’Alene city trails, hiked a bit on Mt Spokane and explored the city of Spokane.

I have several observations about northern Idaho and western Washington, as follows:

- Although the attitude is relaxed, certain rules are never to be broken. Example: if you ask for an extra large running shirt and find out later that a large would suit you better, there will be no swapping until the exact moment when such practices are allowed.

- In this hotbed of elaborate coffee drinks, a simple drip coffee is easy to order and pay for but oh so difficult to actually get.

- The entire area is beautiful.

The blue bull and moose headed back to the Spokane airport and I saw Debra off. Moments later I received a call from my pal Tanya telling me that her flight had arrived.

* * * It is appropriate at this point to mention that while I’m blessed with friends who will fly to travel with me, the appearance of two girl pals may seem suspect. Thank you Anna for understanding that having friends visit is a ton of fun for me compared to going it alone – worry not, as you are the only one to enjoy my heartfelt renditions of select Rod Stewart songs. * * *

Upgraded to a fine white Nissan Sentra, Tanya caravanned with me and the moose east, to Glacier National Park. The hiking in Glacier is wonderful and we were lucky to visit before the summertime crowds had assembled.

We went for a motorcycle ride through the park but as (bad) luck would have it, the five-star Going to the Sun Road was closed at points after particularly difficult winter conditions.

From Glacier we headed to Kelowna, British Columbia where I was registered for a 25k (15.5 mile) trail run. Little did I know that Kelowna is positioned in the Canadian continuation of the US’s northern dessert lands. It was hilly and hot! And fun!

After an exhausting and dehydrating run, we and I did the only responsible thing in going out for a wine tasting tour – quite refreshing!

Good times all around – thank you my friends for visiting me!!

Performance Report 1 of 3

2007-06-02T01:59:00.001-04:00

I’ve been on the road now for one of three months and so I present you with the first of three performance review reports.

When I set out on this trip I had set a few goals for myself. I intended to:
1) ride one huge loop around North America;
2) run 360 miles and
3) raise $3,600 for the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute.

I’ll now report on progress toward those goals and several other metrics that have proven relevant over the past four weeks.

RIDE ONE HUGE CIRCLE:
While the term “circle” might suggest to some a neatly rounded shape, I consider it to be any route that does not return to it’s origin by significantly repeating its “outward” path. Since I have not begun to return home, I can’t wholly report on this item, but I’m fairly confident that it won’t become an issue. I can report that my route so far has been winding and wonderful. Here is the output so far from my motorcycle’s GPS:

RUN 360 MILES:
I had initially planned that running 360 miles would be a reachable goal based on an average of four miles per day. It develops that running every day is not realistic. The availability of time, showers and suitable locations are in short supply on certain days. That said, as of May 31, I have run 114 miles, sixteen shy of plan. While that may not represent a significant shortfall, I anticipate that showers might be more difficult to come by as I head further north - - so any shortfall is undesirable at this point.

To help me with this metric, I now introduce a new unit of measure, the Road Mile Equivalent, or “RME.” Defined (by me), an RME is the amount of running effort involved in running one mile, on the road, free of hills, at sea level, at a temperature of 68 degrees Fahrenheit, with a healthy tail wind. I think that the RME just might be the answer to all of my problems. For example, if I run one mile on a hilly trail at elevation, that mile could easily translate to 1.6 RMEs. And the best part is that, sine this is my concept, I can assess each run any way convenient to me. And better yet, I reserve the right to retroactively adjust.

At this point, I can say with overwhelming confidence that I am on target to complete 360 RMEs prior to the trip’s completion. In fact, it’s possible that I’m already done.

Of possible interest to the quantitative among you, I’ll post this screen shot of the spreadsheet I use to log and later manipulate numbers.

RAISE $3,600:
Thank you!!!! . . .to those of you who have given gifts to the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute. Their goals are important to me as they perform research for cures to cancer and provide assistance to those affected. In memory of my father, I decided to support this organization and I’m pleased that many of you have decided to show your support as well.

NOTE: as my father’s son, I actually do know the importance of good accounting – I suspect he’d chuckle along with faux-accounting concepts of the RME as discussed above.

As I’ve mentioned before, in my mind, the number of people that support the cause is every bit as important as the amount of money raised. That said, sixteen gifts have netted $3,165. Clearly, more clicks are welcome - if interested, the link to the donation page is HERE

OTHER METRICS:
Total Motorcycle Miles: 7,249
Average Miles per Gallon: 41.35
States Visited: 16
Provinces Visited: 1
Weddings Attended: 1
Beers Consumed: this number under construction.

From Southern CA to Northern ID

2007-05-28T00:30:00.000-04:00

From the Los Angeles area, my next direction was north. Driving along the Pacific coast is an amazing experience and I count myself lucky to have taken the trip several times. But since I had never before taken the inland route to the east of the Sierra Nevadas, I decided on to give it a go this time. It was a great choice!

The main north/south artery through eastern California is “the 395.” I took another road out of LA to approach 395, and the conditions were sunny, hot and windy. As I drove, these three conditions strengthened, so much so that if I were to retype those words, I would use all caps (and that means business).

