Hank-Went-Thataway

Shifting through six gears, searching for what's next.

An Orchid Named Madalene.

Madalene Marie Fobert was 90 years old when she died peacefully on October 5, 2010. Mrs. Fobert was a well-known fixture in the esoteric world of orchids, having been a founding member of the Malibu Orchid Society and a 33-year employee at Zuma Canyon Orchids. And, of course, she had a species of orchid named after her.

 What I know about orchids goes about as far as a shallow-dive into a web search. What I can tell you is that there are over 25,000 recognized species of orchids, which is twice the number of bird species and four times the number of mammal species. That means there are a lot of orchids in the world. Still, not many of us can claim to have a flower – or a species of anything - named after us.

As I sat in the pew at St. Paul’s Lutheran Church in Santa Monica attending a memorial service for a woman I hardly knew, I started to think about how much I owe Madalene Marie Fobert.

I had only met Madelene Fobert twice and to be honest, she wasn’t really there. By the time I met her, the cruel effects of Alzheimer’s had all but rendered Madalene into a world of drifting silence. Those of us who have watched this happen to loved ones are often crushed by the loss of everything that made that loved one, well, a loved one. It’s a mean disease. It seems to take everything you love and leaves nothing but an empty shell. But there’s a bright side to Madalene’s story and her gift to me, given unknowingly.

We all knew Madalene as “Grandma” or “G-ma” and most of us that were touched by her gift didn’t know her before she became ill. Madalene was the grandmother of My Riding Buddy, Bird. If you’re a friend of mine -- or his -- you know Bird’s real name. Most of us call him by that name, but when I write about him, as I did in earlier postings, I prefer to call him Bird. His mama, Hurricane Cheryl (nicknames always seem to fit), gave him that nickname for reasons that escape me now, but if you know him, it just fits.

Aside from being “My Riding Buddy, Bird,” I consider him to be one of my closest friends. The funny thing – and, believe it or not, I really enjoy this – there are at least five other people that I know of who think of Bird as one of their closest friends. It’s almost like a competition or a popularity contest. Seriously.

Bird and I used to work together. He’s 15 years younger than me, but when I got to know him and hear his story about why he moved from Kansas City to LA, I found myself impressed by this guy who shared similar values – and a love of all things motorcycle. Bird moved to LA to care for Madalene - G-ma - as the incapacitation from Alzheimer’s significantly worsened. I don’t know if it was his idea, or if he was drafted by his family. Whatever it was that got him here, Bird found himself helping to direct the extensive and very personal care of G-ma. And that’s a lot to stick on a kid in his 20s, self-imposed or otherwise. After a few conversations, I came to admire Bird and knew this was someone I could trust.

 Bird was the first – and only – work mate I’ve invited into my close family circle. He started to come by the house and get to know us, as we did him. We race dirt bikes, drink too much booze and camp together. Bird comes to dinner for holidays and family events and, most telling, we’ve had him as a guest at our family hideaway in Paso Robles. This is not to say I didn’t like the other people we worked with, but I did try to maintain some distance between work and home. These days, so much of that life balance has dissolved with 24/7 electronic access and a troubled economy, in which employment has become a treasured asset. Anyway, there must’ve been something there to have had Bird vacation with us.

That something, to me, was watching Bird care for G-ma. He put aside much of his personal life (remember, he was in his 20s and very single) and all other social commitments to put G-ma first. Her care and comfort was his top priority. How we care for those who can’t care for themselves says so much about human kindness. It’s a selfless sacrifice that I never heard Bird complain about. Not once. One time, when he casually told me that he had to stop at Costco to buy adult diapers -- as if it were a regular occurrence -- it hit me how committed he was to G-ma.

I admire that kind of “family comes first” thinking, so I let him into my family’s life. My kids love him and he’s watched them grow. They rag on each other and he plays the cool uncle part. My wife, Dee, adores him and is always asking me to invite him over. I usually reply, “He’s probably hanging out with his one-hundred other closest friends -- who think they are, but they aren’t, because we are.” I wish we could spend more time with Bird.

Clearly, Bird has become a member of the family. I sympathized with his struggles to get the best care possible for G-ma. It’s what I would do for my family. I saw the sacrifices he had to make so that G-ma was never alone. Check. He never stopped caring. Double check. So for me – and many others whose lives have been touched by Bird -- losing G-ma, the lady we hardly knew, was like losing a family member. It’s hard to explain, but it hurt a little.

Bird, in addition to being a caring grandson, friend to many, occasional landlord to the lucky and plain ol’ “My Riding Buddy, Bird” to me, is just about the funniest guy I know. I mean, I think I’m funny, but I have to kinda work at it. Bird can throw a one-liner at you, with complete ease, faster than a Nolan Ryan fastball. And that’s fast. If you’re planning on a zinger war with him, you’d better bring some game. I have been left sputtering and giggling, knowing that I’ve been beat, at the end of a text-messaging exchange about someone or something we both found amusing. Irony and oddity make for humor that’s slightly askew. Bird and I embrace that kind of stuff and hilarity ensues.

Our age difference, which is not vastly different unless you’re racing a dirt bike, has never been an issue. We enjoy each other’s company as equals and I think there’s a real, long-lasting bond of friendship. In fact, I’m actually second to the punch in expressing mutual admiration. A few months back – out of the blue – Bird called me just to tell me how much he appreciated our friendship and how much my family meant to him. Weepy “bromance” stuff? Yeah, maybe. So what? You should be so lucky. I consider myself lucky that G-ma brought us together. What an amazing gift.

Yesterday, it was beautiful and sunny in Santa Monica. The memorial service was sedate and not crowded. I think if you live to be 90 years old, you can probably expect fewer close friends to be in the pews as your life is recalled. That’s okay. While the minister was telling us about G-ma’s life he pointed out a beautiful flower arrangement on the altar. They were orchids. Madelene Fobert orchids. As we began to file out of the little church following the  service, I watched as so many of our mutual friends came up to Bird to offer condolences and, if nothing else, to show him that they cared about the life of a person they never really knew. That didn’t matter. They cared about “My Riding Buddy, Bird” and an orchid named Madelene.

 

Sand, man.

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Well, I made it back to LA on the Harley without running out of fuel. All told, we rode about 1,450 miles through three states. Short in comparison to my earlier trip, but equal in terms of having a good riding partner (thanks, Tibor) and grooving to the Zen-like feeling that comes from riding a motorcycle over great distances.

