New England Ride - 7 Days with Pics

[Tracus]

Warning! This is just a recounting of a trip LAF and I made to New England in June. It may be a bit lengthy, but that's my style. At this point I have not inserted any pictures, but since this is just Day 1 of our journey, I must confess that I didn't take any on our first day. So, here goes:

Day 1 – Hbg to Brattleboro, VT: 431 miles

LAF and I work together at a local high school. LAF is our network administrator and I teach high school social studies. Two years ago we rode through West Virginia. Last year we spent a week riding in the Smokies. It’s our way of decompressing after the school year; other people visit therapists. As we headed home last year from North Carolina I asked LAF where he wanted to go after the 2008-2009 school year; “I have a hankering for lobster,” he said. And that settled it; we would head for New England.

I spent most of the winter poring over maps, routes and making reservations. I’m old school and prefer using road maps and checking recommended routes from various motorcycle websites. I do use Mapquest, but get frustrated with its default routing through New York City. Want to go from Harrisburg to Boston? It says to go through NYC. Harrisburg to Albany? Ditto. I have driven through the Big Apple, I didn't like it. I would sooner have root canal without anesthesia. I suppose if I said I wanted to go from Harrisburg to Denver, Mapquest would still have me going through NYC on the Cross-Bronx Expressway. I wonder how much Mayor Bloomberg paid Mapquest for this feature.

Back at school, each time I saw LAF in the hall he’d ask, “Is it June, yet?” We were getting to be like kids in August, Christmas would never get here. But the days passed and calendar months were torn off. The day after school ended I packed the RT and called LAF to tell him I’d be at his house by 8 AM the next morning.

I ride to his house the next morning and park on the street in front of his house. Inside the carport I can see LAF sitting on his LT. He looks over his shoulder at me and calls for help. I run over and find LAF straddling his bike trying to keep it from rolling off the front of his bike lift. As he took it off the center stand the front wheel came off the wheel chock and rolled off the leading edge of the stand. I go around to the front and push the bike backwards as LAF releases the brakes. With the bike on the side stand, LAF dismounts and thanks me.

“How long have you been holding the bike?” I ask.

“Almost an hour.” he says.

“If you keep that up,” I comment. “Your right forearm is going to rival Popeye’s.”

We have some coffee as LAF adds the final gear to his bike and then it’s north from Harrisburg to have breakfast at Funck’s diner near Fort Indiantown Gap. As we eat we go over the route I have selected for our run to Brattleboro, Vermont. We’ll take I-81 north to Binghamton, NY then I-88 to Albany and finally Route 7 into Vermont. LAF likes to refer to me as Mr. Direction, but I correct him by saying it’s actually Miss Direction.

Outside of the restaurant, we try to pair the communication systems in our helmets. According to the booklet we should hear music through a Bluetooth transmitter, but the microphones will override the music so we can talk to each other. We get the mics to work, but there’s no music. If we have music, there’s no communication. We fiddle with the devices until we resolve that music trumps talking. Unfortunately, LAF’s system fails to connect to the music and he resorts to using the bike’s external speakers.

North of Binghamton, NY we roll over the gentle hills passing farmlands and small towns. This is a great road with very little traffic and beautiful scenery. As the pathfinder, I take the lead and LAF covers my six. I watch LAF in the mirror. At times he’s right behind me and at others he’s falling off the back. I have the cruise control set for 70. Every now and then, LAF comes roaring up behind me. Figuring my speedometer is reading low, I nudge it to about 73. LAF drops back for a little bit and then again comes roaring back until he’s next to me. He looks at me and holds his left hand, palm up, toward his speedometer. His expression, to me, says, “Why are you going so slow?” I push the cruise to 80 and think, “Well, this should do it.”

At the next rest area I pull in for a break. LAF pulls up next to me, “Are you trying to lose your license?” he asks.

“What do you mean?” He then tells me that according to his speedometer and GPS, we’ve been rolling along at 80-85 mph; well over the posted speed limit. Evidently I misread his hand gesture. What I thought meant, “Why are we going so slow?” was really a pretty good imitation of a CHiP holding his hand out for my license and registration. My bad.

Every road trip should have an “Odd Encounter of the Third Kind.” This trip is no exception. At one of the rest stops, LAF sits outside of the restroom and tries to pair his iPod to his helmet. I leave my helmet on a newspaper honor box and walk around the rest area stretching my legs. When I get back, LAF tells me to take my helmet with me the next time I go for a walk.

“Why?” I ask.

“Because I was getting pretty tired of people walking in and out of the restroom entrance saying, “Hey! Someone left their helmet here.”

At about this time a large group of young men and boys begins to pass by where we are sitting to enter the men’s room. This does not bother us until we notice that one of them is wearing a cape and a Batman mask. Now we’re worried. When he pauses at the door, looks at us and says, “I’m Batman!” Change of thoughts, we’re really worried. As it turns out it’s a group of learning disabled students on a field trip. No problems. If a young man wants to wear a cape and mask and be Batman, where’s the harm? Hell! I’m 58 and have been known to slouch over my handlebars at a rest stop pretending to be Marlon Brando in the “Wild One.” The effect is totally ruined by the facts that: #1 – I’m on a BMW. #2 – I’m wearing a full-face helmet and riding gear. #3 – I have a trophy with a canoe on it lashed to my front fender, but it’s the thought that counts. And #4 – I look more like Teddy Roosevelt than Marlon Brando.


We continue north on I-88. We have a few scattered showers and one microburst of rain in upstate NY, but no serious weather problems.

I have the routes printed and placed inside the map case on my tank bag. I have also borrowed a used Garmin GPS from LAF, which I’ve mounted on the left hand reservoir. I have fiddled with it a few times before our trip, but have our New England routes programmed and loaded. As we get onto the New York Thruway I turn the GPS on. It shows our present location and begins giving instructions. I’m thinking, “Hey! This thing’s pretty cool.” When we get off the Thruway the GPS enters a wormhole tearing a gigantic opening in the time space continuum. First it has us go south, then east, then north. I figure north is okay because we want to connect to Route 7. We’re on a four-lane highway when suddenly the GPS informs me to make a U-Turn. WTF? A mile later and it flashes a new message, “At the next possibility, make a U-turn.” There’s a Jersey wall between us and the southbound lanes, so I ignore the message. A little later and it wants us to go west on Route 9. Vermont is to the east. Perhaps the routing leads to a series of increasingly tighter decreasing radius turns that puts us into a black hole and we’ll pop back out in Brattleboro, VT. I’m thinking, “For 50 cents I’d throw this gadget into the Hudson.” But then a voice reminds me that it isn’t my GPS.

I ignore the GPS and use dead reckoning to Route 7 and we begin heading east. The GPS keeps informing me that I’m going the wrong way. It recalculates several times and displays new directions that don’t relate to where we want to go. And yes, I did select the route I had programmed for Brattleboro. However, since I did the route on Mapquest, it’s quite possible that the routing is at fault and not the GPS. We have by-passed New York City and the Mapquest route is holding us accountable for not paying homage to the Big Apple.

Ten miles into Vermont and the GPS gives in. “Okay,” it says. “You don’t want to go to New York City, you want to go to Brattleboro, Vermont. You don’t have to go to New York City if you don't want to. It would be nice if you did. There’s a lot to do in the city and their economy could use some stimuli from your wallets. But – No! You have to go to Vermont. So here’s how. I’ll show you the routes and tell you when to turn, but I’m not going to like it. I may huff, puff, whine and complain, but I’ll show you the way. But first, are you really, really sure you don’t want to go to New York City?” I turn the GPS off.

I like riding through Vermont. Every village looks like a Currier and Ives painting. Beautiful homes, churches with tall, white steeples, tree lined streets and at every intersection a road sign telling us which way and how far it is to Brattleboro. Every town square has a monument and flag dedicated to those who have given that “…last full measure of devotion” to their country. There are sidewalk cafes and coffee shops on every block. There’s probably enough caffeine in the air on Main Street to rival the atmosphere of a crowded Starbucks.

We get to our exit in Brattleboro and stop at a gas station. While I check the map, LAF calls CharlieVT to tell him we’ve arrived. LAF tells me that CharlieVT and his wife will meet us in less than 60 seconds. As it turns out they were heading to the KOA to see if we had already arrived. LAF had made arrangements to meet him on our ride through New England. CharlieVT and his wife meet us at the gas stations and after handshakes and introductions, they lead us to the KOA and wait while LAF and I check in and get cleaned up. The Kottage is an old style motel cabin that’s fully furnished with linens. LAF and I wonder why we brought sleeping bags and towels. After changing out of our riding gear and into street clothes we step outisde. CharlieVT and his wife then drive us into town where we eat at a local steak house called, "The Steak Out." The menu cover has the classic picture of Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker. Bonnie has her revolver and a cigar. I know the pun between Steak Out and Stake Out, but Bonnie and Clyde never got close to Vermont. And besides, there's no smoking in this restaurant. Now a photograph of Confederate soldiers doing a raid in St. Albans, VT during the Civil War? That would be historically accurate.

During dinner, I ask about Molly Stark. The road into Brattleboro is the Molly Stark scenic by-way and I’m curious who she is. CharlieVT isn't sure, but says he'll look it up. We also talk about Brattleboro making national news because there was no law about public nudity. This was broadcast on National Public Radio. As it turns out there was only one resident who was ever seen taking advantage of this legal loophole. However, it didn’t take too long before a new ordinance was issued requiring appropriate attire for all townsfolk when they are out and among the general public.

CharlieVT then relates that a nearby stream is a favorite spot for swimming. The lower section is for conscientious bathers; those who prefer to be appropriately attired. The middle section is for skinny dippers; those who feel that the human body is God’s gift and should be viewed in its all-togetherness and not hidden. The upper section is for nude bathers who are same sex oriented. “The problem,” according to CharlieVT. “Is that there is a fair amount of uncertainty as to where the three sections begin and end.”

Back at the KOA, I fall as asleep while LAF continues working on his Bluetooth. Tomorrow morning we are meeting CharlieVT and his wife for a run through the back roads of Vermont.

[LAF]

Thank you Tracus for taking the time to record our Journey as only you can.

Yep by the time you are done everyone should know the meaning of "The Hits Keep Coming" :p

How much fun we had with CharlieVT and his wife, how there are a "group" of some very pissed off HD riders who were "Doing Laconia Man", that two big assed LT's and a RT broke their ranks and then blew past them like bats out of hell. That CharlieVT can make an LT fly and it is very fun trying to keep up :D

That it is possible to free a hung up camel-back sipping tube at 70 MPH.

That riding in the rain is not that bad, considering sitting in a cabin is the alternative.

Our Wedding buddy and the discussion about that certain meeting at the Mt Washington Hotel and how it shaped the worlds financial market.

KOA cabins are nice.

Ohh but I am way ahead of your tale and will leave it like this.


Of all the people I have meet in my life, I would not want to ride with any one of them more then you.

Your outlook and knowledge, your patience and calmness in adversity, your mass storage of the History and Geography in what areas we ride in, and all the fun we have meeting and talking to people, all make it a great ride.

I am very thankful to have a good, safe, trusted, riding partner who can tolerate me :o

[cealbrecht]

OMG Chris, you should submit your writing to a magazine. I'm on the edge of my seat, waiting to hear about the HD bikers and Mt. Washington.