While riding this road, one has views of the aqueducts and pipelines that deliver water to Los Angeles from points north. The practice of taking water from other places is understandably political and I recall from other visits to Mono Lake that sometimes concerted efforts can successfully abate the draw from certain locations.

Heading northward, the wind died off a bit and I was thankful for that. Riding in a heavy, gusting crosswind is difficult – and requires the rider to lean/turn sharply from time to time, but without advanced notice. It’s not necessarily a hazardous situation, but after several hours, the rider has likely expended a good amount of concentration and energy.

As I continued, I was surrounded by several places that each deserve several days just to begin to explore. To my right (east) was Death Valley, and although I had only days before taken a quick drive-through, there is certainly much more to be seen. To my left (west) was Sequoia and King’s Canyon national parks. I was very tempted to take a significant detour to reach the Sequoias, as there are few things more humbling than being among the world’s most massive living things. But I remained northward on 395. And then came to the turnoff for Yosemite’s Tioga Pass. Ouch! To be so close and not to visit was difficult indeed! Then off to the right was a favorite, Mono Lake. And as a final blow, I needed to drive past the turnoff toward Lake Tahoe. All of these places are sincere favorites of mine and none of them have seen the last of me!

Having typed this much, I realize that I haven’t mentioned that I was pressed for time to ride to Reno where I had an appointment at the bike shop to fix my running lights. Turns out that I made it on time. And it turns out that the lights were a quick fix. Rarely is my luck that good with electrical problems.

In Reno, I stayed with friends of Anna’s, Ericka, Paul and their young son Gunner. I called Ericka’s mobile number, told her I made it to town and I was at the BMW shop waiting on repairs. “You mean the shop next door to the Forrest Service office where I work?” asked Ericka. “Um, maybe - - let me walk the street and take a look. Yes, I think that’s the one!” Small world (case one). I had a great visit with my (new) friends – thanks!!

From Reno, my next destination would be Coeur d'Alene, where I will run a foot race on May 27. The shortest route would have been to the north, but since I’d never explored the interior of Nevada, I decided to head east, along route 50, a.k.a. “America’s Loneliest Highway.” From what I had heard, this stretch of road promised to be flat and straight and would bore any driver to tears, so much so that many have reported UFO sightings and possibly even abductions. I was mistaken in every way. I had apparently misinterpreted “lonely” to imply “boring” but that is far from the case. Route 50 winds through endless hills and offers great views. In fact, other than Alaska, Nevada is reportedly the most mountainous state. At no point along Nevada’s route 50 will you not have a mountain in sight.

Stopping in Austin, Nevada, I saw three other BMW riders and approached them saying something very stupid like, “where are you taking these three fine motorcycles?” The men forgave my schlock and one asked, “aren’t you the guy who asked where to buy a sandwich at Zion?” “Why yes, that’s right!” I had stopped at a place signed as a deli, but apparently they only served ice cream. I had asked three cone-holding men about sandwich options, and then there they were, a week and hundreds of miles later. Small world (case two).

Most of the land in Nevada is owned by the Department of the Interior – and interestingly, lands at higher elevations are managed by the Forrest Service while the lower elevation places are under the care of the Bureau of Land Management. Not sure who decides such things. . .

Along with my other misconceptions of route 50, I also encountered no extraterrestrial life; but I did get my share of the surreal when I visited the east Nevada town of Ely. When in Ely, one has no choice but to be aware of the Hotel Nevada. It is heavily promoted when entering the town and it is quite colorful to see in person. I felt compelled to stay there and I’m glad I did. For the low cost of $40, I was treated to a cultural experience beyond compare. The place was built in the 1920’s and the décor appeals to the gaudy accouchement archeologist in all of us.

From Ely the terrain flattens out a bit as one heads north into Idaho. As evening set in I decided to stop before entering the Sawtooth Mountains, in part to avoid run-ins with wildlife and in part to save the views for an hour when I could appreciate them. Grabbing dinner at a bar in Hailey Idaho, the bartender asked, if I had stopped along side the road a hundred or so miles south earlier in the day. “Yes.” He recognized my face from a moving vehicle. Small world (case three).

Riding through the Sawtooth and Bitterroot mountains has probably been my favorite new experience of the trip so far. My jaw dropped so often that the bugs didn’t even hit my teeth on their way to my belly – quite fortifying indeed.

After leaving the Bitterroot area, I hauled butt to a town near Coeur d’Alene where I have an appointment tomorrow at the BMW shop there to swap tires and do some other maintenance, to prepare the bike for the long trip to Alaska. Notably, I’ll switch to “knobby” tires – I’ve never ridden a motorcycle with them – I think they’ll possibly be a bit rough on the pavement but they will pull me through any gravel, sand or mud that I’ll likely encounter over the next few weeks. This will make the fifth BMW dealership I’ve visited on the trip, and the fourth at which I’ve had work done. $$$.