We departed Austin, Nevada and finally hit some rain while heading south toward home. But, it was as if some powerful force had decided that I had had enough lousy weather on the cross-country trip last spring. The net result was about 45 minutes of light rain as we rode along the valley of the Toiyabe National Forest and into the odd, old mining town of Tonopah, Nevada.

Tonopah is famous, in my mind, anyway, for being where the U.S. Air Force did shakedown flights with the F-117 Stealth Fighter in the early 90s. Apparently the locals didn’t appreciate the low altitude, sub-sonic jet noise in the middle of the night, which happened to be when the fly-boys flew. In the end, the Air Force admitted that they were testing an invisible plane and that, no, the aliens hadn’t landed in Tonopah. Everybody knows that was in New Mexico.

From there, we zipped across the high desert floor to Beatty, Nevada, which, also in my mind, isn’t worth a bucket of spit. Beatty’s claim to fame is that it’s the eastern gateway to California’s Death Valley. That means gas costs more. Beatty also has some hard-looking characters hanging around the Quik-Stop who were, as I fueled the bike, absolutely focused on telling me about their old Harley that they no longer owned for reasons I avoided asking, but assumed it was why they were stuck here in Beatty, Nevada.

Humans are messy.

Most of this ride took place in sparsely populated areas and almost always on roads less traveled. What I noticed most was that, given an empty plot of land and no immediate neighbors, people tend to accumulate a lot of junk. Broke down cars, flat-bed trucks, tractors on blocks, farm equipment, refrigerators and mystery parts. And it’s strewn everywhere on the property. This doesn’t apply to everyone living in the middle of nowhere, but it kinda seems endemic to these remote places. The little towns in-between didn’t have this. They were almost always orderly in the strewn junk department. Orderly neatness must be a herd animal thing.

Death Valley Days.

I had never been to Death Valley. In fact I’ve never watched the old TV show, which, for a time in the early 60s, was hosted by Ronald Reagan. He went on to better gigs. The show was mostly set in and around Death Valley and sponsored by 20 Mule Team Borax soap. There are 558 television episodes of Death Valley Days, easily making it the most successful syndicated TV show in history. Other than that, all I can tell you about the area is that it features the lowest elevation in North America (282 feet below sea level) and holds the record for the highest reliably reported temperature in the Western Hemisphere at 134 °F. I paid ten bucks to read that on a Park Service sign. 

I rode through a bit of Death Valley. It’s nice -- if you like desert landscapes -- made a wrong turn onto CA 127 and wound up in Baker, California on Highway 15 with all of the other Vegas suckers returning to LA. Home, as always, is best destination.

 

The long road ahead.

Some of you have asked me about my plans for the future, or as I call it, “What’s Next.” I’ve really enjoyed my “sabbatical” time, but I’m not really at “What’s Next” just  yet. I’m narrowing the options, which is a good thing.

 

Waxing philosophical for a moment, I got to thinking about the similarities between a road trip and life, in general. When you’re looking at 200 miles of desert ahead of you, this happens. At more than one point on this trip, I could see the road stretching out ahead - maybe 20 miles - in a perfectly straight line before turning or disappearing into the curvature of the Earth and I thought, “Wouldn’t it be great if life was like this; long, smooth, steady and with plenty of time to prepare for a curve in the road?” But then I thought about how much fun it was to carve through the mountain passes. The twists and turns are unexpected and exhilarating. I’m not sure which road I like better.

 

Which one do you prefer?

 

Thanks for coming along. I loved your messages of support. My friends mean a lot to me. I’m signing off for now, but I’ll be back with more in the near future. Stay tuned for my next adventure on Hank-Went-Thataway:

Africa. No bike. No plan. No clue.

 

h

Oregon has a desert?

Yes, Virginia, Oregon has a desert. Lots of it. It starts just south of Burns, Oregon (where we stayed last night) and it ends, apparently, in Guatemala.

 

Yakima-Yakima-Yakima.

 We pulled out of Yakima yesterday (I just like saying Yakima - a lot. Sounds like a motorcycle engine. More on that later), and made our way south by southeast to the Oregon border. Not much to look at, farmland mostly with a livestock bouquet, but a heckuva lot better than western Nebraska. And nice and sunny.

We stopped in Pendleton, Oregon - where they make the wool and flannel shirts that go in and out of style every five years. When I was a kid, like in the sixth grade, all the guys wore plaid flannel shirts, unbuttoned, over a t-shirt. We called them (no kidding) "hard guy shirts," as in, the tough, cool guys in junior high wore them. Sounds weird to call it that in this day and age for all the reasons you're snickering about right now.

 

We had lunch at the Rainbow Cafe, which is a joint - and I like joints. The Rainbow qualifies as a joint on two counts: One, it has a long gnarled wooden bar - with plenty of patrons drinking their lunch at 11:45 am. Two, the special was roast pork with mashed potatoes, watery gravy, cooked canned carrots (I could tell, so could you) and one of those dinner rolls that never dries out. It was great! Like something my mother-in-law, Estelle, would make for what Iowans call dinner, which is actually served at lunchtime and is not to be confused with supper. That's something different altogether and usually in casserole form. My mother-in-law's house is not a joint, but she understands the concept. And I like her food, too. 

Lula, Yvonne, Bertie or whatever her name was brought it to the table between draft pulls at the bar. She called me "Hon" in a voice that sounded like a cross between a human and a small-block motor with a blown piston. I know you know what I mean. 

From there we headed south on US 395 through the Umatilla and Malheur National Forests. Lots of twisties for Tibor on the Beemer and a smooth cruise for me on the Harley. It was a beautiful ride. Somewhere along the way, we crossed the halfway point between the North Pole and the Equator. I can scratch that off the list.

 

We had stopped in a two-horse town called Long Creek for a drink, when up rides this kid on a Cold War-era Honda CX-500 that's fully loaded down for either a long excursion or a trip to the dump. Jeremy, the kid, was somewhere between not old enough to drink and just barely old enough to drink. We chat a bit, tell him what we're up to with a certain satisfied pride that says, "Cool for old guys, right?" The kid then tells us he's from Vancouver and riding to Argentina. The one in South America. On a certifiable piece of crap motorcycle.