I seriously believe that your writing could net an extra $500-$1000 from one of the riding magazines. Very entertaining with the sarcasm and wit. But I do appreciate the ability to read it for free, right here on the BMW forums.

Keep the story going.......
Chad

[Tracus]

We wake up at 6, pack our gear and ride into town to meet CharlieVT and his wife at the Royal Chelsea diner for breakfast. CharlieVT has brought a printout from Wikipedia with an answer to my question about Molly Stark. Her only claim to fame is having been married to a Revolutionary general. That’s it? At the least she could have done was to join an artillery battery like Molly Pitcher at the Battle of Monmouth. There must be more to her character than marriage to a general.

CharlieVT and his wife then lead Lee and I north along the Connecticut River and into NH. Our final destination is the small town of Twin Mountain to the northwest of Mount Washington.

Along the way, we pass Wilgus State Park where my best friend, Ray and I camped back in 1977 after climbing Mt. Washington. I tell the story to CharlieVT at one of our rest stops and mention that what I remember most of the park was a large framed photograph of Denali taken by Bradford Washburn. CharlieVT then tells us that there’s an exhibit of Washburn’s work at the visitors center in Crawford Notch. I make a mental note that we should stop there.

After winding up and along the river through beautiful tree lined country roads with views of the Green Mountains we cross into New Hampshire. CharlieVT decides it’s such a nice day that he’ll lead us into the White Mountains and the Kancamagus HWY. We stop for sandwiches at a Subway/gas station in Lincoln, NH and then eat at an overlook along the Kanc, as the locals call it.

There are lots of bikers arriving for the Laconia bike week. Slow, loud Harleys and nervous, twitchy squids along the roads make for an interesting ride. Before we reach Conway, CharlieVT turns left and takes us over Bear Notch. It’s a road he spotted during a recent flight and is interested in checking it out. This is terra incognita for me and LAF, but what the heck; we’re adventurous souls. As LAF says, “This is what separates us from the types of riders who dress like pirates and ride three miles to a local bar.

The road is narrow, tree lined and filled with dips and curves. It’s a great day and a great route. We head east on Route 302 and stop at Crawford Notch. The exhibit for Bradford Washburn is open and we spend almost an hour walking around the gallery looking at the photographs. Washburn was a pioneer in aerial photography as well as an accomplished mountain climber during the 30s and 40s. His equipment was a large format Fairchild K-6 camera weighing 53 pounds, which he would hold while leaning out the door of a single engine plane at 20,000 feet. This is quite a difference from my wife handling a digital SLR while we road through the western national parks last year.

It is one thing to view Washburn’s pictures on line or in a book; it is a totally different experience to see them printed as 3x5 foot images. Should you have the chance to see the exhibit, please do. Washburn died in January of 2007, he was 96.

At this point, some of you may wonder what our philosophy is when we ride. It’s borrowed from authors such as John Steinbeck, Colin Fletcher, Dayton Duncan, William Least Heat Moon with a sprinkling of Mark Twain and Hunter S. Thompson. The less there is between you and the environment, the closer you get to it. But that doesn’t mean whizzing by on your bike at 65 mph. Sometimes you just have to get off and walk down a path to find out what you’ve been missing. Moon says there are plenty of stories in every small American town, you just have to stop and listen. Duncan likes to stop at every historical marker to find out what happened and why it’s worthy of a marker.

We also prefer to find the small diners for eating. Quaint names are okay, but when the owners put their names up on top that’s their reputation. According to Duncan, the number of trucks in the parking lot is no guarantee that the food’s going to be good. It just means this place has a parking lot big enough for an 18-wheeler with a 53-foot trailer. He recommends counting the number of calendars on the walls left by traveling salesmen. I tend to lean toward Malcolm Gladwell and his book “Blink.” He describes a process called “thin-slicing” where we make snap decisions without conscious thought. Those of you who have eaten at enough diners will agree that you can walk into any diner and almost immediately tell whether or not you’re going to get a decent meal at that establishment. If you’ve ridden enough bikes you also know what I’m talking about. Get on a new bike take it for a test ride and you’ve probably already made your decision before you’re out of the dealer’s lot.

At Twin Mountain, CharlieVT and his wife head back to VT while LAF and I head north to the KOA and another Kottage. We are sad to see then go, they have been excellent hosts and LAF and I hope they’ll get down to our neck of the woods so we can return the favor of leading them on some of our favorite rides through Penn’s Woods.

The KOA Kottage is a brand new log cabin with a large bed and two bunk beds. As it turns out a company not too far from where we live in PA builds the Kottages and Kabins. It’s very nice with a full sized bed, a bunk bed, a full bathroom and a small table with stools. The mattresses on the beds are comfortable but there are no linens. Now we’re glad we DID bring sleeping bags, towels, etc. LAF connects to the Wi-Fi and I make coffee with the camp stove. I call my wife and tell her everything’s fine

This is a great campsite. Fairly new, but the sites are well laid out. Privacy fences separate the sites, but they are still fairly far apart. Our campground host, Bruce, who escorted us to the Kottage told us Gorham has a lot of restaurants and is only 25 miles away. He also warns us about a local cop who nails speeders in the area where it’s 40 mph. “That sonofabitch will ticket you if you’re 2 miles over the limit.” He pauses and then adds, “That’s chicken shit!” As the coffee brews I walk down and buy Lee a coffee cup that has a “moose crossing” road sign on it. Donna, Bruce’s wife, confirms my rule that no one drives at night in moose country. I learned this driving across Newfoundland and then the Trans-Labrador Highway. You won’t see the moose until he comes through your windshield. On a motorcycle it is almost always a fatal meeting. LAF likes the mug and the humor, if one can call it that.

We decide to ride to a local restaurant not to far from the resort of Bretton Woods and the entrance to Mt. Washington’s cog railway. In July of 1944, representatives of the allied nations met to establish a world monetary policy that would be enacted at the end of WWII. Mt. Washington’s Cog Railway was the first of its kind in the world. It was completed in 1869, just four years after the end of the Civil War. The steepest pitch of the railway is called “Jacob’s Ladder” and is a 37% incline. How steep is that? Well, if you take the train and stand in the front of the passenger car, when you reach Jacob’s Ladder, you’ll be fifteen feet higher than someone at the back of the car.

After dinner we ride back to the Kottage. We haven’t gone half a mile when we see several cars parked along the opposite shoulder. People are leaning out of their windows and taking pictures. As we pass by, I glance over and see a female moose grazing down in the drainage ditch. LAF and I make a u-turn and stop to look at the moose. Although this one is considerably larger than the white-tailed deer we have in PA, it’s small by moose standards. A mature male can weigh well over half a ton. We’re thankful she’s where she is and not on the road.

It was 185 miles from Brattleboro to Twin Mountain. The weather will determine what we’ll do tomorrow. A long ride up to Canada or perhaps outlet shopping in North Conway. Guess which one we do if it’s raining or sunny?

“Let’s be careful out there.” Phil Esterhaus

[Tracus]

Day three, June 14.


It’s overcast and raining when we wake up. We walk around the campground until they start cooking breakfast on the deck outside the main office. $4.95 for all you can eat – orange juice, pancakes, coffee and bacon. It’s filling, but not the greatest. The batter is pre-mixed and poured from a one-gallon jug. The bacon is pre-cooked. If Wal-Mart offered breakfast to its customers it would be something like this. The coffee, however, is pretty good.

We talk with the owners who are originally from Durbin, South Africa. I complement then one the layout and landscaping of their campground. I haven’t seen anything this nice since my wife and I stayed at the KOA in Great Falls. Montana.

While drinking our coffee after breakfast, I get my riding tutorial from LAF. From his position on my six, he has an excellent opportunity to observe my riding style and offer some constructive criticisms. I am always willing to learn something that improves my riding and probably go toward saving my sorry ass from doing something stupid. I do have one question and it concerns the previous day’s ride coming in New Hampshire with CharlieVT and his wife.

CharlieVT and his wife are on a K1200LT and so is LAF. I’m bringing up the rear on my R1200RT when we came up behind a group of Harley riders who are heading for Laconia. They’re riding in a staggered line, but are doing at least 5 to 10 miles an hour below the posted limit. We slow down and follow this line of loud (and I do mean LOUD) exhausts and riders doing their best to avoid getting their bikes dirty. When there is a short straight section of road, CharlieVT drops the hammer and takes off, LAF is right behind him. CharlieVT clears the group in one move, but LAF doesn’t and works his way through the group by passing, moving into their line and then passing again. From where I sit, it’s like watching a stone skipping across the surface of a lake. I never see any brake lights come on and I take my cue from what LAF is doing.

Years ago I spent a fair amount of time riding a bicycle and working my way up through a pace line of anywhere from 20 to 40 cyclists. I figure the technique is the same except for the fact that I’m riding a 600-pound motorcycle at 55 mph and not riding a 22-pound bike at 20 mph. When I have the opportunity I begin to work my way up through the line of Harleys until I’m finally clear of their group and can catch up to LAF and CharlieVT.
LAF tells me that as long as you signal your intentions and don’t make any sudden or irrational moves, this is how it’s done. However, the assumption is that you are passing a group of experienced riders and they know what to expect.

Another observation LAF makes about my riding is when I approach the crest of a hill, but can’t see what’s coming up from the other side.

“You tend to stay near the center of the road,” he says. “If someone is over the center line and coming at you, you’re done. You should move a bit to the right”

“Well,” I say. “What if there’s a driveway on the right and someone is backing out of it as I come over the top and I’m right of center?” I ask. “What then?”

LAF thinks about this for a moment. “Well, I guess you’re still done.” Yep! Damned if you do and damned if you don’t.


The weather is still crummy, so Lee buys a Sunday paper and we go back to the Kottage. Lee reads and I move photographs around on the laptop. I check the weather on the Internet and see a giant “L” off the coast of Maine. There is a large green blob of bad weather that covers most of New England. No matter where you’re going today, you’re going to get wet.

LAF takes a nap and I do the Sunday crossword puzzle. Finishing the puzzle I read Lewis Carroll’s through the Looking Glass until I nod off. We wake up a little before two. LAF grabs a shower and we decide to take a chance ride over to North Conway. To the west it’s getting sunny. To the east it’s overcast. Of course we ride east straight into overcast skies and light rain. Not much traffic and we arrive in North Conway to window shop after buying some lattes at a local coffee shop.

Walking along the sidewalk we stop and chat with a local proprietor. I’m trying to find a Mexican restaurant that my wife and I ate at several years ago. He says there are only two that he can think of.

“What are their names?” I ask.

He says one name that, although Mexican, doesn’t ring any bells in the memory banks. But when he says, “Café Noche” I reply, “That’s the one.”

He then gives us excellent directions to follow a back road to Conway that avoids the stop and go traffic on the main road. We’re all for that. We realize that the increasing number of retail outlets has helped sustain the economy for New England during the summer months when the ski resorts are closed. However, their growth appears to be unrestrained, like mushrooms sprouting from mulch. Needless to say traffic past these outlet strip malls can be pretty risky as shoppers in overloaded SUVs pull out the lots while their sipping their lattes, yammering on their cell phones and looking for their next bargain center.