Motorcycle Camp

2007-05-23T23:53:00.000-04:00

Between visiting Zion and Death Valley, I had stopped at the Las Vegas BMW motorcycle dealership – no particular reason other than to meet people that love the bikes and might identify with my trip. I mentioned to one person that I was on my way to an off-road riding class in southern California and his eyes doubled in size. “Is it Jim Hyde’s class?” he asked. “Yep!” “Oh, that’s great! I want to hear all about it!” My report follows:

Since childhood, the idea of motocross riding has appealed. My parents weren’t keen on motorcycles, so I made do (quite well I think) with BMX and, later, mountain bikes. I bought my first motorcycle in the late 80’s, shortly after graduating college – it was a cruiser type bike, a Yamaha virago 750. After maybe five years, I put motorcycling on the shelf until 2001 when I realized that my life couldn’t possibly worthwhile without two wheels and a motor. Returning to the notions of my childhood, I investigated “dual sport” bikes, which are great for long distance street rides and are competent in the dirt. The BMW GS is a de facto bike for traveling the world, on pavement and otherwise (“GS” stands for the German “Gelände Straße” which roughly means cross-county street). I opted for the GS 1150 Adventure and I looked forward to using it both on road and off.

In planning my current trip, I recognized from prior travel that northern Canada and Alaska involve roads that – due to long and tough winters – often offer little more than mud and gravel, at least in certain stretches. I know that the GS is among the best bikes for my trip but since I’ve mostly ridden on pavement, I wanted training in off-road riding. I researched different training options and decided on Jim Hyde’s program.

In Barstow, I had entered the school’s longitude/latitude coordinates in my GPS and I followed a route that approached Los Angeles from the north via route 5 (or “the five” in west coast speak). I had forgotten that the area is mountainous and beautiful. As I glanced frequently west to see the hills and a reservoir, my GPS announced that I would soon need to exit and head west. Good sign that “motorcycle camp” would be in a beautiful setting!

Following the instructions of my GPS I found the entrance to the RawHyde Adventure Camp. Set among the hills I’d seen from “the five,” the driveway to the ranch is an uphill partially-paved, partially-gravel road; I supposed that the weekend’s first lesson would be making it up the driveway. I let a bit of air out of my tires (increases surface area, increasing traction) and rode in. No problem; lesson one complete.

I was one of the first of fifteen students to arrive, but already there were more than a half dozen BMW GSs on site. Without meeting a single person yet, I felt quite at home.

Jim first impressed me as a professional, competent and fun-loving guy; a few more positive adjectives were added to the list over the weekend, including “capable” and “prepared.” As other students arrived, they introduced themselves as restaurant entrepreneurs, wine makers, BMW dealers, producers and artists; a diverse group with diverse riding experience, all friendly, all there to learn and have fun. We met our two instructors, both smiling and confident.

Once everyone had arrived, the parking area was filled with an excellent collection of bikes, mostly newer model BMWs. As vehicle enthusiasts will do when they are among their own kind, we discussed models and gear and other things that would bore you silly if you don’t ride. After examining all the fun gadgets we had each added to our bikes, we realized that it would be best to remove as many parts as possible before hitting (literally) the dirt the next day.

Saturday’s lessons began with discussion of how certain road riding mechanics and perspectives must change for successful off-road riding. Without attempting to repeat the curriculum, things like standing up and keeping a relaxed upper body are important. Things like ABS and countersteering can be bad.

Then it was time to hop on the bikes. Our first drills included riding as slowly as possible (primarily working the clutch), testing both the front and rear brakes to learn when they will begin to lock up and learning how to control a skid.

The next set of drills involved tight turning, then climbing and descending hills. Then all skills were tested in drills that involved tight turns on hills.

Jim had mentioned early on that he strives to not only teach riding skills, but to help people learn the boundaries of what they are capable of and comfortable with riding. In my mind, this is a perfect goal. Since I’m three weeks into a three month trip, my personal goal for the course was to get practice with those situations that I might likely encounter as I travel north. While it would be very fun to ride steep hills and narrow twisty trails, I don’t think that I’ll actually do that on this trip, in part because I’m carrying SO MUCH gear and in part because I want to complete the trip with the same bike I started with. This is a verbose way of justifying that I did not participate in certain of the lessons.

For me, Jim’s goal was completely met; I have learned the skills needed for what I actually plan to do and I can now discern between manageable and unmanageable situations.

It’s definitely worth mentioning that Jim’s curriculum is entirely reasonable - most other students completed most parts of the class, including one or two brand new riders. I’d like to return one day when I can better afford to break something important, and maybe I’ll take the class on a smaller bike.

Other items to mention about Jim’s Adventure Riding Camp: 1) Jim’s ranch is ideal for the course – beautiful and although convenient to LA, remarkably remote, 2) the rapport established among all (students, trainers, staff) is exceptional, 3) the food is excellent and ample and 4) the post-riding bar is delightfully stocked (kudos in part to my wine-making classmate!).

If I had another hand, I’d give it a three thumbs up!