 I felt, somehow, smaller. 

We rode with him for a bit, as he was low on fuel, and waved goodbye with a thumbs-up when we spotted a gas station and the kid turned in. You know, I'd want someone to keep an eye on my kid if he was low on fuel and riding to Argentina. On a piece of crap. There's a picture of Jeremy included in this post. Good luck, kid!

 

Hm. Now I want to ride to Argentina with my son, Daniel. Think I'd get him a nicer bike, though.

 Fuel anxiety, redux.

Spent the night in Burns, Oregon and then made our way across the vast Oregon desert and into Nevada, which is where deserts go to die. I like the desert. The stark landscape is really mesmerizing. I would've been even more mesmerized if my fuel light hadn't come on, telling me I had 40 miles of range remaining and 65 miles until fuel in Winnemucca. I hate having "fuel anxiety." Aside from visions of breaking down in the middle of nowhere, you just beat on yourself for not fueling when you had the chance. Except I didn't have a chance. There wasn't a single fuel stop on the scenic Oregon Byway side road we took from Burns to Winnemucca. The bike sputtered and conked out just after I pulled into the most beautiful Chevron station in the world. My five gallon tank took 5.95 gallons at a gas station 10 miles away from Winnemucca. Tibor's bike has a bigger tank and gets better mileage than the Harley. Awesome (in the Amber way - see earlier posts). 

In Winnemucca I had lunch at The Griddle, a family-owned joint with a signature sandwich that rocked my world and effectively killed my "smaller feedbag" strategy. Turkey, bacon, avocado, cheese, mayo on sourdough, but wait... then they dip it batter, dredge it through parmesan cheese, grill it in butter and serve it with shoestring fries with the skins still on. Yowsa!

 

Potato-Potato-Potato.

It is widely held that that's the sound a Harley motor makes. There was a rumor (or maybe it's true) that Harley-Davidson actually trademarked the "potato-potato-potato" motor sound when other bike builders got on the big cruiser bandwagon. So what's the deal with me - a dedicated, committed Beemer rider - doing with a Harley, right? Well, I've always liked the look and trim of Harleys. Solid, beautiful and American made. I've owned a few bikes, but had never actually ridden a Harley until this trip. And it's what Eaglerider Seattle had available to deliver to LA at a crazy reduced rate. Rather than renting at $150 a day, we're paying $49! Crazy, right? It seems that a lot of European tourists rent bikes in LA and ride them up the coast. Eaglerider needs the bikes returned to their home base and we're happy to benefit from this. Anybody can get this deal by checking out the deals page on the Eaglerider site. Anyway, I'm really enjoying riding the Harley, a Road King Classic. It rattles and vibrates like the heavy beast it is. And it's really bitchen looking - all black and chrome. That said, I've traded Tibor for his BMW RT on a couple of legs. I like it better than the Harley, even though the BMW engine sounds more like a food processor than actual food. Also, I don't really go in for the leather-clad biker poser look that Harley culture fosters. No offense to my leather-clad biker poser friends.

Tonight we're staying in Austin, Nevada, which hasn't changed much since it was founded in the 1860s during the big silver mining rush. Austin is smack dab in the center of Nevada and rests at the gateway to the Toiyabe Forest. Some shots of the town are included, however, not from our dinner. Oh, the place was nice enough. I was still full from my 2,000 calorie lunch and just had a cup of soup and two beers. I didn't really need the soup, but I sure needed the beers, as Tibor had the liver and onions special. Good thing they didn't have any tequila. I believe that's called "self-medicating."

An early start is planned for tomorrow. My destination is Beatty, Nevada, which is the gateway (what's the deal with all these "gateway" places, anyway?) to Death Valley. I've always wanted to ride this storied area, so I'm looking forward to it. After that, back to LA. Tibor will ride with me to Beatty, then continue on to Las Vegas to meet his wife, Grace.

 I might get in another posting after I get home, but thanks for following along so far.

 h

 

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Hank Shaw
310-663-5567

Back in Black.

That's right, all you fans of my often misguided motorcycling adventures, I'm on the road again. It's a short trip and may not result in many postings, but I'll do what I can to describe what I observe, what weather system tries to kill me (again) and, maybe, some interesting meals along the way.

I say maybe on the food thing because I've been trying to revise my overall relationship with the feed bag (been dieting with positive results - the shock absorbers on my truck don't creak as much when I get in now).

I'm also employing some new technology on this trip - my new iPad. Typing on the capacitive keyboard is like trying to write a book with a rock. Typos abound.

On this trip, I'm joined by my buddy, Tibor, who you read about in earlier postings. Soren is pursuing a romance at the moment, but is with me in spirit. Tibor is a very accomplished rider, which is to say, he owns a lot of bikes and knows how to use 'em.

We're doing things a little different this time. We're not doing a roundtrip from LA. We're starting someplace else and riding back to LA. And rather than riding our own bikes we've rented them from Eaglerider, so we're both riding something new and, in my case, very different.

Okay, let's get to it. Join me on a ride from the Pacific Northwest to LA...


Skedaddle to Seattle.
We flew out this morning on Southwest, landing in Seattle around 1 pm. Quick cab ride to Eaglerider, signed the papers, suited up, mounted up, hit the back roads and now I'm writing this post from Yakima, Washington. It was a beautiful, sunshine-filled day. I've been to Seattle about 10 times on business. I've never seen the sun shining there. Really.

Along the way we passed Mt. Rainier, which is spectacular in the western sunlight, and on up through a mountain pass with trees filled with bright yellow leaves and the smell of fall. Onward through a canyon with steep slopes on each side and the Natches River rushing by. Damn, that's almost poetic or something.

My lunch (at 4 pm) for all you food types was deviled eggs and a sugar-free Red Bull. Bought the eggs at a little general store in the middle of nowhere in particular. In retrospect, it might not have been a prudent selection...

Tomorrow we're heading south into Oregon to... wait for it... escape a rainstorm bearing down on the Pacific Northwest. I'd like to point out that the storm was not in the forecast when we planned this trip last week.

Nuts. Shades of Tahoka, Texas.

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Hank Shaw
310-663-5567

Stick a fork in me.