Before we head over to Conway and Café Noche we walk past the shops in North Conway. Everybody is having a sale: mountain bikes, climbing gear, canoes, kayaks, and clothing – everything’s on sale. There are still plenty of parking spaces on the main street, the sidewalks aren’t crowded and I haven’t seen a "No Vacancy" sign on any of the hotels or motels. Walking into a few shops, LAF and I discover that it isn’t unusual for us to be the only customers. Even with the bike rally at Laconia, there aren’t that many people in town. It’s either the weather or the economy. Then again, it could be a combination of both. Regardless of the lack of consumer interest in their wares, the sales staff is friendly.

The only store that’s doing a bang up day of business is the general store; it’s packed. It’s the old fashioned type of store that once sold everything from bolts of cloth to canned goods, farming supplies, seeds and shoes. Most of those items have been replaced with knick knacks, gee gaws, what nots and other trendy souvenirs for the tourist trade. There is one area that is still in the original theme and that’s the candy counter. If you can remember some of your old childhood favorites (That is for those of us whose age has passed the half century mark) they have it: licorice pipes, button candy, rock candy and Sugar Daddies, to name a few. I settle for a half pound of white chocolate and LAF goes for the chocolate covered coffee beans. Ah yes, caffeine and sugar, the ultimate motion combination.

We follow our directions out of town and have a quiet ride into Conway where we park across from the Café Noche and go in for a Mexican lunch. My wife has asked me to buy some chipolte sauce if we see this restaurant. I call my wife on the cell phone and ask her which strength I should buy, hot, medium or mild? She wants the medium strength and I tell the waitress to wrap up four bottles. If you like chipolte sauce, this stuff is pretty good. A rich smoky flavor and enough bite to let you know that you’re tasting something good.

When LAF makes a comment about a honey-do list I remind him that he’s talking about the lady who has let me go with him on weeklong rides, three years in a row. LAF responds by asking, “Are you sure four bottles is going to be enough?”

From Conway we retrace our trail back through North Conway with a short stop at L.L. Bean’s outlet where Lee and I buy pillow stuff sacks. They have fleece on one side and nylon on the other. Turn the fleece side out, stuff the bag with soft clothing and voila! Instant pillow.

After topping up our gas tanks we head west through Crawford Notch and are delighted to see the clouds starting to break apart letting the setting sun shine through. The mountains wear gauze caps of mist, the trees glisten with drops of water and the granite cliffs are clearly defined by the sun’s rays. Neither of us has brought a camera, but it’s an image that will probably remain in our minds longer than the memory cards in our cameras.

It’s 8 o’clock when we get back to the Kottage and unwind. It’s been a short day of just over a hundred miles. If the weather holds for tomorrow we are considering a 200-mile loop to the north with the possibility of making a ninety-mile side trip into Quebec. I log onto the Internet and check the weather from NOAA. The giant “L” hasn’t moved. The radar shows a large swirling mass of precipitation over New England.

“What’s the weather say?” LAF asks.

“We’re gonna get wet.”

LAF looks up from where he’s still trying to connect his Bluetooth on his helmet to his iPod, “Man, the hits just keep coming.”

We do a search to see if there are any motorcycle shops in the vicinity that might carry some Bluetooth attachments. LAF is beginning to think there might be a broken wire in the dongle that attaches to his iPod and then pairs with the receiver on his helmet. It doesn’t look promising.

LAF finally gives up and falls asleep. I finally nod off just about the time Tweedle Dee challenges Tweedle Dum to a fight because of a broken rattle. Or maybe it was a broken dongle.



On a side note, the Conestoga Log Cabin Company in Lebanon, Pa., makes these Kottages. It’s a small world. I check the price for the kit to build a Kottage such as the one we are staying in – it’s just under 23,000 dollars. Some assembly is required. I also note on their website that these are KOA approved Kottages. Now that’s approval power.

[Tracus]

Day 4, June 15th

The Auto Road to the summit is closed to cars today; it’s bike week in Laconia and only motorcycles are being allowed on the summit road today. I suppose I should mention a few things: First, Lee and I did not know this is bike week and we’re glad that we are nowhere near Laconia. However, New Hampshire is a small state and the roads are still filled with Harley-Davidsons flashing their chrome, making loud exhaust noises and traveling slowly. After spending so much time polishing their chrome, most owners hate to see it get dirty. As for the sound of their exhausts, LAF has a bumper sticker that reads, “Be seen, not heard.” Second, today’s weather is pretty crummy. It’s rainy and overcast. Third, because of the aforementioned bad weather, they’ve closed the summit road; it’s too muddy at the top.

We spend most of our morning checking the weather forecast and there is a large green blob of bad weather in the Adirondacks moving to the east. This explains the local forecast for rain all day with possible thunderstorms causing, “…hail and locally heavy downpours.” If we aren’t checking the weather we are fussing with our music technology. LAF installed speakers in our helmets and a wireless connection allows us to play our iPods and listen to some tunes while we ride. Trust me, we do not listen to anything loud enough to cancel the sound of oncoming or overtaking vehicles. As an added bonus we have microphones that are supposed to allow us to communicate with each other. Unfortunately, on Friday we did indeed connect our headsets so we could talk, but then we couldn’t hear our music. Even with the microphones turned off we could not connect to the music. I was annoyed. LAF, as the school’s network administrator was more than annoyed. “Pissed off” would be more like it. But then for some reason I did something that allowed me to hear my music, but LAF was still out of luck. Yesterday, my luck ran out – no tunes.


So we have read and re-read the manuals in addition to surfing the net looking for solutions – no joy. We even considered buying new units, but that really wasn’t an option. We tried calling the manufacturer, but they’re in California and it was too early. So it goes.

Since the rain isn’t going to stop until tonight, we decide to go for a ride anyway. Our first destination will be for breakfast. We put our riding gear on and start out. We haven’t gone ten feet when the rain begins to intensify. We stop and put our rain pants on and start out again.

Trying to find a place to eat in northern New Hampshire shouldn’t be that difficult. Well, under normal conditions, it isn’t. But when it’s raining and you’re looking through two layers of Plexiglas (windshield and face shield) covered with rain drops, trying to read a road map through the clear plastic of the tank bag that’s also covered with rain, follow route numbers on the roads, it gets pretty hard to look for signs that say, “Good Eats!” Eventually we find a diner near the small town of Columbia. For the past hour we’ve been riding through heavy rain, light rain, mist and just plain rain. We pull into the parking lot and the irony of the diner’s name doesn’t escape us, “The Hard Times Café.”

There are only two other diners in the café when we enter. The waitress greets us and Lee asks if we can still get breakfast, it’s almost noon.

“Let me check.” She says. She goes through a pair of swinging doors that lead into the kitchen. In a minute she returns and says, “You can still order breakfast and I want to tell you that the sausage is home made.”

We order eggs over easy with toast, home fires and sausage.

“Do you want the patties or links?”

“Which ones are home made?”

“Neither, “ she says. “The sausage gravy is home made.” Now she tells us. We stick to our orders, but LAF has the links and I order the patties. By the time our food arrives, three more bikers and an elderly couple come in for lunch. By the time we leave there are only a few places left empty.

I have read numerous tips on motorcycle tours and have accumulated a lot of gear that experienced riders have found invaluable to making any trip, long or short, to be safer and more enjoyable: maps, charged cell phones, GPS units, riding gear, extra oil, charging units, sun block, eye drops – well the list goes on and on. There is one item that I have rarely seen mentioned in anyone’s packing list – your partner(s). To me this is one of the most critical components to be examined when taking a trip.

Your riding partner can make or break the trip even under the most wonderful or adverse conditions. Having ridden with LAF on two long trips through the Smokies and West Virginia along with numerous day trips having LAF along is as essential as having a full tank, full tires and a full stomach. We’ve ridden through a hallacious downpour in North Carolina and found ourselves changing into rain gear in the carport of a burned out house while rain poured through the roof in a hole big enough for a regulation Brunswick pool table. So we struggled into our gear amidst broken furniture, old mattresses, a defunct propane grill and spare tires as two very expensive touring bikes sat parked in the driveway. We laughed at ourselves and laughed at the irony. Misery may love company, but that doesn’t mean the company should add to the misery. In fact, if it does just the opposite, you may have found that final piece of riding equipment.

We finish our breakfast and continuing riding north along Route 3 toward Colebrook and into a clear patch of sky. Looking up I can see sunshine and blue sky surrounded by dark grey clouds. It’s tempting to think about taking the rain gear off and then continuing north but I remember my friend Brad’s description of these meteorological phenomena. He calls them “sucker holes.” Very aptly named. You may think the weather’s going to clear and just as you get our of your rain gear, the hole will close and you’ll be getting soaked.

A little further and we pass a sign that designates the 45th parallel; we are halfway between the North Pole and the equator. Under ordinary circumstances, if such things exist, I would have a picture of us at the sign, but it’s now raining hard and we push on. I really shouldn’t complain, the only part of me that’s wet is the lower half of my face where I have the face shield open just enough so that it doesn’t fog over when I exhale. We have been flowing the eastern shore of the Connecticut River and should we follow this road, we would eventually reach the three lakes that are the river’s source. They are appropriately named Connecticut Lake 1, Connecticut Lake 2 and Connecticut Lake 3. Very original nomenclature for these parts.

We ride to within twenty-five miles of the Canadian border and read a sign that tells us that this particular border crossing has been closed. It really doesn’t matter; LAF has left his passport back in the Kabin. Yeah, “Those hits just keep coming.”

We turn onto a new route and begin working our way back south. The road twists and curves as we head back to Berlin, NH. It is not pronounced in the Germanic manner, but said as though you we’re using a New York accent to describe what’s happening to water that’s heated to the point of evaporation, “It’s berlin’.”

New Hampshire is not called the “Granite State” for nothing. Small towns surrounded by small family farms. These aren’t the mega-agri-businesses that I’ve seen in Kansas and Missouri, but are the tiny ancestral farms where the headstones in the local cemetery serve as a family tree to anyone willing to take the time the read the names and the dates of births and deaths.

The borders of the farms are delineated by stonewalls that have taken years to build. My father grew up on a farm in Massachusetts that was built by his great grandfather before the Civil War. I remember asking my father why they built walls of stone when wooden fences would have been faster and easier. “Well,” my father answered. “We had to put the stones somewhere before we could plow.”

Along our route south we pass along a lake with a large resort on the opposite shore. I have no idea which resort it is, but it’s worth stopping to take a picture and even take one of LAF and his bike.

**********

http://www.bmwlt.com/gallery/files/1/6/0/7/9/resort.jpg

http://www.bmwlt.com/gallery/files/1/6/0/7/9/lafandrain.jpg

South of Berlin we stop at a Super Wal-Mart in Gorham and visit their reading section. Both of us have already read what we brought. After finding a couple of vacation type reading books (mystery, adventure suspense, etc.), we walk back out to the parking lot. It’s no longer raining and LAF calls the manufacturer of our Bluetooth transmitters. He gives LAF the instructions to fix the problem and I write them down on the back of an envelope. It should be noted that Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address was not written on an envelope. I’m just wondering how it would have looked if he had used Twitter. “80+7 yrs ago r 4fathrs…”

We decide to head back to the Kottage instead of extending out loop ride. Almost immediately it begins to rain harder. Heading west on Route 2 we crest a hill and immediately are met by a state police car heading in the opposite direction. He turns on his blue emergency lights and flashes his headlights at us. I immediately expect him to turn around and pull us over, but he doesn’t; he continues east. The speed limit is 50 and my speedometer reads, a little under 55. I guess we have just been given a New Hampshire visual warning. Later, LAF tells me that at that time his GPS unit said we were doing 53 mph. Talk about your control freaks?! I mean the police, not LAF.