Zion and Death Valley

2007-05-18T05:36:00.000-04:00

After saying goodbye to my aunt and thanking her for housing me and my bike, I made my way south of Phoenix to a bike shop where hopefully, the electrical demons that haunted my auxiliary lights and my horn would be exorcised in a ritual that only a dealer technician could safely perform. Three hundred dollars later I was on my way, all lights working and one horn in need of replacement (no parts available for that).

With a commitment near Los Angeles later in the week, I decided to briefly head north to escape the heat. Six thousand feet in elevation gain to Flagstaff and things cooled down a bit. And since north was the direction of the day, I pushed on to Page, the town closest to the dam in the Colorado River that holds back lake Powell. I enjoyed an excellent trail run and some great red rock-near-water scenery.

I got an early start the next day so that I could put some miles behind me and then enjoy the afternoon on foot. Heading west from Page, one passes through the Grand Staircase - Escalante National Monument, a huge area where giant uplifts of soil and rock provide good evidence of how certain of the earth’s features have been shaped. I’d been through a northern portion of the monument before and it was good to also see some of the south. (I remember liking the northern section better).

With little time to lose, I sped west again to my all-time favorite park, Zion. This was my fourth visit and I could see myself returning many times without complaint! I found a campsite and hopped the shuttle into the park’s valley. Given an entire day, I would have hiked to observation point, but with only four hours of light, I decided to run the several miles and 1,500 foot rise up to Angel’s landing. Who was I kidding? – I’m in no shape to actually run to the top of that! I did hike/jog more than half of it, then back down to the valley floor and most of the way back to camp. Although the park has no showers, it does have streams. And on that day, a nice dip in the water felt very good indeed (funny thing is that I was the only one swimming).

After a decent night’s sleep in Zion (it would have been better than “decent” if I had removed a couple rocks from underneath my tent), I headed southwest toward Las Vegas. In doing so, I lost the elevation that I had gained two days prior, so the mercury went back up and Paul resumed sweating heavily.

I stopped by the Vegas BMW dealership. They didn’t have a replacement horn either. But that turns out to be okay since the horn has started to work properly again (it had never completely stopped working; it just started to sound muted). And at about the same time that the horn came back to life, two auxiliary lights completely died. I have no confidence in the work performed at the Chandler (near Phoenix) BMW dealership. After all, they clearly can’t even perform an exorcism.

I didn’t realize my lighting malfunction until I was 100 miles out of Vegas, well on my way to Death Valley. I’d never been to Death Valley before but I’m very glad to have visited. I entered the park from the east and went to Furnace Creek (or “crick,” depending where you grew up). Then down to Badwater where the elevation is -282 feet, the lowest point in the US. On the road, my GPS reported that I was -270 feet, so while I suppose that it may have been hotter elsewhere in the park, I find it difficult to imagine. I absolutely recommend that anyone visit, but they should be prepared to drink as much water as possible but to also realize that they’ll never keep up with how much they’ll sweat, especially if they wear a big hot power ranger suit like I do.

From Death Valley, I rode southwest to Barstow CA. Tomorrow’s ride to a town near Los Angeles will be short as measured in miles, but possibly long in terms of time if L.A. traffic lives up to its reputation.

This weekend should be pretty interesting; I’ll be taking an off-road motorcycle riding class geared toward ginormous dual sport bikes such as mine. You can be quite sure that I’ll be wearing all me protective gear for this!!

BVI Report, from May 14

2007-05-18T04:14:00.000-04:00

Hello from US Airways flight 1515 from Charlotte to Phoenix. Today has been a long travel day; it began when the alarm went off at 6:30 Eastern time. If you were to have been in room 312 of the Olde Yard Inn on the island of Virgin Gorda, then you too would have heard the alarm. Next you would have heard me make some surprised sort of noise, since I wouldn’t have expected to see you there.

The British Virgin Islands are wonderful and I highly recommend a visit to them, especially if you need a vacation for the day-to-day doldrums of, say, a cross country motorcycle tour. And they are a particularly good destination when nearly fifty other people are gathered to celebrate the wedding of close friends. When Farrokh and Becky invited me to their mid-May wedding, I had already made plans for the May-June-July motorcycle trip. It took only a few minutes to realize that I could do both if I were to fly to the wedding from some point along my route. And since I hadn’t seen my aunt Alice since long before she moved to Phoenix a couple years ago, the obvious answer was to visit her and park the bike at her house for a few days while I traveled. A perfect break for both bike and rider.

Among a few friends, the observation has been made that the most direct route from Washington DC to the Virgin Islands does NOT involve a bike ride to Arizona.

From Phoenix, I enjoyed a flight in another counter-intuitive direction, northeast to New York City. Then down to Puerto Rico, where it seems that most flights from the states stop on their way to a main BVI island of Tortola. The airport on Tortola is named “Beef Island” – I’m sure there is a good reason why. From Beef Island, I caught a ferry over to Virgin Gorda.

The visit to the island included many good friends including my girl Anna and friends Jon and Carrie with whom we shared a room. And of course Farrokh and Becky.