After exactly 30 days and 7,828.2 miles, I returned home safely to Topanga and my family on Sunday, April 11, 2010. During the course of the ride, I ate 637 pounds of food, drank 4,126 beers (plus some Jagermeister shots on side that I'd like to forget), stopped to re-fuel the bike 328,612 times, helped the folks who make Advil turn a better-than-usual profit for the year, met 12 million really nice people and absolutely reaffirmed my belief that life is so worth living to the fullest every minute of every day.
 
Channeling Charley and Ewan and Ted.
In 2004, Charley Boorman and Ewan McGregor (the movie star) rode their BMW R 1200 GS motorbikes eastward from London, ultimately arriving in New York 120 days later. They rode every mile and through some of the toughest terrain on Earth, with the exception of a short cargo flight across the Bering Strait from Russia to Alaska. Their journey was chronicled in the BBC show "Long Way Round." They did a follow up in 2007 by riding from the top of Scotland to Cape Town, South Africa. That show was called "Long Way Down." I own the DVDs and watched both series twice. Charley's and Ewan's adventures were my inspiration for this cross-country-and-back trip. In fact, many "Adventure Touring" enthusiasts site the "Long Way..." series as their motivation for getting into the sport.
 
But there's a guy who pre-dates "Long Way..." by a long way.
 
Ted Simon is a British journalist who, at 42, climbed aboard a motorcycle in 1973 and spent four years and 78,000 miles riding around the world. His book, "Jupiter's Travels," is a cult classic and considered to be the seminal guide to adventure touring via motorbike. One would think being the godfather of adventure touring would've been enough for Ted, however, ol' Ted marches to life a little differently. 24 years later -- at age 69 -- this crazy bastard did it again. This time, Ted rode 59,000 miles over three years retracing his earlier journey just to find out "what happened" to the places he had been before. Ted's follow-up book, "Dreaming of Jupiter" is on my bookshelf.
 
Ewan McGregor sites Ted Simon as his inspiration for "Long Way Round."
 
I was thinking about Charley and Ewan and Ted as Soren and I were riding down a rough dirt road near Cannonville, UT, on our way to see the famous Grosvenor Arch, which is located within the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument in southern Utah. For relative perpsective, the Grosvenor Arch is about 15 miles north of Bryce Canyon and totally worth the bad road (see photo).
 
I've done a good amount of dirt riding in my life and even took up desert racing at age 47. That said, I've almost never taken the BMW GS off-road, even though its specifically designed for operation on both both on-road and off-road surfaces. Compared to my racing bike - a 250 pound KTM 450 EXC - the Beemer weighs in around 520 pounds with fuel and more like 600 pounds with my luggage attached. Add me at 215 pounds and that's a lot to wrestle with in the sand. Nevertheless, there I was riding down a choppy, rutted, sand-filled dirt road and all I could think was, "I'd like to do more of this kind of riding on a big bike." I'm tough, but not necessarily smart.
 
Bestest was nearest.
I get asked a lot, "What was the best ride of the trip?" At first, it was hard to answer. So many great roads -- Socorro to Roswell, Skyline Drive, Blue Ridge Parkway, Natchez Trace -- the list goes on and on (but does not include McCook, Nebraska). After all that mileage, I can honestly say that the best ride was between Green River and St. George, UT. During this two-day ride, with a stopover in Tropic, UT, we visited Capitol Reef National Park, the afore-mentioned Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument, Bryce Canyon National Park (photo included) and the crowning jewel of them all, Zion National Park. I have traveled over a good portion of this country and the rest of the world, in general, to places like Yosemite, The Grand Canyon, The Batu Caves of Malaysia, Borneo, Tahiti, the rainforests of Costa Rica, The Great Barrier Reef of Australia and the temples surrounding Angkor Wat in Cambodia. Every site was beautiful in its own way, but nothing compared to Zion Valley. The scale of the cliffs and the colors of the layers of rock are impossible to capture in a photo (but I tried).
 
Maybe it was my relaxed state-of-mind that made it magical, but after 30 days and 7,828.2 miles I was surprised to discover that the best views were less than 600 miles from my home. Amazing. If you haven't been there, go. I'm going back.
 
We spent Saturday night in Las Vegas with my friends, Ken and Norma Shaw (no relation), then - as if on cue - fought our way across the desert the next day through massive winds and arrived home in the early afternoon.
 
Maybe home was actually the prettiest sight I've seen.
 
Hello, I must be going.
I have truly enjoyed sharing this adventure with you, my family and friends. It's hard to sum it all up in a single posting, but I'd like to address a few things that I figured out.
 
On the subject of this being a "Mid-Life Crisis..." Look, I'm almost 52. I wouldn't mind calling this journey - metaphorical or otherwise - a mid-life crisis if you would be kind enough to introduce me to a buncha 104-year-old guys. I'm just living large -- today and every day -- with no crisis in sight.
 
On the subject of this being a "Once in a lifetime trip..." HA! This is just another of my once in a lifetime trips that I intend to make often. I may even do some of them twice, like Ted Simon.
 
On the subject of "Dee letting me go on this trip..." Simply not the case. It's not her style, she isn't designed that way and that's why we've been married for 25 years this June. She will tell you that I can have, "All the cars, guitars and motorcycles that I want, so long as I keep the one wife." Deal. All that she asked was that I come back. Done. I want to wander the world with her and she's a pretty good passenger.
 
Other parting thoughts...
 
Things more important than me. Thank you to all who were touched by Kaelin's Story and contributed to the Pediatric Brain Tumor Ride 4 Kids. I knew you'd come through - and you did, big time. There's still time to contribute. Here's the link:  http://www.firstgiving.com/kaelintoczauer.
 
I so appreciated hearing from all of you during the trip. Your emails, phone calls and blog comments were great. Thank you for the encouragement -- and warnings. And please remember, if you're a friend of mine, I've got your back.
 
If you're Soren Giess (http://sginla.posterous.com), dude, you are a great traveling companion. I'd do this again with you in a heartbeat. Gute Reise!
 
If you're part of my family - close, extended or undefinable - you are the only possessions I truly value.
 
If you're either of my children, I learn from you every day. You are my heroes.
 
Lastly, I'm already looking to the horizon and continuing to think about What's Next. So many roads to ride -- and I can't wait for the next one. So if somebody asks you where I'm headed, just point in any direction and tell 'em Hank Went Thataway.
 
h
 

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Bird was right.