We ride pass the KOA and pull into a local gas station/deli and order two subs and buy some chips and soda. It’s still raining pretty hard. Back at the Kottage, we park the bikes and take off our rain gear. All of our clothing underneath is still dry. We are quite happy with this. When we try the instructions to fix the Bluetooth units, we are even happier when the instructions work and we can now hear some music. We eat our subs and sit outside on the porch discussing religion, politics and solving all the world’s problems. Well, maybe not, but we do feel that the two of us have accomplished something. Let’s not forget that the Bretton Woods resort was the site of the famous International Monetary Conference that was held during WWII. The effects of that conference are still being used today.

LAF reads and I work on the journal. Tomorrow we pack and head east to Freeport, Me. The forecast is for sunny skies and temperatures near 80. It hasn’t been that warm since we left Pennsylvania. It’s less than 150 miles and should take about three hours. It will probably take us twice that long to re-organize our gear and get it back on the bikes. LAF is using an XL duffle from Helen2Wheels to carry his extra gear. I honestly believe he has an F800GS hidden in there.

Oh yeah, check out time is 11 AM. Today’s mileage was about 180 miles. I’m sorry that we only took a few pictures as we rode, but if the weather had been nicer we would probably still be out on the road.

http://www.bmwlt.com/gallery/files/1/6/0/7/9/koakabin.jpg

“When the rain comes, they run and hide their heads.”
John Lennon and Paul McCartney

[macman56]

I live and ride in this part of the world and am enjoying your reports. You will be underwhelmed by Freeport, but if you can, drive down to So. Freeport and try the Harraseeket Lobster restaraunt.
I hope that you swing through western Maine on your trip...it is by far the best riding.
Bon Voyage...

[Tracus]

Harraseeket? Been there, ate there - twice. Once in 2007 and once on this trip. Wait until you read Day 4's account. Thanks for the input and western Maine is on my bucket list.

Chris

[LAF]

Yep, wrestled with a 2.75 LB lobster sitting inside watching the boats with one eye and making sure that big son of a gun don't twitch a claw :histerica

Even put up the deposit for two claw crackers for Tracus and I :rotf:

And being the men we are, how could we leave until we had a i scream cone. We also had the most enjoyable conversation with this couple that I don't remember a lot of
(maybe because of lobster and i scream Euphoria) other then they appreciated the refinement of our bikes and just were truly nice people.

Newport was fine and the cottages quaint, the owner even more of a pleasure.

I hope Tracus remembers and touches on the re modelers of a cottage, the flooring we saw that was milled for a barter, that I don't remember the details of, but I know I would have killed for that flooring, truly exquisite, and of course the One Tree Cottage :compute:

The owner and some equally nice relative, and their pretty extraordinary efforts to accommodate a guest while they went through the stages of remodeling :clapping:

Man what fun it is to meet people and have great fun with them and know you may never meet again, but you got that moment etched, burned really, into what good brain cells you have left.

After 50 "down hill quick" my ass. 53 has brought me a greater amount of freedom to experience beyond my comfort zone and also when I push The Fuckit Button. I also am more open to others and appreciate when a stranger gives me their time.

I will talk to anyone who wants to now, and especially while traveling. Tracus and I talked to a LOT of great people and a lot of them helped us in directions, excursions, food recommendations (Bar Harbor), and take a 300 mile ride with us (Thank You CharlieVT and your beautiful wife), and so much more you get from a smile and conversation. As I get to travel a bit more by bike, and especially on a BMW for an ice breaker, the experiences seem to get better each time.

I know I liked the area well enough that I would do it again, as long as Laconia Bike Week was not there, and there was at least a 50/50 on the rain I would do it in a heart beat :)

[Busajets]

This is getting to be like the Harry Potter series.....

When is the next one coming out??

Truly memorable ride tales being told by someone with a gift for writing. I look forward to the next post.


I get to ride a couple times a year with my father and 2 brothers. I wish I had the skills to put the rides down on paper the way Tracus does. The closest I get is to get all the pictures taken adn set them up in a slide show to music. Just not quite the same.

[Tracus]

Prologue:

I suffer from wanderlust. Well, perhaps I should say that I do not suffer, but rather am afflicted with that particular syndrome that has many of us hitting the road with no set destination in mind; it is the journey that matters. Growing up in Virginia and upstate New York, it was not unusual for my father the pack the whole family into our station wagon and take us for a ride. There was never any place we were going to; it was the thrill of traveling. He would drive us through the country with nothing more in mind than to see what was around the next bend or over the next hill.

In college, I inherited my older brother’s Honda 50 Cadet. My best friend rode a Vespa 90 and we wasted many a weekend or evening riding those bikes all over central Pennsylvania. After college my brother reclaimed his bike and I would not have another motorcycle until I was 50 and purchased a used Honda Nighthawk 750. I couldn’t wait to take my first road trip. I loaded the side bags and top case and rode up to Elmira, NY and traveled along the country roads that my father had taken us on so many years ago. But it wasn’t enough; I wanted a real motorcycle – a BMW!

I’m not sure why I was infatuated with the Beemers. I remember driving on Route 22 in Pennsylvania when I was passed by four BMWs. They were stripped down Ks with no fairings, but each one had a tank bag and the rider wore racing leathers. They cruised by without a sound and I had to check that I wasn’t hitting my brakes because they went by as though I was parked on the shoulder. I looked at my wife and said, “Those are motorcycles. Anything else is just a motorized, two-wheeled vehicle.” I suppose I could attribute my desire to Robert Pirsig’s “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.” However, I must also give credit to others such as Lewis & Clark, Mark Twain, Jack Kerouac, and Paul Theroux.

After two years I traded in the Nighthawk and bought an ’02 R1150RS and rode across Pennsylvania and down into the southern coal regions of West Virginia. In 2007, LAF, on a Harley Road Glide joined me for a week’s worth of riding in central West Virginia. Less than a month after our return he called me to say he bought a K1200LT. Shortly after that I traded in the RS for an ’06 R1200RT. I remember leaving the British RS bulleting board and having a member send me a message saying, “The RT is nothing but an RS in drag.”

LAF and I did a fair number of day trips together in central Pennsylvania and in 2008 we spent a week riding through the Smokies from our base camp in North Carolina. This year it’s New England.

Day 5:

It’s a short ride to Freeport, Maine from Twin Mountain, New Hampshire. Well, a three-hour ride is short for motorcycle rides. We take our time getting packed; say our farewells to the KOA managers and head south to Lincoln where we find a place for breakfast and then head east along the Kancamagus Highway. As we begin to leave Lincoln I look back and see LAF pull into a drugstore parking lot. “Oh yeah.” I remember. “He did say something about stopping at a drugstore.” I pull into the parking lot for a bank and wait for LAF. As I wait I watch pack after pack of Harleys roar out of town to ride the Kanc. I am using the word “roar” in its literal form. They are LOUD! I’m sure the locals appreciate the economic stimulus to their coffers, but how they tolerate the noise level is beyond me. I like the bumper stock on LAF’s bike, “Be seen, not heard.”

The only interruption to the “potato-potato-potato” throbbing of the Harleys is the occasional high-speed whine of a crotch rocket screaming out of town. It is the sound of a very angry hornet, hopped up on methamphetamines, trapped in a coffee can and held close to your ears. Every now and then one pops a wheelie as he passes the cruisers. “Well, there’s no fun in being brain dead if you can’t show it.” I have to chuckle when I remember what my wife tried to call these bikes. Somewhere along the line she got confused by “rice-burners” and “crotch rockets.” After being passed by one on an afternoon ride she leaned forward and yelled, “Was that a crotch burner?” I laughed so hard I had to pull over and stop.

I see LAF pull out of the drugstore parking lot and we head east, up into the mountains and then down into Conway. We stop at several overlooks and take the obligatory pictures before moving on.

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We pick up Route 302 and cross into Maine. The weather is fairly nice and we make pretty good time until we pass Sebago Lake and begin to hit tourist and business traffic. From Portland, ME we head north on I-295 until we pass Freeport. From there we exit onto Route 1 and continue a few short miles to the Maine Idyll Motor Court. My wife and I had stayed at here two years ago.

This is one of the classic roadside motels from the 30s. There is a main building that houses the office and the owner’s family. The rooms are not rooms, but are small cottages. Some are rather Spartan with just beds a table and a bathroom. LAF and I have decided to splurge. Our cottage has two queen-sized beds, a small kitchenette, a full bath, a tiny porch, air conditioning and a fireplace.

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LAF and I prefer this type of accommodation. In Cass, WV we stayed in a refurbished company home that was used by loggers who worked here from the 1920s until the late 1960s when Cass became a state park. Last year we stayed in my RV parked in a campground outside of Franklin, NC. Sitting outside we have the opportunity to relax, drink a few beers and get to know the neighbors and other fellow travelers. Besides, when was the last time you stayed in a Motel 6 and said, “Let’s build a campfire in the hall and meet the other guests?”

In spite of its spacious floor plan, it doesn’t take too long for LAF and I to occupy every square inch of surface space with side bags, duffle bags, riding gear and helmets. Every outlet is now plugged with some sort of electronic device: iPods, cell phones, laptops, GPS units, Bluetooth devices, etc. There are enough glowing LEDs in the cottage that it looks more like a cross between Spencer’s Gifts and a Radio Shack than a motel cottage from the 1930s. My best friends and I refer to this behavior as sprawling. I compliment LAF on his ability to achieve a ten out of ten on the Sprawl ratings.

“How’d I pull that off?” he asks.

“Well, we’ve even managed to put stuff on the mantelpiece over the fireplace.” Sure enough, any flat surface in the cottage is occupied by something of ours, even the top of the microwave. I have my laptop sitting there being charged.

After a quick wash up, and we gear up and ride into Freeport, the land of L.L. Bean. For those of you who have never been to Freeport, it’s an interesting town. You can find just about every imaginable retail outlet there is: Timberland, North Face, Clark’s Shoes, etc. Then there are the small shops catering to those who desire one of a kind items such as antiques or works from local artisans. There are also the trendy tourist shops that seems to cater to those whose political views are somewhat left of center or perhaps just plain liberal. One such shop is “Cool As a Moose” where LAF spots a t-shirt with the cartoon of an alarmed lobster about to be lowered into a kettle of boiling water. The caption reads, “Just say ‘No!’ to pot.” Finally, there is the centerpiece to Freeport and that is the mammoth structure containing the world of L.L. Bean.

Another fascinating thing about Freeport is the zoning ordinance on buildings; they must fit the time period. The usual flashy neon, metal and plastic of a McDonald’s is cleverly hidden inside a white-framed clapboard house. Even the Friendly’s looks as though it’s someone’s house on the corner of a street intersection. The signs on the front yard give their names, but the script and font looks as though it could just as easily say, “Ye Olde Inn of Good Eats and Drinks.” If you look closely at the windows, you might see a familiar logo. The townspeople are to be congratulated for this policy.

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Any child with a love of the outdoors was fascinated by L.L. Bean. The arrival of a catalog from Bean’s was an invitation to wander the aisles of the store without leaving one’s home. Hours and even days could be spent looking at clothing, fishing gear, boots and camping equipment. Those images on glossy paper were the golden tablets to the faithful adherents to Bean. But to actually go there? To go to Freeport and actually wander through the store? Now that was the ultimate pilgrimage.