With the wedding a couple days away, we busied ourselves with things such as running, snorkeling and testing all available beers and rums.

Farrokh rented a high occupancy vehicle to carry us around in – with over forty people in attendance, this took a few trips!

We also set and ran a hash run. A lot of people turned out and very few complained – we’ll try harder next time!

To be sure, the prominent event was the Saturday’s ocean-side wedding: well-planned, thoughtful, beautiful.

It feels strange to have said goodbye to my friends for a second time in two weeks. But now it’s back to Phoenix where I’ll hop back on the bike and head west.

2007-05-08T15:03:00.000-04:00

There has been some discussion recently that my riding gear makes me look a little like a Mighty Morphing Power Ranger. Ridiculous; see for yourself below. I'm the one that's NOT the power ranger.

2007-05-07T12:29:00.000-04:00

Over the last few days I’ve gone for two different runs that are worth describing. The first was in Tennessee, in the countryside north of Chattanooga. From my campground, I took off down a country road at about 7:30 PM. I passed a church, some homes and a few large cattle and crop fields. Some people were out tending to their yards, enjoying the cool air and the evening sun as much as I. There were also a few dogs. I like dogs. Dogs like me. Well, at least most dogs like me. Sometimes I think that some cranky dogs don’t like anyone. So what were cranky dogs doing on my run?

I respect a dog’s right – no, duty – to protect his home. A dog should be able to vocally perform his duty at any range, but physical protection really ought to be contained to the dog’s property. This is my opinion. Evidently dogs in eastern Tennessee do not share my view. Based on a five dog sample size, I proclaim that 100% of all dogs in Tennessee will chase a jogger right down the road. From now on I carry a stick.

The second run took place in Abilene Texas two nights ago (I picked Abilene in honor of Jerry Garcia’s “Loser”). From the Comfort Inn, there is no pedestrian friendly running route. Unless the runner gets creative. The Comfort Inn is only a quarter mile from a Wal-Mart. Actually, it’s a Wal-Mart Supercenter, the grandest of all retail super-tankers. To run the entire perimeter of Wal-Mart AND the adjacent fueling station, Chili’s, Cracker Barrel, nail salon and video store took me an average of about nine minutes, so I’ll call it a mile. The

re were multiple enjoyments with this run. First, it was a run, and I like running. Second, I got to see the reactions of various shoppers and employees as I circuited four or five times. Third, I got to see a few “boondockers,” of which I have been one many times in the past. Boondocking is the practice of parking one’s mobile home in a retail parking lot overnight. A boondockcer is one who boondocks. Seeing a few campers in the lot reminded me of the many nights that Griffin (the dog) and I overnighted in a similar way on our 2002 trip.

When I wrote a few days ago I was hunkered down in a Nashville, enjoying the company of my brother and his wife. I stayed with them for a second day and I had the chance to see the areas where they are thinking to move. Having given the area my coveted stamp of approval, I wish them well in Nashville!

There have recently been a few nasty storms in the eastern central region and my route has been reactionary to the forecast. With storms predicted for north of Tennessee but not south, I headed southwest, along the Natchez Trace parkway. The parkway parallels and at in places crosses a path between central Tennessee and a southern point along the Mississippi river. From what I read, it was initialized by Native Americans and then also used heavily by European settlers. Its use declined significantly with the introduction of steam ships along the Mississippi in the early 1800’s.

The Natchez Trace Parkway is beautiful and unquestionably qualifies as a first-rate wormhole. Although it is less rolling than the Appalachian parkways, the southern portions of the Natchez include swamp lands, and that’s highly cool!

Along the parkway, I stopped for gas in Tupelo. This was intentional as I wanted to see a bit of the city after which one of my favorite bands – Uncle Tupelo – was named. I didn’t get much of a sense for the city, but I was quite thankful that I had stopped. Just as I was filling at the gas station, the wind picked up. And a moment later it was quite dark. Then KABLOOM! Rain and thunder in a big way. I hid under the roofed station, crying and shivering in a corner like a small child. When the storm passed, I regained my composure and announced that what had just happened was but a sprinkle.

I left the Natchez Trace shortly before its terminus, heading west on Interstate 20. I enjoy the “backroads” much more than the interstates, but the weather forecast allowed as though the “getting would be good” to pass through Texas over the next couple days before big weather set in again. So I hauled butt. For me, - for now – hauling butt involves 500+ mile days. I know of others who pride themselves in completing 1,000 mile days; these are called “Iron Butt” rides. I like the idea but(t) I’m not quite there yet.

Two days ago I rode from Western Mississippi to Abilene Texas. For no particular reason, I told myself that, with a full tank of gas, I wouldn’t set foot down in Louisiana. Not that I don’t like the state; I’ve had several memorable (and several non-memorable) experiences in New Orleans. But riding straight through would give me a distance-covering goal. Turns out that several miles in, I decided that I was too hot and stopped to shed a layer. So much for lofty goals.