As much as it twists my trousers to admit it, my buddy, Bird, was right about the unpredictable weather in the Midwest this time of year. And he oughta know. Bird's from Kansas City, MISSOURI (as in, not the other one), via Poplar Bluff and a few other Podunk towns in Missouri where they serve sweet tea. My mom is from Missouri, too, but rarely mentions it.
 
Nebraska weather. (or)Deal with it.
Pulled outta Dow City on April 6, my son, Daniel's, 15th birthday. He got to spend the day headed east, riding in a rented car with Dee, Kelsey and my mother-in-law to Chicago. I got to spend the day heading west, trying not to get blown off the road while crossing Nebraska. We had steady Northeast crosswinds and near-freezing rain the entire seven-plus hours it took to ride over 330 miles and finally give up in McCook, NE. The only upside was that the wind came at us from a different direction than it did in Arkansas, so now both of my shoulders hurt about equally from pushing the bike into the wind.
 
Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking how un-fun this bad weather thing is and why on earth would any one ever - EVER - want to ride a motorcycle in it. Hard not to agree, but I figured out early on in this trip that the journey would far outweigh the destinations. Seeing this country from the view afforded on a motorbike - including through a snow/rain/sleet covered helmet visor - is like nothing else I've ever experienced. It's like I could put on the surrounding landscape as if it were clothing. In some cases, however, I didn't put on enough. The point is, you get very in touch with the road - much more so than in a car. And if I rode through sunshine and light every day of this trip, I wouldn't have as many good stories to tell. Get it?
 
McCook McSucks.
So we gave up the ghost in this medium-sized small town (does that make sense?) and looked for lodging. The "showers" - as predicted by every weather source we could find - was really more like steady pounding rain. And it was in the upper 30s, which meant snow was on the way for dessert.
 
We checked into the Chief Motel because it had an indoor pool and spa. Mistake number one. The spa wasn't working (as is the case at every motel we've checked in to). Opting for a bath to reduce the shivers I had in my joints was mistake number two. I turned on the bath water and it came our dirt brown. To be fair, it was perfectly hot, dirty water. I called the front desk and said, "Uh, is the bath water supposed to be brown?" The desk clerk said - I swear - "I dunno. I'll ask the manager." Seems the water main in McCook had ruptured and, although fixed, required the pipes to run for a bit to clear out the mud. I ran the water for 30 minutes. It was still a little orange when I finally hopped in. I used my spare can of Red Bull (sugar free) to brush my teeth.
 
We couldn't go anywhere for dinner because of the rain, so we ate at the Chief Restaurant. Mistake number three. I will spare you the description of the meal, other than to say it was gray. Keep in mind that I can eat almost anything, but after I pushed the plate away the waitress asked me, "Was everything all right?" I started to say something like, "Fine," but I stopped and said, "Honey, that was probably the worst meal I've ever had in my whole entire life." She nodded, as if understanding, and replied, "Yeah, I thought it looked kinda funny when I brought it out."
 
Honest, I don't make this stuff up.
 
I stayed up late trying to figure a way out of the bad weather. It was sitting right on top of us and blocking our planned route to Denver. I enlisted my nephew, Erik, who attends the University of Wisconsin and planning on a career as a meteorologist (the real kind, not the TV kind), to help me find a path either west or south. This kid is wise about the weather and gave me his best scientific opinion, "Go to bed and check outside in the morning. Might get better." Erik lives, obviously, in Madison, Wisconsin where it probably snows in July. His uncle (me) should know better than to traverse Nebraska in early April on a motorcycle. Duh.
 
Rocky Mountain Way.
The next day was clear, but windy and cold - with snow covering everything - so we made tracks for Denver and Dee's sister, Mary's, home. It was a helluva fight with the wind and cold for about 150 miles but, as we approached Denver, the weather just kept getting better and better. Warmer air, clear skies and a lot less wind. Suddenly, the Rockies appeared before us and I felt elated to be back in The West. Mary, her husband, Jim and my nephew, Collin, treated me and Soren like kings with tea and sympathy. Okay, it was more like beer and enchiladas. And their bath water was clear.
 
Dear Garmin GPS People, You're wrong.
We left Denver this morning had had a terrific ride through the snow-covered Rockies, with stops in Glenwood Springs and Grand Junction, to Green River, UT, where I'm writing this post. The only tense moments happened late in the afternoon between Grand Junction and Green River. We decided not to fuel the bikes in Grand Junction. My fuel range indicator showed 128 miles and we had about 90 to go. Throughout the trip we've had no problem finding fuel along the way. We can ride about 150 miles before our warning lights go on, telling us we need to refuel within 50 miles. And that would be fine it we weren't riding through mountains and headwinds - like today. Right about the time we hit the Colorado-Utah border I noticed that my fuel range had dropped to 60 miles. Within a few miles, both of us had warning lights. Suddeny, the range dropped to 30 miles, then 20... I punched in "find fuel" on the GPS. It indicated the next fuel station was 30 miles out.
 
Now there's a feeling you don't forget quickly in the middle of the desert. The discomfort emanates from a lower portion of your body that doesn't see much sunshine. Dig?
 
At 13 miles of range indicated and 21 miles to go, we spotted a gas station NOT listed on the Garmin GPS read-out and pulled in. Actually - I kid you not - Soren coasted in, his motor having shut down on the offramp. If you think I'm kidding about this, I've included a photo of my instrument panel. Of note, we both have five-gallon capacity fuel tanks on our bikes. Mine took 4.6 gallons to fill. Soren took 5.02 gallons.
As long as I keep living, I'll keep learning.
 
Green River rocks!
I have always loved the stark beauty of the desert. Where we're staying tonight, Green River, UT, is not the end of the world, but you can see it from here. The town is at the intersection of the Green River (figures), the Colorado River and the road to Moab, UT. Healthy looking adventure sports-types are everywhere and this town of probably 1,500 full-time residents has 22 motels. We checked into the "Robbers Roost" Motel - because we liked the sign - and made our way to Ray's Tavern for dinner. On the recommendation of the dude running the gas station that isn't on the GPS, I ordered the grilled double pork chop, which is really just two pork chops, served with a baked potato, salad and Uintas Gelande Lager, a terrific microbrew. And, yes, I ate the whole damned thing.
 