I made my first pilgrimage back in 1976 returning from a trip to Nova Scotia. The Bean store was pretty much an oversized barn with lots of merchandise and an incredible bargain basement. I remember the sign at the entrance, “Open 24 hours a day, seven days a week.”

The new store occupies almost an entire block. The parking area out back is bigger than the original store and parking lot combined. The street in front has parking spaces reserved for tour busses. There are separate buildings for the larger sports such as canoeing and cycling. Down from the main store they are constructing a new building to house their bargains.

LAF and I park in the back lot and enter the store. The door handles are miniature canoe paddles. As we enter I point at the doors and ask LAF if he notices anything unusual about them.

“No locks.” He says.

“That’s right. This store never closes.

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It isn’t too far into the store and we find the glass case holding a pair of original Bean boots. It was with these rubber-soled boots that L.L. got his start. He wanted to make a pair of boots that could withstand Maine’s environment and not keep the customer warm and dry, but satisfied. The rest, as they say, is history. People walk up to the case and look at the boots with a sense of wonder. A holy relic in a Catholic cathedral would be hard-pressed to draw a larger crowd.

We don’t spend too much time in the store. It’s getting close to suppertime and we are pretty hungry. We visit the Timberland shop where the salesclerk answers my question on the local economy. I haven’t seen that many people on the sidewalks and the parking lots are relatively empty. In fact, LAF and I are the only people in the Timberland store. He tells me that business usually doesn’t pick up until the end of June; but even then, they’re hoping for a strong contingent of Canadians to visit and leave their currency behind.

We revisit “Cool As a Moose.” We ask directions to find the Harraseeket Lobster restaurant. The two young ladies at the Moose are cheerful and happy, but have no idea where the restaurant is. Finally, we get directions and head back to our bikes to ride on in our quest to devour Homaridae, our favorite crustacean to be boiled, cracked open, its flesh removed, dipped in butter, swallowed and washed down with something cold and wet. I’ve been riding with a rubber lobster strapped to the Camelbak ever since we left Pennsylvania.

Our school’s secretary recommended the Harraseeket. When she showed me the picture of the restaurant I remembered that my wife and I had eaten there two years ago; I just couldn’t remember the name. Even worse, I had forgotten how to get there which is why we were asking everyone we met for directions. Simply stated, the Harraseeket is not on the main street, nor is it in Freeport; it’s in South Freeport right on the docks where the lobsters go right from the boats to the tanks to the pots and your table. They don’t get any fresher than that.

The Harraseeket is a bit confusing to the first timers. There is a large, outside dining area with picnic tables under a huge blue and white striped awning. There is a window where you place your orders. But this is only for those ordering lobster rolls, fried clams, sandwiches, French fries, etc. A few feet to the left of this ordering window is a door leading into a dining room. This is where you eat whole lobsters. But this is not where you order the lobsters. To order a lobster dinner you have to walk around to the other side of the building to another window. It is a narrow path between the building and the edge of the wharf. One misstep and you can find yourself swimming.

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At the lobster window there is a listing of the various sizes of lobsters and the combination dinners that can be ordered. A middle-aged woman wearing the restaurant’s T-shirt leans over an electronic scale and asks us what we’ll have. Behind her are the large tanks containing live lobsters. Amidst the noise of water pumps, compressors, filters and boiling water it’s hard to hear what she’s asking. It’s even harder for her to understand what we’re ordering. I go for the Fisherman’s Dinner of a small lobster, a dozen steamed clams and an ear of corn. LAF wants a larger lobster.

“How big?” she yells.

“I just rode all the way up from Pennsyltucky,” LAF yells back. “What do you think?”

She laughs and hollers, “So, you want a big one?”

LAF nods his head and the lady walks back to the row of tanks. They’re labeled small, medium and large. She takes a long handled dipping net and scoops a lobster out of the medium tank. She shows it to LAF who shakes his head.
She smiles and yells, “Okay! I’ll get you a good sized lobster.” She dips the net into the tank and manages to latch onto one. As she lifts the net, I notice the handle is bending. It’s a good-sized lobster and LAF nods his head.

She brings it over to the scales and it weighs over two and a half pounds. LAF also orders a dozen clams while the lobster rests on the scales wondering, “WTF?” LAF reaches through the window and pets the lobster’s carapace.

“I suppose you’re going to give him a name?” I ask.

LAF looks back at me and grins, “Yep! I’m going to name him ‘Dinner.’”

After paying we walk into the dining area and grab a table near the entrance. Set into the back wall is yet another window where we will pick up our orders. Above the window is a sign that says, “$1.00 deposit for crackers.” I’m thinking oyster crackers for chowder until LAF makes a squeezing gesture with his hand. Ah yes, nutcrackers for breaking open the claws. I walk up to the window and give the lady two dollars and pick up two heavy, metal crackers. I also order a couple of sodas.

Our numbers are called and we are handed our trays of lobsters, small plastic bowls of melted butter and clams and bowls of rinse water for the clams. There’s very little conversation between the two of us as we dig, tear and rend our way through the lobsters. There is no polite or delicate way to eat lobsters; it is harsh, brutal and damn good fun.

As we are almost finished eating, well, I am; LAF is still working on his monster, I get up and look at a large poster detailing the art of lobstering. I cannot ignore the irony that today; lobsters are within the realm of high priced dining. That hasn’t always been the case. When my grandmother grew up in Nova Scotia before WWI she was embarrassed to tell her friends that her family ate lobsters and that she had to take lobster roll sandwiches to school. Lobsters were trash fish, they were bottom feeders and only the poor ate them. My how times have changed.

I’m walking back to LAF when a husband and wife enter the dining area. They are casually dressed and lack all the characteristics of being tourists. The husband looks at me and then at LAF.

“Based on the way you two are dressed, you must own those BMWs outside.”

I am tempted to give a smart-ass reply that there are only two motorcycles outside and two people inside with helmets on the seats next to them. Ergo – they must be motorcyclists. Instead, I laugh and say, “Gee! I didn’t know there was a dress code for people who ride BMWs.” He pauses and then laughs.

This leads to one of my segues in journalistic writing and I apologize. But, I wonder if there isn’t some grant money available to conduct a sociological study on bikes and their owners based on their attire. When LAF rode his Harleys, it was leather jacket, Doc Martens and chaps. Now, it’s touring boots, Olympia Motor Sports Air Glide jacket and pants. So – Aerostich one-piece suit? Upper end touring bike. Leathers with patches, pins and embroidery? Harley, or Harley wannabe. Helmet, T-shirt, cut-offs and sneakers? Crotch rocket.

The rest of our evening is spent talking with this couple about travels and motorcycles. It even continues outside in the parking area where we have double-dipped ice cream cones. Oh yeah, you have to order your ice cream from a different window outside and they only serve double scoops.

It has been a most enjoyable evening as we don our helmets and head back to our cottage. It’s late when we arrive, but I still find time to check the weather on the Internet. In spite of its quaintness and age, The Maine Idyll has Wi-Fi. The forecast looks promising. The giant “L” still hangs off the coast but it looks as though we’ll have clear skies for tomorrow. If it’s a sucker hole, it’s going to be open for at least twenty-four hours.

Tomorrow’s agenda will be a ride up the coast to Acadia National Park and Bar Harbor. But first, we’ll have breakfast at the Brunswick diner.

[Tracus]

Who's Harry Potter? Just kidding. It's Hagrid I like, he rides a motorbike in the first movie.

Thank you for the compliments. There are two more days of riding in New England and then our trip home followed by an epilogue. However, I might dig into the memory banks and submit the travels that LAF and I did in 2007 to West Virginia and 2008 to North Carolina.

You are most fortunate to be able to ride with your father and brothers.

Godspeed

[Tracus]

Here it is! The long awaited newest installment. Note to Ted Shred - don't merge this episode because others may not go back to the original merge to see if there's anything new.

Thanks, Chris

Day 6 – Bar Harbor and Acadia

LAF and I have an unwritten rule about places to eat while traveling – no arches, no clowns, no scary kings and no girls with red pigtails. We seek the ultimate road fare that rivals anything Alton Brown ever found while “Feasting on Asphalt.” There are a few simple requirements for finding such places.
1. Does it look like a diner?
2. Is it a modern replica or, an original held together with duct tape?
3. Does the sign look hand painted?
4. Is the parking lot filled with vehicles that have local plates? (If you’re in Maine, or any other state for that matter, and all of the vehicles in the lot are from out of state – go somewhere else. Seriously, if you want local fare, go where the locals go.)
4. Does your cholesterol level jump 40 points when you walk inside?

Of course there are some finer points. If you walk in and everyone stops what they’re doing to look at you, this could be a good sign. They’re looking to see if you’re one of the regulars. If the waitresses are calling or greeting customers by their names, that’s another good sign. It means they’re regulars. If the interior is filled with a variety of souvenirs and odd knick-knacks, welcome! By that I mean the Elvis pendulum clock with his legs and hips swinging back and forth. Is there a poster of James Dean, Marlon Brando or Marilyn Monroe? Are the daily specials written on a blackboard? Can you see into the kitchen? These are all very good signs.

But if you walk in and the waitress looks at you and says, “Sit wherever you want. You want coffee?” You nod your head and find two empty stools at the counter. She has coffee in front of you before you even get your jacket off, smiles, hands you two menus and greets three more customers, by name as they enter. If all of that happens to you, you’re at the Brunswick Diner in Brunswick, Maine.

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It doesn’t take LAF and me too long to figure out that we are in the presence of a master server. Doris is handling everyone inside the diner plus those who are sitting at the outside tables. She is taking orders, serving meals, bussing tables and keeping up conversations with three regular customers; she doesn’t miss a beat.

The interior can best be described as “Diner Kitsch.” There are antique napkin dispensers on the tables and counter. Metal tins with red sides that have the old style Coca-Cola script on them. There are posters of James Dean and Marilyn Monroe. At the far end is an old Wurlitzer Juke Box that is trimmed in the lighted tubes with bubbles flowing through them. The red, upholstered stools are trimmed in chrome. Yep! This is where the food is going to be “just right.” Just right means it is a meal that is going to fill you up and stay with you for a few hours. There is no extra charge for the grease. In fact, our breakfast contains the five major food groups: sugar, salt, preservatives, fat and cholesterol.

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As we eat breakfast we catch bits and pieces of conversations between Doris and the other patrons. The topics range from the economy, to places to see, the weather and how much Doris won when she took a trip to a casino.

Before we leave, LAF and I visit the bathroom to pay the rent on the coffee. Remember, you can never buy a cup of coffee, you can only rent it. LAF goes first and comes back with a big grin on his face. He tells me to check the urinal. Now this may seem a bit weird, but I spent most of last summer analyzing urinals from Pennsylvania to Idaho and came to the conclusion that there is obviously no industry standard with regard to these porcelain receptacles. They are too high, too low, or spaced too close together. Some have handles, others have buttons and a few have electronic eyes that detect when you are leaving and flush automatically. Walk into any men’s room and you may have to stand on tiptoe or genuflect to relieve yourself of excess bodily fluid. Once again there has to be some grant money available for a true study to be conducted. Anyway, the Brunswick Diner has put a fitting end to their urinal; they’ve turned it into a planter. The proof is in the accompanying photograph.