The most interesting thing to me about east Texas was the wind. Blowing from the southwest, the wind knocked me silly as I headed into it, but at an angle. Leaning to the left (yet not turning) for several hundred miles is a pretty unnerving experience. Also, the wind over time can be loud. I always ear plugs but am now wondering if I can squeeze two into my left ear.

Yesterday I rode from Abilene across I-20, picked up I-10 along the Mexico/US border, through El Paso and into Las Cruces, New Mexico where I found a delightful KOA campground and where I am as I write this.

The ride through West Texas was much more interesting than the prior day’s drive, in part because I’d never seen this part of the country. At just about the point where I-20 ends, mountains spring up out of nowhere. I love mountains and I consider myself an expert on them. As such, I’ve decreed three basic types of big mountains: 1) big cold snowy & icy ones, 2) big sometimes cold tree-covered ones (which may or may not have snow on top) and 3) big often hot barren exposed rock ones. Those in west Texas are of the Type 3 category, one of my favorite three types.

Riding along the border with Mexico was of interest to me. Boarders seem quite arbitrary at times and when I’m near one I ponder how different things really are one side v. the other. Environmentally (assuming away man’s treatment of things), things are probably quite similar. Politically and culturally, things can often be quite different. Noting that it was May 6^th, the day after Cinco de Mayo, I chuckled as I wondered which side of the border had more hungover people.

I saw three signs in Texas that I should share with you:

1) Reminder that Texas is the home of G. W. Bush (actually, many signs announce this);

2) Announcement of an all-you-can-eat drive-through (this works how??. . .) and

3) Announcement of an RV Park with both an ATM machine and a Van Gogh gallery (now that’s full service!).

So it’ll soon be time to pack up and head west some more. I think that I’ve cleared the bad weather and I can take my time over the next 36 hours as I drive to Phoenix to visit my aunt and then board a plane on Wednesday to fly to. . . well, I’ll catch you up on those details next time!

2007-05-04T23:10:00.000-04:00

From my days in school, I remember the dreaded term-long journal writing assignments. They involved a spiral-bound notebook with the word “JOURNAL” confidently written on the front and a date somewhere around Labor Day written on the first page. Within a week, the pad would settle toward the bottom of my desk and would reappear as part of a panicked end-of-the-term ritual that featured a Hail Mary attempt to catch up on entries and to have them appear as if they truly spanned several months. Different pencils and colored pens lent a bit of uniqueness to the first few pages, but inevitably suitable topics became nearly as unavailable as time.

These memories have returned over the last couple days as I have felt already behind in keeping in touch with you and sharing news of my recent travels. But unlike past writing assignments, I don’t feel at a loss for content. And much like past writing assignments, I reserve the right to change fonts from time to time.

It is the afternoon of Wednesday May 2^nd and I am alone in a hotel suite in Nashville, Tennessee. In one corner is a significant collection of motorcycle luggage and gear. On the other side of the room is the luggage of a man and a woman, two people who a day ago, I would not have expected to see.

On day five of ninety, I report that three-month motorcycle tours are a pretty good idea. I’ll be sure to update this opinion from time to time, but for now I’ll back up the opinion with a few experiences, as follows.

Saturday April 28 was my official Day 1 of the trip. Having spent months preparing, I was actually ready to take off as planned. Goodbyes began at home with my dog Griffin and our friend (and his caretaker) Lauren. Then fifteen miles west to my mother’s house. Then off to meet with Anna at a westward spot along route 66. Goodbyes are difficult sometimes; these were good examples. While chatting with Anna along route 66, friends Farrokh and Erik pulled up on their bikes and soon it was time to make some actual westward progress.

Over recent months I have been riding the bike as loaded as practical to get a feel for the weight and handling. But never before had I actually incorporated all the gear that I’ve brought with me on this trip. The bike is HUGE! About the size and weight of an adolescent moose. Between the camping gear piled on the rear part of the seat and the new heavy duty boots, I have no chance of “throwing a leg” over the back of the bike to get on or off. Instead, I now use the much less cool method of using my hands to pass my leg over the seat. Real bikers want to hit me when they see this sort of thing.

The three of us spent about an hour on route 66, then peeled off onto Virginia’s side roads, with Farrokh and Erik taking off on the twisty roads, then patiently waiting at certain points for me and my bloated moose. The weather was ideal at first, partly cloudy with temperatures in the mid 70s. But then the sky darkened and the mercury dropped. We zipped up our vents, pushed on into West Virginia and gladly never saw more than a few drops of rain. My favorite sighting that day was a goat perched on a doghouse.

At about 5:00 Erik turned as planned to return home while Farrokh and I continued on to Seneca Rocks.

With plans to meet others at the Princess Snowbird campground, we drove the area looking for our friends. We had been advised that there were two camping options in the area, one run by the Forrest Service and the other (Snowbird) by a private company. Having stopped at the Forrest Service campground, an employee recommended that his campground offered the better experience as the other was disorganized and often attended by a loud beer drinking crowd. He kindly gave us directions to the Princess Snowbird and we were on our way.