Tomorrow we're off to ride the mountains to Bryce Canyon and Zion national parks. From there, Vegas, baby! Then home to LA on Sunday. And tomorrow, Friday, marks four weeks since we left for Phoenix. I can't beleive how far we've gone and how fast the time has gone by.
 
I'd love to keep going, but I need to go on a diet.
 
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Melvis to Hellvis.

Melvis is what my late friend, Ray, called Memphis. He was a pilot (a B747 captain, to be precise, and that just freaking rocks!) with FedEx and was stationed there at some point during his career. Told ya he was cool.

I was in Melvis last week and have a story to tell, but first, I'm posting this from Dee's hometown of Dow City, IA on the last night of a four-day rest break and prior to the final push home to LA. It's been great seeing family and friends in this bucolic part of the country. We had a family reunion at the VFW hall. Ate something like 27 meals. Went fishing (Dan caught the biggest largemouth bass, photo included). And we just hung out and kicked back.

The rest was surely needed. I think Soren has slept an average of 10 hours a day since we arrived. And after Melvis, he certainly earned it.

Nashville to Natchez.
On the recommendation of my riding buddy, John Hawley, we picked up the Natchez Trace Highway just outside of Nashville and rode to southern Tennessee on a beautiful, sunny day. Natchez Trace is similar to the Blue Ridge Parkway and Skyline Drive; scenic parkways that are part of the national park system. Sweeping turns, long straightaways, uncrowded (on a Monday, anyway) and absolutely delivering on the "scenic" thing. Natchez Trace runs all the way down through Mississippi. We, however, turned west at the bottom of TN and made for Melvis.

Trouble in River City.
I liked Memphis, short of Graceland. Yeah, okay, I rode up to the gates, got my picture taken and looked around at the 70-year-old ladies with bright red hair and still crying over the King's departure 33 years ago. But the whole thing just seemed kinda hokey. Bet I'm not alone on this.

We stayed in downtown so I could soak up the Delta Blues, supposedly found on Beale Street. It was hard to imagine W.C. Handy and the Stax sound originating from what is now a knock-off of Bourbon Street (sans the bead thing), but the food and brew was good at the Flying Saucer Draught Emporium. We had wanted to eat the dry-rub ribs at The Rendezvous, per my ex-Memphis, now LA buddy, Billy's, recommendation, but the dude who owned the joint up and died a couple of days prior and they were closed that night for the funeral. Guess I'll have to go back.

As we were preparing to leave the next morning, we noticed that the rear tire on Soren's bike was suddenly and completely worn out, likely due to the additional baggage load and not due to his recent caloric intake. The tire would need immediate replacement, which usually isn't a big deal - unless you're riding a rare model KTM 990 Adventure from Austria with an unusal rear tire specification. We spent about two hours in the hotel lobby calling every motorcycle dealer we could find - from Memphis to St. Louis to Fayetteville, AR (our destination) - to no avail. Then our now-buddy, Marvin, at the local BMW dealer in Memphis found the tire at a distributor. We picked it up, the BMW guys installed it and we were on our way on a bridge over the Mississippi River and outta Melvis. Five hours behind schedule.

We decided to take I-40 to shorten the trip to Fayetteville, AR - home of the University of Arkansas Razorbacks, SOOOOO-EEEEEE! Or something like that. And that's when the trouble really started...

We've come to expect wind gusts over major bridges. That's just part of the deal on a bike. What we didn't expect was 30 mph northbound cross-winds once we got down to the farm fields of Arkanasas about thirty feet this side of the state line. The wind gusts were so bad that, when coupled with the turbulence from large truck traffic, we both had to lean hard to the left to keep from blowing over. Lemme tell ya, it was some treacherous road. Fortunately, wisdom got the better of us and we exited the interstate. We used the GPS, a small atlas, dead reckoning and directions from a gas station dude (yes, I asked for directions) to vector up to northen Arkansas and across the state in somewhat calmer winds.

By 7:30 pm, we had been on the road for 5.5 hours, the sun was going down and we were still 170 miles from Fayetteville. Wisdom didn't kick in this time and we kept going. At one point, Soren got out ahead of me and out of intercom range, which is not unusal. After a while of faster riding than me, he pulls over and waits until the old man shows up. This time, when the old man showed up, I noticed a dumped over bike on the side of the road that looked, well, just like Soren's bike.

Which it was.

Soren had slowed to wait for me and was pulling over in a little town called Harrison, AR. What he didn't see in the dark - and why we almost never ride in the dark - was a small curb that only looked like the five thousand white lines we'd seen in nearly every other little burg on the trip that wouldn't waste money on a small, good-for-nothing curb. But there it was.

Soren performed what bikers call a "mid-speed get-off." It hurts at just about any speed and, when I saw the bike on its side and got no response over the intercom, I thought, for sure, that it was game over for our trip. I was just hoping that Soren was okay.

He was. More accurately, he was in a lot of pain from not bouncing too well on the pavement and was most considerably pissed-off at whomever put up that small curb in Harrison, Arkansas.

Along with a passer-by and a somewhat sympathetic state trooper, we righted the bike - and Soren, checked both for serious damage (scrapes and a busted turn signal on the bike, minor bruises and scrapes on the human, thanks to riding armor) and got on the road again, albeit much slower. The last thing the trooper told us was to be on the look out for deer running across the road. Awesome  (in the Amber way). We finally made it to Fayetteville - and to my buddy, "Coach" John Dolan's, home around 10:30. Drinking to our survival - and stupidity - for riding in the dark was the last act of the day.

Eureka! I have found it!
We left Fayetteville, which is a nice college town, the next day after scoring a new turn signal for Soren's bike at the local KTM dealer (who, by the way, had everything we couldn't find in Melvis). Our destination was Kansas City and my niece, Denise's, home in nearby Olathe, KS. Great weather, no winds and, um, daylight made the ride fun. On the suggestion of Coach John (not really sure why he's called that, but whatever) we rode to Eureka Springs, AR, which is a town about 30 miles south of Branson, MO and about 100 years back in time. What a cool place! It's like an Old West town, built on a hillside, with winding streets, cool restaurants, a local art vibe and a buncha bikers hanging out in the saloons. For lunch, I had the chicken and biscuits and cherry cobbler at Grandma's Kitchen, although I never saw grandma. Got a lot of thumbs ups when we rode through Eureka Springs and it was the first time I'd seen another BMW motorbike since we left Arizona nearly three weeks before.