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After paying for breakfast, LAF and I head for the door and I comment that we have to make a left turn out of the diner in order to get onto the highway north. Doris is quick to not only hear us, but to tell us that if we go out the back entrance to the diner and ride behind the tobacco store we can turn right and come to a traffic light. There’s no need to risk our necks making a left out of the lot. Now that’s service!

Our route is pretty straight forward: I-95 north to Augusta, then Routes 202/3 east and then continue on Route 3 to Ellsworth and on into Acadia National Park and Bar Harbor. The weather is absolutely gorgeous. The skies are blue with white clouds and a mild temperature to go with it. The traffic is fairly light and we make pretty good time as we head north. Again I take point and LAF is on my six. I am really getting annoyed with the stock mirrors on the RT. They’re great if I want to admire my elbows or to see if my zipper’s down, but for checking what’s behind me I have to lean out to the left or right. At times it seems that LAF is playing peek-a-boo with me. I see him and then I don’t.
Every now and then he pulls up beside me and grins. I’m fairly new to this riding side-by-side manner but our ride through New York got me out of the rookie stage real fast. Somewhere along the way the hose to my Camelbak had come free and was now hanging down behind my right shoulder. I tried several times to reach over with my left hand, but just couldn’t reach it. LAF saw immediately what I was trying to do and pulled up next to me. Cautiously he slowly edged over and then used his left hand to try and flip the hose back over my shoulder. It didn’t work and I’m sure anyone behind us thought we were pretending to be a fighter jet and a tanker doing a mid-air refueling maneuver. Scooting down a highway at 70 mph, while someone is next to you on another motorcycle slapping your right shoulder is most interesting. This should not be attempted at home!

South of Augusta we pick up Route 3 and begin working out way east. Near Searsport we actually have a few fleeting glimpses of Penobscot Bay. If you’re looking for a long road that goes right along the coast, you need to go to Nova Scotia or head west to California, Oregon and Washington.

At Ellsworth we finally turn south and after a few miles, enter Acadia National Park. As we approach the entrance I pull out my wallet from my tank bag. It still has my season’s pass from last year and it’s still valid. I show it to the ranger and then tell him that I’ll also pay for the rider behind me. He leans out his window, looks at LAF and then tells me, “You’re in luck. We’re having a special today; two motorcycles for the admission of one. Come on in and have a great visit.” As LAF would say, “The hits keep coming.”

Acadia National Park was originally named Lafayette National Park when President Wilson signed it into law in 1919. It was the first national park east of the Mississippi. Ten years later the name was changed to Acadia.

Whereas most people will connect national parks to people like John Muir or Teddy Roosevelt, it should be noted that those two men were not the creators of the more than 50 national parks that exist today. Case in point is Acadia National Park and its founder, George Dorr. Most people will equate Acadia with the rich and famous such as: Rockefellers, Morgans, Fords, Vanderbilts, Carnegies, and Astors, but it was Dorr who put it all together.

It is true that much of the land that the park now holds was donated or bequeathed by the rich and famous, which can lead to two very interesting theories. The first is that these people were at the forefront of a massive philanthropic movement and wanted others to share in their wealth. For example, the stone bridges on the Rockefeller carriage paths are all unique and beautiful works of art. Why be selfish? Let others enjoy what you have. The second theory would be that these large donations were nothing more than attempts to assuage the guilt these rich people had after realizing what they had done to the poor and downtrodden to achieve what only a few were ever going to have. Take your pick.

Shortly after entering the park we pull into a scenic overlook, which offers a great view into Bar Harbor. Sailing across the bay we see a large, four-masted schooner with bright red and white striped sails. Tied up at the dock we can see the bow of the Fast Cat ferry that makes the scheduled run over to Yarmouth, Nova Scotia. This is a twin-hulled ferry capable of reaching 50 knots. My wife and I have ridden a similar vessel from North Sydney, Nova Scotia to Port au Basques, Newfoundland. It’s pretty amazing to be on a ship hauling cars, trucks, motorcycles and passengers and going fast enough that you could water ski behind it. There is no topside deck or promenade on this ferry. If you think you can take a stroll on the deck of this ferry, consider standing on the roof of your car while it’s traveling at 55 mph!

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As we take pictures a large Gold Wing pulls in and parks. It’s a mother and son riding up from Pennsylvania. He’s in his forties and mom is easily in her late sixties. The two of them are having a blast.

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Our first route is to take the auto road to the summit of Cadillac Mountain. We stops several times to take pictures and eventually make it to the summit where we park, dismount and walk around. LAF asks in which direction is the ocean. “Well, technically,” I say. “It’s all around us because Acadia National Park is on an island. But if you want to look toward the Atlantic, you need to look toward the south. Looking east is the mouth of the Bay of Fundy and just beyond that is Yarmouth, Nova Scotia. But on a day like today, you can damn near see all the way to tomorrow.”

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We spend a few more minutes walking around, taking pictures and watching a large group of tourists follow a park ranger on a guided tour. If we had the time, it would be worth our while to tag along and learn a few things about the history, geology, flora and fauna of this park.

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But we still need to finish our tour of the park, have supper in Bar Harbor and then ride back to Freeport. As we descend the mountain we pass the mother and her son on the Wing.

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The loop ride around the park finally delivers what we’ve been after – lots of views of ocean, steep cliffs pocketing granite coves where lobster buoys dot the water like scattered pieces of penny candy. At one roadside pull-off, LAF and I park the bikes and walk out to the edge of the cliffs to take in the view. We are admiring the view and the multi-colored lobster buoys when a young couple starts telling us about lobsters. They seem to know quite a bit and when we ask where they acquired this knowledge they tell us that they went out with a lobsterman that morning.

“Do you mean that they take tourists?”

“Yep.” They answer. “It was great! We left early this morning and he told us all about lobstering, how lobsters mature, when they mate, how often the traps have to be checked. It was a real education. In fact, he even let us haul some of the traps on board his boat.”

“And you paid for this?” we ask.

“Yep! It was well worth it.”
Somewhere, Mark Twain and Tom Sawyer are having a great laugh. This is economics at its best. Not only will the tourists pay to eat your lobster, they will pay to watch you catch the lobsters and if you’re good enough, you can even get them to do the work for you. Even if you haul up empty traps, you’ve still made a profit. Yankee ingenuity at its best!

It’s a short ride into Bar Harbor and we find a place to park the bikes just a few blocks up from the main street. We have just taken our helmets off when a pedestrian pauses and says in a loud and firm voice, “You two couldn’t have picked a better day to come here. We’ve had nothing but lousy weather for the past two weeks. Today it’s absolutely gorgeous and you two decided to visit today. Fantastic! I hope you have a great visit.”

We thank him and he walks up the street and then crosses and gets into his car. LAF and I have just taken our jackets off when he stops in the middle of the street and rolls his window down. “You two are probably looking for a place to eat.”

We nod our heads.

“Well, just up the street there’s the Whale’s Tale which has pretty good pub fare if you like beer and good sandwiches. My and my friends usually have lunch there. In fact, you can see it from here.”

He points down the street. Sure enough, we can see a sign that says, “Whale’s Tale.” For the functionally illiterate, there’s even a painting of a whale’s tale on the sign.

We thank him and expect him to drive off, but he doesn’t. He looks down the street and then back over at us. Fortunately, there is no one behind him, because he never checks his mirror.

“Come to think of it,” he says. “You probably want seafood, right?”

Again we nod our heads. We probably look like a pair of bobble heads standing next to our motorcycles.

“Well, let me think,” he says. Before he can continue, I suggest that he pull into the side street behind us before he causes a traffic jam. He does and LAF and I walk up to the driver’s door.

“Okay, you can get pretty good seafood just a few blocks from here and it has a nice view of the water. I expect you two came all the way here to see the water.”

LAF and I are twin bobble heads again.

“Go to the end of the street, turn left and you can’t miss it. It’s a bit pricey, but you do pay for the view. Know what I mean?”

Bobble bobble.

“‘Course if you want good food at a good price, there’s the Poor Boy Gourmet. Great food and great prices. It used to be a house, but it’s now a restaurant and it just opened. Can’t see the water, but the food’s good. Just go to the end of the street and turn right. Follow the signs for the hospital. It’ll be on your left. Got it?”

This time we actually talk and say “Thanks” as we bob our heads. As he drives away he waves and again wishes us to have a great visit.

I look at LAF and say, “If that man doesn’t work for the Chamber of Commerce I’ll buy you dinner.” LAF declines to take me up on that wager. We agree that we’ve seen enough of the ocean for today and so we decide on the Poor Boy Gourmet. It’s a ten-minute walk to the restaurant and when we enter through what was once the door to a screened in veranda we are told by the hostess that it might be a ten to fifteen minute wait. We say that’s fine and are thinking of sitting on a bench outside when the owner shows up and asks if it’s just the two of us. We nod our heads. (We are going to have to take this bobble head thing on tour).

“I can take you right now,” she says. She grabs two menus and escorts us to the second floor. Within minutes of being seated, we are sipping a couple of fine beers and perusing the menu. LAF orders the lobster fra diavolo, lobster over linguini with a spicy tomato sauce. Being considerate of my digestive system, I opt for the lobster Brandoni, lobster smothered in crab and shrimp stuffing and then baked. Both meals are excellent and the service is friendly and prompt.

Okay, so much for the AAA reviews. On with the tour. Walking back through town we spot another Cool As a Moose shop and LAF goes in to see if they have a “Say ‘No’ to Pot” T-shirt in his size. They do and he’s a happy camper. At a liquor store I find a bottle of Wild Turkey’s “Rare Breed” bourbon. Now I’m a happy camper.

There’s a lot more foot traffic on the sidewalks of Bar Harbor than we saw in either Conway or Freeport. I rarely see an empty parking space as we walk down the main street. The shops, restaurants and cafes are all pretty busy. I’m happy to see that at least one town in New England appears to be weathering the economy.

Walking past the entrance to the town’s movie theatre we hear someone yelling and whistling at us. We turn around and again it’s the mother-son combo. They are on the hunt for ice cream. LAF and I are heading back to Freeport.

The ride back to the cabin/cottage is pretty uneventful. We take a slightly different route from our trip up and only have one moment of concern when we follow signs to one of our routes. It has us turn right, then left, then left again and finally we end up turning right back onto our original route. The state of Maine’s Department of Transportation is playing games with us. I don’t mind getting misdirected during the day when I’m wide-awake. It’s another thing when it’s dark and I’m tired. It’s also unsettling to watch the bars on the fuel gauge slowly drop toward “E”, which in theory, means there’s “Enough” gas to get to the next station. Fortunately, we find an open gas station and top off the tanks before making the final fun back to Freeport.

Finally, we get to the Maine Idyll, unload our souvenirs and have a nightcap while sitting on the front porch. We check the weather forecast for tomorrow – rain! What a surprise.

[Tracus]

For those of you who have been following the story, the latest episode "Day 6" is now on Ride Tales.

[Busajets]

:bmw: :bmw:

[Tracus]

It’s overcast and a light rain is falling when we wake up. There are sounds of construction coming from the cottage across the drive from ours. One of the pleasures of being on vacation and traveling is having the opportunity to watch other people work. LAF and I fill our coffee mugs and walk over to see what’s happening. The owner of the Maine Idyll is supervising the new addition to one of the cottages. One of the advantages of working during the summer is taking the time to stop working and answer questions from traveling tourists.