The Princess Snowbird lived up to its reputation quite nicely. My first observation was that the sign for the campground makes no mention of the words “Princess” or “Snowbird.” But it has a picture of a woman and includes the word “Indian,” so I guess that’s enough of a clue. As we looked for our friends, Farrokh and I were waved over by a group of people gathered around a fire. They reported that they had been drinking tequila for a couple hours and they were enthusiastically agreeable to share. We parked our bikes and set out with two of our new friends to buy refreshments at the nearby general store.

At the store we found our friend Steve. He had been climbing earlier in the day but stopped when it rained. He and his friends had been at the store for a few hours, doing the things that a Princess Snowbird camper is supposed to do. Steve introduced us to some of his climbing friends and our circle of acquaintances continued to grow by the minute. Despite the opportunity to make this a long night, we remained tame, knowing that we wanted to get back on the road in the morning.

I started day two by slowly and deliberately breaking down camp; packing the bike will hopefully become routine soon. For breakfast Farrokh and I split the pineapple that my (creative) co-workers gave me as a going away gift. We rode southwest for a while and reached the Skyline Drive, where I said goodbye to my pal – the last goodbye for a while.

The Skyline Drive and the Blue Ridge Parkway run continuously together and offer motorists a path along the top (more or less) of the Appalachian Mountains. The following words describe the experience of riding these two roads: scenic, peaceful, introspective, and wormhole. The first three words likely need no explanation so I’ll focus on the fourth.

Although I have no actual knowledge of the phenomenon, I’ll be happy to write with great authority and describe a wormhole as a continuum across space. It is a portal that masks the contexts of distance and time while it delivers something or someone from one location to another. The Skyline Drive and the Blue Ridge Parkway are (together) a wormhole. Once on these roads, one can drive for two or more days with little concept of where they are or how far they’ve gone. Unlike a wormhole that accelerates repositioning, the parkway has a reverse effect; it serves as a 500 mile treadmill where the pavement moves at you at a rate proportional to the reading of your speedometer. This observation is made in praise of the parkway, as the treadmill effect ensures you can enjoy the scenic, peaceful and introspective aspects of the ride.

The “solo” portion of day two consisted of riding the Skyline Drive, then the Blue Ridge Parkway as far as Peaks of Otter. In some ways it was a shame to stop when I did because the early evening sunlight hit certain trees with great effect. While all seasons doubtlessly have their charm, early spring is a great time to visit the woods because although young leaves are out, they are small enough to let one see what lies beyond them. And young leaves are a bright color that can only be seen in the spring, as evidenced by the sun’s evening angle making them appear as shining specks against a darker background. A fitting experience inside a wormhole.

I was excited about camping at Peaks of Otter, but apparently the campgrounds along the parkway do not open until later in May. So I checked myself into the lodge and headed out for a run.

With a map of nearby trails in hand, I picked a circuit that looked to be about six or seven miles. Having trouble finding the trail head, I started out into the woods in a direction that surely would cross the trail I wanted. Uphill. Uphill more. Lots of fallen wood. A few briars. No trail. Downhill. Sliding here and there. A prayer or two for no ankle twists. Then back to where I started. Plan B involved running the 1 mile loop around the lake next to the lodge. Plan B was much better than the first attempt. After five laps (and as many “hellos” to certain people walking the loop), I showered, ate and got ready for day three.

Nearly the entirety of day three was (happily) spent on the Blue Ridge Parkway. With clear skies and few other motorists, one can quickly become spoiled by the consistently excellent views and endless gentle curves. Without the distractions of commercial signs, tractor trailers and intersecting roads, it becomes easy to imagine the things that have happened over time along the Appalachians: the people who have lived in the area, the art and music they’ve produced and the struggles they’ve endured to fight for their homes. Not to mention the modern day accomplishments of those who cycle the parkway or, more notably, those who hike the area as they progress along the Appalachian Trail. It is also interesting to consider the age of the Appalachian mountains relative to, say, the Rockies. While the west is certainly more dramatic in places, the east seems somehow to be more lasting and genuine.

A variety of things can interrupt these thoughts. One such thing is the sudden SLAP of something that finds it way up a motorcyclist’s sleeve. The SLAP is usually the sensation of an insect hitting skin. And sometimes the insect is a bee. And when the insect is a bee, time is of the essence. A SLAPPED bee is typically stunned for some period of time before it realizes how angry it is. In that time, it’s a very good idea for the motorcyclist to stop and take off their jacket. It’s tempting not to stop since it may well not be a bee. But sometimes it is. On day three it was. I’m glad I stopped.

Arriving in the Asheville area near sundown, I found the nearest RV campground. It looked clean and offered a shower, electricity and a wireless internet connection. But I decided to also try to find a nearby motorcycle-only campground I had heard about. I did find the motorcycle camp but it must have been a slow night: only two or three other campers, stationed near a murky man-made lake. No electricity, no internet connection. I went back to the RV park.