Made it to Olathe, KS way before nightfall, although we could see storm clouds gathering and the winds picking up speed. We had dinner with Denise, who I feel like I'm finally getting to know, now that she's an adult - and I like what I see. Denise is single and an executive with John Deere. She lives in a neighborhood full of families with toys strewn all over the yards. I couldn't figure out why a single woman would live in Knott's Landing - until her neighbors showed up for an impromptu party. At 10 pm. On a Thursday. In Olathe. A shout out to Mike-black, Mike-white (their obvious explanation, not mine), Joey and especially Tina (who owns a liquor store, which would make her an "8" even if she was ugly - which she's not). We got to bed at 1:30. Oy.

Hunkered down in Amazonia.
We left Olathe the next morning, headed for Dow City, IA and a much needed four-day break. Sunshine and calm had turned to rain as we crossed back into Missouri. Around St. Joseph, MO, Soren called out on the intercom to look ahead. A fierce - and I don't use that word much - thunderstorm was descending upon us. And then, boy howdy, it did. We were getting blown around violently and the rain was piercing our riding suits quickly. After the third lightning strike right in front of us, we pulled off the interstate and wobbled into the nearest town, Amazonia, MO. We parked the bikes and dragged ourselves into the local VFW hall. It was another one of those moments frozen in time - like in Tahoka, TX - where I pull off my helmet just as a buncha guys - who could easily kick my ass - turn from the bar and look me over, up and down. I said, "Howdy, boys. Hear it might rain today." They said a communal, "Hey," and turned back to their beers and the Weather Channel. I looked at my watch. It was 10:37 am. Turned out - like it almost always does- that these guys were cool. They let us dry our riding suits in the dryer in the basement and we had us what I think was one of the best cheeseburgers ever. And Louella, or Trixie, or Avis - whatever her name was - that worked the bar and the grill at the Amazonia VFW Post - makes french fries the way I like 'em: a little extra cooked. Know what I mean?

Is this Heaven? No, it's Iowa.
After two hours, the rain left as quickly as it came. We suited up and, avoiding the interstate, took Highway 59 from Amazonia to Dow City. Amazonia, with it's only public house being the VFW Post, is even smaller than Dow City, where they have two taverns. Rested and ready to head for home.

Hellvis is now just a lesson learned.

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"Adventure is just bad planning."

That's a great quote from Roald Amundsen, the famous Norwegian polar explorer. Things didn't go well for him. It describes a couple of days of riding for us, but first...

What do Florida, Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina and Maryland, Washington DC, Virginia and North Carolina (again) have in common? They're behind me, that's what.

Greetings from Nashville, TN, where we've taken a two-day rest break before heading to Memphis and then up to Iowa to meet up with Dee and the kids at her mom's house in Dow City, IA.

The following post is actually a series of posts strung together into one loooong post. You will be forgiven if you skip to the food reviews at the bottom.

25 bridges, two boats and the heart of democracy.
Over the past week, we've made our way up through the mid-Atlantic coast from South Carolina to Washington DC, then back down through the mountains of Virginia and North Carolina.

We picked up the ferry at Cedar Island, NC and crossed over to Ocracoke Island and Cape Hatteras. We rode up the the cape - which reminded me of Martha's Vineyard, including massive over-done beach "cottages" - and stayed overnight in Kitty Hawk, NC. Some shots of the ferry crossing and Kitty Hawk at sunrise are included.

We rolled into DC on a beautiful, sunny afternoon, which I should've known was a harbinger of things to come. I love DC. Been here many times and never get tired of the place. Yeah, sure, there's a lot of tension about governmental doings - always is - but you can just feel the energy in this town. And I don't care if you're  a Liberal, a Conservative,  an Independent, part of the Looney Left, a bag-carrying Tea Partier, a gun-packing Libertarian, a tree-hugging Green, a spooky Neo-Con or an anarchist - we live in the greatest country in the world and I'm thankful you and I have the right to be whomever, or whatever we want to be. And that vibe starts in DC.

But that's not the only reason I came here.

The ballad of Maryalice.
I met my friend, Maryalice, in - of all places - the Central Asian republic of Kyrgyzstan in the summer of 2002. We were part of a volunteer Habitat for Humanity team dispatched to work on a "build" in the capital, Bishkek. When you're on a Habitat build, you spend a lot of time with your teammates. Like 16 hours a day. The team dynamic can be pretty fluid - a little like the show "Survivor," although I never heard anyone on our team actually say, "She's out to destroy me!"

Maryalice and I were the team wise-asses and trouble-makers. Naturally, we hit it off immediately. She doesn't suffer fools gladly and I crack up when somebody hits their thumb with a hammer. Get the picture?

We did a lot of cool things on this trip: rode horses along the Silk Road in the Tien Shan mountains, slept in yurts, ate horse gizzard sausages (it tastes like, um, horse), drank local moonshine made from fermented mare's milk (a delicate taste, similar to rotten yogurt and mixed with a gasoline-like finish - two shots are fine, four shots and you go blind), and, most importantly, worked to make life a little more comfortable for some nice people we'd never met before. If you're looking for a meaningful and exciting adventure vacation, check out what Habitat for Humanity's Global Village program has to offer.

My best memory of this trip - and what endeared Maryalice to me forever - happened during a visit to the big central swap meet/flea market called the Osh Bazaar. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm a big, white, American-looking male. In a third world country I stick out a little, especially with my baseball cap, sneakers and backpack. It just screams, "Rob me, please!"

As we walked through the crowded stalls and alleys of this massive bazaar, some of the shadier Kyrgyz locals decided to go for my backpack. They'd sneak up on me and I'd turn in another direction. Then they'd circle back and try again. They were actually pretty brazen about it.

Maryalice, being a native New Yorker and nobody's fool, picked up on this. When the next shark moved in for the grab, she stepped between him and my backpack and yelled the two words that even the Russian-speaking Kyrgyz hood could easily translate. The second word was, "...Off!" Scared the little dude right off. Did I mention that Maryalice is six feet tall? Anyway, she gave me a parental look and said, "Okay sport, I've got your back." And from then on, she did.

Isn't that what having a friend means?

Maryalice lives in DC. We had dinner last night, along with her very cool, Harley-riding SO, Michael.

I don't get to see Maryalice much, but I've got her back.