He steps down from the porch of the cottage and brushes drywall dust from his shirtsleeves. I recognize him from two years ago and mention that after our stay in 2007, there was no doubt where we would stay if we ever returned to Freeport. He appreciates the compliment and begins to tell us the evolution of this current project.

“Well, it started as just a small expansion to the cottage, but when we saw what we were getting into, we decided to just add a whole new room making it a two-bedroom cottage. We’re a bit under the gun right now because the first guests to reserve this cottage are going to be here in six days.”

Being under the gun doesn’t seem to deter him from giving us the cook’s tour of what this construction project has required. Outside he shows us where Maine’s famous bedrock is now doing double duty as part of the foundation to the new addition. Inside he takes us to the back room where LAF and I admire a large stack of beautiful oak, tongue and groove flooring.

“We struck a deal with a local mill and he did the planing and shaping for us.” LAF and I run our hands over the boards. The surfaces are sanded smooth and the corners are sharp enough to cut your fingers if you press down too hard. There is also the wonderful aroma of quality lumber waiting to be used by craftsmen who know what they’re doing.

We step out onto the porch and point out a robin’s nest built above a wall mounted exterior light. LAF and I have been watching the mother fly to the nest to feed her young when the workmen are inside.

The owner tells us the whole story. “Originally, she built the nest inside the living room when the windows were removed and the ceiling joists were exposed. When we saw there were eggs in the nest we built a small shelf above the porch light and relocated the nest. Doesn’t seem to have bothered Mom, ‘cause she came back to the nest, hatched the eggs and now she’s feeding them.”
Since he’s in a talkative mode, LAF and I press our initiative. This is where it isn’t a matter of asking questions; it’s how you word the question. For example, if you’re looking for a good place to eat, don’t ask, “Where’s a good place to eat?” The assumption will be that you’re a tourist and you’ll end up eating at a restaurant with a bunch of other tourists who will no doubt find out where you’re from and say, “Oh, you’re from Harrisburg, PA? I have a cousin in Pittsburgh, maybe you know her.”

The correct question to any local proprietor, or resident, should be worded thusly, “If you were going out for breakfast, lunch or dinner, (Take your pick.) where would you go?” I can almost guarantee that you’ll be eating with the regulars and locals.

Using this strategy, I try a slight variation to the line of questioning. (My godmother always thought I would have made a great lawyer). “If you had the day off and wanted to take a scenic ride, where would you go?”

He doesn’t ride a motorcycle, but he has a pretty good idea what we’re looking for.

“Well,” he answers. “You could take a ride up toward the White Mountains in New Hampshire.”

LAF and I shake our heads. We are expanding our repertoire of being bobble heads. “That’s where we were for three days.”

He thinks for a while, puts his hands in his pockets and tips his head back. Slowly he lowers his head and looks at us, “You could head south and ride around Sebago Lake.”

LAF and I shake our heads again. “We have lakes in Pennsylvania.”

He now realizes that he is dealing with a pair of serious, scenic riders. “Well, if it was me, I’d drive up to Owls Head and visit the transportation museum. It’s well worth the trip. You don’t get to see much of the coastline, but it is a pretty ride and the museum is really good.”

When I ask how far north, he tells us it’s about 70 miles. “Is it above Pemaquid Point?” He nods his head. “Perfect!” I say. I explain to LAF that Pemaquid Point is the typical seaside image people have when they think of Mane’s coastline. “Lighthouse, cliffs, surf crashing onto rocks, what more could you want?”

“Breakfast,” he answers.

We thank the owner, walk back to our cottage, don the gear, make sure the rainwear is packed and head out to the Brunswick Diner for breakfast. It’s still just a light rain and isn’t enough to make us wear the rain gear. I prefer to call this type of precipitation a mizzle; it’s a mix of mist and drizzle.

Overall, the weather has been somewhat on the cool side. Before leaving PA we compared packing lists and checked off hot weather clothing as we packed up: Cool Max shirts, zip-off pants, chilly neck wraps, etc. LAF even thought he might try wearing shorts under his Airglide pants. I told him if it got that hot I might ride Commando. LAF thought that was TMI and wandered off muttering something about my mental instability. Anyone watching us ride together would quickly determine that we’re crazy and they’d be right. However, that’s a normal diagnosis so in fact, the two of us are quite normal. But if we’re riding together, then we’re nuts. And since that’s a normal behavior pattern... welcome to Catch-22 redux. Thank you Joseph Heller.

We park behind the diner and walk inside. Doris is off and our waitress is Margaret. I remember her from two years ago. She has the distinct honor of tossing two sailors from the Naval Air Station out of the diner. This happened a few years ago. They way I heard the story, it went something like this - It appears that these two Jack Tars came in, ordered breakfast and ate everything on their plates. When Margaret gave them the bill, they said the food was lousy and they weren’t going to pay for it. They started to make a scene about lousy service, lousy food, etc. in front of the other patrons and Margaret just came around from behind the counter and physically escorted the two of them outside. End of story.

She stands about five foot eight with shoulder length dark hair. An angular face that can quickly change from a no-nonsense, no BS expression to one of a big welcoming smile that says, “Come on in, set your ass down and tell me what you’re havin’.” She would not look out of place wearing blue jeans, a checkered shirt with pearly buttons, a Stetson hat and riding a quarter horse at the rodeo. And for God’s sake, if you’re ever at the diner, don’t tell Margaret I said that about her.

After a filling breakfast and way too much coffee we pay our bill, walk out and head north on Route 1. Our only real glimpse of water is when we cross the causeway in Wiscasset. Most of the time we’re riding through small towns and past small farms. We enter the town of Waldoboro and reduce our speed to the posted limit. This is a rather prudent behavior given the current state of small town economies. You can’t raise taxes if a third of your town’s population has been fired, laid off or furloughed; so you become a predator. Anyone foolish enough to go blasting through one of these small towns is just begging for a pullover by the local constabulary to be given a certificate of performance and a complimentary fine just for good measure.

But it isn’t the threat of a speed trap that has my attention; it’s the town’s name. Is this town named for Waldo? How many residents have endured countless questions from tourists asking the whereabouts of Waldo? Did the creator of “Where’s Waldo” name his character based on his birthplace? Alas, time does not allow me the luxury to stop and make inquiries. On the other hand as we head north we get a beep and a wave from the mother/son combo as they head south on their Goldwing. At times, it can be a very, very small world.

We turn off Route 1 and follow a well-worn road toward Owls Head. At a “T” intersection I spot a small wooden sign. I can just make out the faded words that are hand painted on the sign, “Owls Head Transportation Museum.” Beneath the words is the ghost of a red arrow pointing to the left. We turn left and I’m thinking, “Great! Some guy has an old barn with a buckboard, a couple of old Schwinns and a Nash Metropolitan and he thinks he has a transportation museum. It reminds me of the old comic routine of Bert and I. For those of you unfamiliar with Downeast humor, it is dry and wry. For example –

A farmer near East Millinocket caught a live moose in his pasture one day. By shouting and waving his hat, he was able to chase the moose into his barn. Since it was hard times he decided to try and make a little money from the misfortune of this large animal. He painted a sign and stuck it on a post at the end of his driveway. The sign read, “See the moose! Only 5 cents!” Well, business was pretty good for a while. Every day about a dozen people would stop and park their cars on the shoulder of the road and walk up to the barn. They’d pay their nickel and be ushered into the barn where they could take a good long look at the moose.

Then one day, a large truck pulled up and a husband and wife got out of the cab. The husband walked up to the farmer and asked, “Is that five cents per person or per family?”

“Per family.” The farmer replied.

The husband gave the farmer a nickel and turned toward the truck and gave a loud whistle. In no time at all, ten children piled out from the bed of the truck and ran toward their parents. The farmer tapped the gentleman on the shoulder and when he turned around, gave the man his nickel back.

“What’s this for?” the man asked.

“Well,” the farmer said. “I expect it’s worth as much for your family to see my moose as it is for my moose to see your family.”

So I’m thinking the price we might pay for this museum is what we should charge them to look at us. I am sorely mistaken. Or, to put it more succinctly, I am dead wrong.

A few miles down the road we find the entrance. Two large stone pillars support the two halves of a large and ornate wrought iron gate. The drive is freshly paved and smooth. On either side of the lane, the grass is freshly cut and shows no sign of weed infestation. “So this is what they mean when they talk about a manicured lawn.” Beyond the grass margin is a forest thick with pines. After winding around a few curves we come to the parking lot for the museum. It is large and it is new. How large? Take your basic Super Wal-Mart and double it. My jaw is putting dents in my tank bag.

LAF and I park in a lot that has only a few cars. Near the main entrance we spot some classic motorcycles – Harleys and Indians. We stash our jackets and helmets in our top cases and walk over to look at these bikes from another age. LAF points at the Harleys and says, “A shovel head and a pan head.”

“What?” I ask. “No bobble heads?” Okay, you don’t have to be crazy to ride with us, but it helps.

I’m always impressed with the looks of classic bikes. I must stress that it’s the looks. When it comes to the mechanics of motorcycles, I’m a basic gazzinta guy. The gas gazzinta there, the oil gazzinta there and the air gazzinta there. I like the fact these bikes have kick-starters. There was an almost ballet quality to the athletics of starting one of these engines, as though a place kicker for the NFL has just returned from a stint with the Moscow ballet. A human catapult poised on the asphalt ready to drop all their weight on a metal rod, hoping that the combination of force, spark, fuel and air gets the engine going. Unfortunately, this romantic image is completely destroyed when I notice a plastic, yellow, bicycle pedal at the end of the kick-start lever. LAF explains the consequences when a kick start backfires. Okay, I can understand all of that, but still – a plastic, yellow, bicycle pedal? Some kid is really going to be ticked off when they go out to ride their tricycle. “Dad! Someone stole my pedal!”

We walk into the museum and notice that there’s no one at the admission desk. Our assumption is that it’s free today. Yep, the hits keep coming.

To our right is a wing devoted to stationary engines. These range in size from small “make and break” gas engines to a monstrous behemoth with a sixteen-inch cylinder and a sixteen-foot flywheel. The piston had a 44-inch stroke and delivered 600 hp. All of this for 90 tons! And you thought the LT was heavy?

From this wing of the museum, we cross over to the center of the museum that displays everything from horse drawn brass steam powered fire engines to covered wagons, antique motorcycles, a gypsy wagon, old primitive devices that were supposed to fly are hanging above all of this. One of them is a replica of the Wright Flyer.

The outer circle of this central hall has an assortment of antique cars from touring classics to trucks and sports cars. There’s even a BMW Isetta! The far wall is actually a large hanger door that opens onto the tarmac to the airfield. The museum has a pair of classic biplanes that are used to take tourists for scenic flights along the coast. There are a few WWI planes parked at this door as though they were waiting to take flight on a Dawn Patrol with Errol Flynn. This would really work until you notice that one of the planes happens to be a Fokker Tri-wing.

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I look across the tarmac and see another hanger where restorations are done. LAF and I walk over and are met by a tall, gangly young man in his twenties. His upper lip is covered by a huge, walrus mustache and judging by the worn grease stained T-shirt he’s wearing, he obviously works here. He introduces himself as a volunteer for the museum and will be glad to show us around the hanger and answer any of our questions. His voice is low enough to join a choir of humpback whales. When he speaks, words roll out like so many parts on an assembly line until he has a complete sentence. Then he’ll pause and begin production on his next sentence.