I woke up on Tuesday about seventy miles away from a section of road that is legendary among motorcyclists. Boasting 318 turns in eleven miles, the Tail of the Dragon is a good name for a particular stretch of route 129 that bridges North Carolina and Tennessee. I’d never visited before but understand that this is a must-do for any biker in the area. And there were indeed many bikers in the area on that day. And most were MUCH faster than I. Sport bikes, touring bikes, cruisers and other dual sport bikes: they all passed me and my moose like we were standing still. I didn’t much mind. The ride was exciting and beautiful. And safe. At the southern end of “the Dragon” there is a tree decorated with motorcycle parts that have broken off during crashes. I left without making any contributions to the Tree of Shame, and I call that winning.

Heading further west, I traveled the Cherohala Scenic Highway which delivered me a bit northeast of Chattanooga. I checked my voicemail to hear my mother tell me that my brother Doug and his wife Heidi would be in Nashville that night and for the next two days. Doug and Heidi will be moving near Nashville later this year and they were, by chance, in town at the same time I would be in the area. Older brothers are valued in many ways. They pave the way for their younger siblings. They provide examples of to do and not do certain things. They share their experiences. And they share their hotel rooms.

So here I am in Doug and Heidi’s hotel room. I’m glad to be here, not only to see them but also to hide out for a day or two while stormy weather passes over the area. Having gone for a run, taken a shower and typed this note, I now wonder when they will be back from their home search errands so we can grab a bite!

What about Griffin?

2007-04-16T20:59:00.000-04:00

If you know me, you likely know my dog Griffin. In 1999, he and I met online at the Rhodesian Ridgeback Rescue site. I liked his goofy ears. He liked that I could make food appear. But alas, he was in Florida and I was in Virginia. A match made in heaven was separated by many miles of Interstate 95. As good luck would have it, several such long distance relationships had developed and a hearty DC-based Rescue volunteer drove to Florida to bring back some pups. Griffin was one of about six Ridgebacks packed in a minivan traveling north on I95. I don’t have the details, but I think they stopped at South of the Boarder to get fireworks. And to pee.

Griff and I have been together since then. We’ve camped, we’ve trained for running events, we’ve caught possums. To be sure, our most notable adventure was an eight month cross-country motorhome trip. On that trip we visited forests, mountains, glaciers, oceans, deserts and prairies. We enjoyed the company of friends and we chased off evil-doers. It is that trip that inspired the “beyond the dogpark” name, as it represented a notable experience in leaving the familiar behind in search of the unknown. For more information on that trip, click HERE.

As I’ve discussed the upcoming motorcycle trip with friends, the first question inevitably relates to Griffin. Sadly, Griffin will be staying behind on this trip. I have very seriously considered solutions involving a side car or trailer to carry Griffin or a motorhome to haul the bike. But no solution seems plausible. I want to do this trip on a bike, and I think that Griff might be a couple years too old to handle being in the elements on a near full-time basis.

It will be difficult for me to leave him behind as he has been my everyday example of how to set aside constructed concerns and make the most of each situation. But I will leave knowing that he will be in the good care of our friend Lauren. She and Griffin will “hold down the fort” at my house for the next several months.

Welcome - April 9 2007

2007-04-09T22:35:00.000-04:00

Hello gang, I’d like to tell you about a trip I plan to take starting later this month. At the end of April I will hop on my motorcycle and head west. Far west. I will come close to water and then I will turn north. Far north. Really far north. Then I’ll turn around and take the shorter, 5,000+ mile route home. Planned stops include a dirt riding class in southern California; footraces in Idaho, British Columbia and Alaska; a challenging ride up (close) to the Arctic Ocean and a variety of other meet-ups with friends, family, motorcycling folks and perhaps a hash or two. I’m allowing three months for the tour.

This trip has been in the planning stages for quite a while and much thought and effort have gone into equipping the bike its rider for the tour. The bike is a 2002 BMW R1150GS Adventure, a de facto bike for long distance “dual sport” on-road/off-road riding. The rider is a 1966 human being with more than his share of wanderlust, a love for running and a fondness for beer. Both bike and rider are now equipped with provisions, armor and confidence.

I plan on keeping in touch while I’m gone. If all goes as planned, the latest info on this trip will be posted via a variety of services aggregated at www.beyondthedogpark.com

AND THERE’S MORE: I am raising money for the Dana –Farber Cancer Institute in memory of my father. The total amount raised is very much secondary to the number of people we can encourage to raise their hands (or click their mice) to help.
That site is here: link

I suspect that most of us have felt an impact from cancer – if not directly then indirectly via friends or loved ones. My family presents an example as my father battled more than one type of cancer in his day. That day came to a close last fall when he succumbed to a variety of conditions, some directly aggravated by cancer and others by its imperfect treatments. I believe that the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute is among our best hopes in fighting cancer. Again, the amount of your gift is secondary to the simple expression of your interest in supporting this cause.

I promise that my communications will generally not be requests for donations. They will be ride reports and tales of the unanticipated. Unless of course you all are too stingy to actually give a few bucks, then I’ll hound you like a bad in-law. . .

Here is a pre-trip shot from near the Blue Ridge Parkway. . .

Paul