The bad planning part.
This next leg was one of the most anticipated sections of our trip; a two-day ride along Skyline Drive and the Blue Ridge Parkway. It's generally accepted that these two famous mountain highways stretching from Front Royal, VA to Asheville, NC are biker Nirvana, with gorgeous scenery at every turn.  And to make it even more interesting, the weather report was calling for snow in DC on the day we left. Like I said, the day before it was 74 and sunny.There wasn't snow when we left, but it was 50 degrees, getting colder by the hour and raining steadily as we made our way into the Virginia mountains. As my work pal, Amber, would say, "Awesome." She doesn't mean that in a good way.

Skyline Drive runs along the top of the Shenandoah Mountains, with a top elevation on the road of about 3,400 feet. The ambient weather gauge on the bike showed a low of 28 and a high of 35 throughout the three hour, 109-mile ride. The beautiful views were absolutely there, although I had one eye on the road, one on the view and one looking for the deer that continually crossed the road in front of us. We completed the drive and dropped into Waynesboro, VA to warm up at a local motorcycle shop. Soren may have mentioned to me more than once that day about how I said we wouldn't need heated riding gear for the trip becasue it would be Springtime. I would rather be naked and boiling hot than dressed in four layers, wet and freezing any day of the week.

Blue Ridge Parkway = BRP = Best Ride Period.
The next morning we were greeted with sunshine and a cloudless sky as we left Lexington, VA, and rode the BRP to North Carolina. The BRP is part of the Applachian Trail, which apparently has now become "code" for a cheating husband.

"Where's your husband?"

"Oh, him? He's hiking the Applachian Trail and I'm taking the house."

Thanks, Governor Sanford.

Anyway, the BRP ride - all 250 miles of it - was one of the greatest stretches of road I've ever been on. Gorgeous vistas, grassy pastures, small towns, rivers, reasonably fast and NO SNOW.

We pulled into Hendersonville, NC, near Asheville, just before dark and stayed with our friends, Judi and Bruce - and their motocross-loving teenage daughter, Karleigh. Pretty sure I got Bruce thinking about doing a ride with me (as soon as he gets the motorcycle). Thanks for the hospitality, guys! We get a little tired of motels and seeing old friends is the cure.

Bad planning, redux.
The next day, sunny and gorgeous had turned into the kind of downpour that you think carefully about taking the car out in. So we did it on motorcyles and rode to Nashville. There's just nothing fun about wet and cold. I did, however, finally hit the last song on my iPod when I was pulling into Nashville. For the curious, it was "25 Miles" by Edwin Starr. The 70s rocked.

Tell yer mama we said "Hey."
I swear I heard that this morning at breakfast.

Last night, we had dinner with my friends Sandy and Buzz Brainard. They used to live in our neighborhood, but moved into a 100-year-old house in beautiful old-town Franklin, TN, where all the big country stars live. Buzz is, like, one of my few famous friends. You probably hear his voice every day doing VO work for Disney and others. When they lived in LA, Buzz was the morning man with Peter Tilden on KZLA - the last great country station on the West Coast. Sandy is just plain hip and cool. And, get this, they have a son named Hank. I really miss them and enjoy their company.

Today, Soren and I checked out the sights of Nashville, including Music Row and - finally - found an open German restaurant, where we had lunch and some beers with names I can't pronounce.

Chow now.
I'll make this easy.

If you're ever in the town of Hatteras on Cape Hatteras, go to Rocco's and order two things: the famous spicy crab dip and a pound of the steamed shrimp with Bay Spices (whatever that is). Have cooling liquids nearby and plenty of napkins. It's not pretty, but it's damn good.

In DC, try Busboys and Poets. I had the crabcakes with crab grits. I'd show you a photo, but I cleaned the plate before the camera could get powered up.

Battleground Brewery in Franklin, TN brews its own line of beers. Try the shrimp and grits. Sandy and I did, but you'll have to get your own.

The Gerst Haus restaurant in Nashville - which I guess has enough people of German descent living in it that has a suburb is called Germantown - serves up a "light" lunch meal of sausages, kraut and German potato salad. Plan on a nap afterwards.

Okay, that's more than enough for now. Sorry for the long post. We're on backroads riding through Tennesee and Arkansas for the next two days and may not post for a few days. Lovin' the emails and calls. Keep 'em coming.

Read this on a wall in a bar in Roswell, NM:

"If the attack is going well, it's an ambush."

Love it.

h

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Kaelin's Story.

Kaelin_toczauer

No riding journal today. We made it to Washingtion DC and are taking a two day break to rest up.
 
I want to tell you a story, but you need to know two things up front. First, it doesn't end well. Second, I'm going to hit you up - which I almost never do - so this is important.
 
My riding buddy, Tibor, and his wife, Grace, had a daughter named Kaelin. Kaelin was in my son Daniel's class at St Mel. As is usually the case with boys and girls in elementary school, our kids were not close - probably didn't even speak to each other unless forced to. I've noticed that this phase passes pretty quickly when they get to high school.
 
I don't have the exact timeframe, but when she was younger, Kaelin was diagnosed with a brain tumor. This kind of news would be devastating enough if you're an adult with this diagnosis. I can't imagine how difficult it would be to be the parents of a child facing this disease, but that's where Tibor and Grace found themselves.
 
As Tibor tells it, throughout all of the treatment phases Kaelin soldiered through - refusing to stop being a child - but fighting a serious fight with all that she had. Family, friends and schoolmates rallied to provide emotional support for their family. Tibor kept a journal about Kaelin's ordeal and shared it with this community nearly every night via email. These emails would get forwarded to me by friends and that's how I first became aware of Kaelin's story. I never missed a journal entry.
 
Kaelin passed away from this insidious disease. It was devastating to everyone who had had been the recipient of her love - which was vast - according to Tibor. A garden was planted in her memory at the school and lives resumed.
 
But Kaelin's fight continues - and this is where you and I come in.
 
Dee and I will be riding alongside Tibor at the Pediatric Brain Tumor Foundation "Ride for Kids" on May 2, 2010. If you can, I would appreciate your contribution to help meet the team fundraising goal of $4,000.
 
 
I'll ask one more time as the ride date approaches and I promise that'll be it. Thank you in advance for joining in this fight and for helping to keep Kaelin's story alive.
 
h