Regardless of his pacing, this young man knows his stuff and we spend a fair amount of time asking questions about the various planes that are being repaired and restored: a standard J-1 Jenny, a T-6 trainer for the Canadian Air Force, a Waco-UBF 2 and my personal favorite, a Stearman. Our guide takes time to show us the various engines that were used – a radial, a rotary and an in-line.

Lying across a series of sawhorses are the wings from the Jenny, which are being rebuilt and re-covered. He describes, in detail, how the templates are made, pieced together and then covered with fabric. I show LAF the two bolts that hold each wing to the fuselage. They don’t look much bigger than the hinge pins on an ordinary door. I comment that it’s the wings that actually hold the fuselage up in the air. “That’s right,” he says.

LAF asks about the spider web of cables and wires that criss-cross between the upper and lower wings. “How are they tensioned?”

“Each cable has a turn buckle and they’re pretty much tightened the way you’d tune a piano or a guitar.”

“You mean you pluck them and listen?”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much how it’s done.”

Hanging above us are even more aircraft ranging from a small sailplane that was used as a trainer. It never flew; it was just towed down the airfield like a kid running with a kite. Another plane shows the craziness that afflicted so many early designers. It’s a single seat, Domenjoz glider with a mast and a fore and aft sail rigged to it. The inventor had the notion that once in the air, the sail would provide propulsion while the wings supplied lift. It didn’t work.

http://www.bmwlt.com/gallery/files/1/6/0/7/9/sailplane.jpg

After numerous questions and more than thorough answers we give our guide sincere thanks for his time and our enhanced education. We walk back to the main building and spend a few minutes in the gift shop. We both end up buying a pair of BMW pins for our jackets. As we pass the admission desk we drop some money into the donation jar.

Out in the parking lot we look at our watches and are amazed to discover that we have spent almost three hours in the museum. It didn’t seem as though we were there that long and I know we could easily have spent even more time. If you are ever up in this part of Maine, I really recommend that you take the time to visit this museum. It’s well worth it. If the weather’s fine, take a ride in a bi-plane. I just hope you have your Aerostich white silk scarf. If you want to know more, check out their website www.ohtm.org

We gear up, saddle up and retrace our way back to Route 1. It’s time to find our way to the coastline and Pemaquid Point.

After returning to the main highway we continue heading south. Any road that heads east or south is worth taking. We are traveling a very simple corridor, the Atlantic Ocean to our left and Route 1 on our right. As long as we stay in between, we’ll get back to the Maine Idyll.

As previously stated, there are few roads that actually follow the coastline. By that I mean the type of scenic road where you can turn your head and see the ocean. Following these side roads we notice that if we look to the left, we see a stonewall, trees and a shaded farmhouse. Looking to the right, we see a stonewall, trees and a shaded farmhouse. For a change in scenery, some of the farmhouses have been converted to B&Bs. Looking straight ahead is like looking into a green tunnel with a black floor. But there is very little traffic and the roads are filled with dips, curves and the occasional blind entrance to someone’s driveway. It’s enough to keep us amused.

I have a poor man’s GPS mounted on the right hand reservoir. (The borrowed GPS is buried in the tank bag.) My device is a very simple digital compass that gives me the cardinal points, intercardinal points and degrees. It won’t give me time and distance to my destination. It isn’t Bluetooth, Greentooth or Sabretooth. It can’t tell where the nearest gas stations are or my present location to the exact latitude and longitude give or take 5 meters. But it does a pretty good job of telling me in which direction I am traveling and that’s fine with me. I should point out that I have never been lost; although I’ve been a bit confused a time or two.

From time to time the tree lined roads give way the streets lined with small houses. Wooden siding has been weathered dark grey with streaks of black. Short streets run down to boat ramps and docks. The docks are crowded with nets, lobster traps, gas pumps, gas tanks, two-wheeled dollies and anything else related to those who earn their living by harvesting what the sea is willing to yield. It’s a tough life that is endured by a tough people.

Years ago I walked down to the docks in Lunenburg, Nova Scotia with my cousin Eugene. He’s a deckhand for a number of commercial boats and he was happy to point out the various boats that he had worked on: haulers, trawlers and draggers. Standing at the end of the dock, he bent his head down to light a cigarette. He took a deep drag and then raised his head to look out over the water as he exhaled. I asked him, “What’s it like being out there? I’m thinking about that sailor’s prayer that has the line, ‘My boat is so small and the sea is so big.’”

He took another pull on his cigarette, looked over the water, thought a while and then slowly turned his head to look me in the eyes. “Well, the ocean’s kinda like a woman. One minute she wants to hold you softly in her arms and rock you to sleep. The next minute, she’s screaming and trying to take yer Goddamn head off.” There was no emphasis in what he said; it was just a plain matter-of-fact-that’s-the-way-it-is. I think about that every time I see men and women going to sea. I also recall Sebastian Junger’s observation about the Catholic Church in Gloucester, Mass. This is the setting for his book, “The Perfect Storm.” Inside the church is a statue of the Virgin Mary. In her hands she holds a small fishing schooner.

We roll through a few of these small fishing towns and then turn back inland and ride through the green tunnels until we finally see a sign for Pemaquid Point. We turn left and follow the road until it ends at a large parking lot with an entrance booth. There’s a parking and entrance fee to enter the park and tour the lighthouse. As I stop at the booth, a man steps out and informs me that the park is now closed. “You can’t go into the lighthouse, but you’re more than welcome to park for free and walk around.” Yeah, the hits keep coming.

We park our bikes and walk across a short path until we are standing on the edge of a cliff looking down at the ocean and waves crashing onto the rocks below. This is the classic picture of Maine’s coastline – cliffs, a lighthouse and surf.

http://www.bmwlt.com/gallery/files/1/6/0/7/9/pemaquidpoint.jpg

LAF nimbly finds his way down the cliffs and follows the surf line until he comes to a large boulder. He clambers up to the top and stands looking out to sea. It is a pose that countless others have done, including myself. I have no idea what we are looking for, but it’s mesmerizing and enjoyable. Perhaps we’re all lost in our own thoughts: looking for the return of the fishing fleet, the arrival of loved ones and maybe even a pirate ship or two.

http://www.bmwlt.com/gallery/files/1/6/0/7/9/lafsrock.jpg

It’s still overcast, but there’s no rain. LAF climbs down from his granite throne and walks up to the lighthouse. I spend some time trying to get the perfect picture of the perfect wave crashing onto the perfect rock. I do keep an eye out for a rogue wave.

http://www.bmwlt.com/gallery/files/1/6/0/7/9/surf.jpg

A few years ago, my wife and I were here when a rogue wave came out of nowhere trying to take a few tourists out to sea. My estimate is that it was at least twenty to twenty-five feet high. It didn’t catch any tourists, but it did manage to scare the hell out of us.

It’s a short ride back to Freeport and we head into town and have supper at another local restaurant, Pedro O’Hara’s Pub and Cantina. Yep! Mexican food and Irish beer. It’s a pretty good combination. The last time I was at a restaurant like this was in Williams, AZ. I had a hard time adjusting to stereotyped caricatures of Mexicans wearing sandals, serapes and leprechaun hats. Or, maybe it was leprechauns wearing sombreros. Fortunately, Pedro’s isn’t like that. Instead every wall has a large screen television showing some sort of sporting event. A note to baseball fans, this is Red Sox country. All of New England is Red Sox country. If you come up here, you would do well to hide anything that might connect you to the Yankee Dogs of New York.

LAF orders a lobster roll sandwich making a hat trick for lobster dinners three nights in a row. I settle for the enchiladas. The food is good, the beer is cold and our server mysteriously vanishes after handing us our check. After almost ten minutes she reappears. We have no idea where she went.

When we walk out to the parking lot, it begins to rain. It rains all the way back to the Maine Idyll. We sit out on the porch for our daily nightcap and a serious round of mosquito swatting. Inside we make a feeble attempt to organize our gear for tomorrow’s departure. It’s a long ride home and LAF wants to most direct route, which will take us through Connecticut. I object and want to cut across Massachusetts on the Turnpike and then retrace our route back through New York and into PA. It will add almost 60 miles. LAF argues that traffic should be too bad through Connecticut because we’ll be missing the rush hour. I agree, but am still skeptical.

Before turning out the lights we check the weather maps. There is a large mass of precipitation hanging over New England. It isn’t moving. On the plus side, it seems to end at the Massachusetts and Connecticut border.


A note to the loyal readers of this saga - I know it says 7 days in New England and today was the seventh day, but the story doesn’t end here. There is one more entry and that is our ride home. There will also be an epilogue due to the events that occurred on our ride home.

[daddo50]

Tracus,

If you are not an author, you should be. This is the best trip narrative I have read. It was as if I was with you at times - and wishing I was there for the trip all the time.
Thanks for posting :thumb: :clapping: :toast: :corn:

[LAF]

Yep, he don't make this stuff up.

I rode the trip and this is such a pleasure to read. As Tracus knows this is my high stress part of the year. I need to have a schools network and computers up and running for the start of school. It is a really a stressful job at this time of year.

Reading this takes me back to that ride and those moments like I was there yesterday.

Possibly one of my best bike trips ever, and sets the bar high for next years adventure.

As you all will read, and have read, "The Hits Keep Coming", can be good or bad. I would not have missed either one of those sides for anything.

The pleasure is in the ride, and the company one keeps. The people you meet, and the sights and experiences you have, I hope I can start riding longer distances as time goes on. I would love to go out for 14-20 day run with Tracus.

Can you guys imagine that Ride Report?

Great Job Tracus :wave

[Busajets]

As always......

:clapping: :yeah: :dance:

Now get to work on the last 2 installments!! :D

[macman56]

I enjoy "seeing" my state through the eyes and words of another....great job! Next time that you come to Maine, check out the western mountains, and the Eastern Townships in Quebec. Easy to pop back and forth over the border (usually). Great riding, and very few people. Looking forward to your final stories.

[Tracus]

It appears that this particular episode is too big for one post. It's ironic because after copying and pasting, I kept getting an error message that my post was "too short" and I needed to type at least "one" character. Anyway, here's the journey home in two parts.

"The worst journeys make the best reading."
Paul Theroux

"It is a tale told by an idiot; full of the sound and the fury and signifying nothing."
William Shakespeare

We fell asleep to the pleasant percussion of raindrops falling on the roof of the cottage. It was that soothing rhythm of white noise that lulls one to sleep. A sonic mask that hid the sounds of traffic from the interstate that passes a few hundred yards from the front of the cottage. In the morning we awoke to the same noise we fell asleep to - rain on the roof.

A quick check of the weather maps shows that this low-pressure system has stalled and has no intention of moving anytime soon. We pack our gear into stuff sacks and duffle bags. Between gulps of coffee we dash outside and stow the gear into side bags, tops cases and tank bags. No matter how fast we move, we come back into the cottage completely soaked. There's no doubt about it, today we are going to get hosed.

With our bikes packed and our riding gear on we take a few minutes to thank our host as he continues working on the new addition. He shakes our hands and tells us to be careful. "Trust me, " I say. "We plan to do just that!"

However, LAF and I are itinerant procrastinators and our first stop is not south, but north to the Brunswick Diner. Margaret is working the morning shift and LAF and I fill our stomachs with breakfast and fresh brewed coffee. There aren't that many customers this morning and Margaret has a chance to stop at our booth to talk and joke with us.

A decent diner is where the conversations are as good as the food. Even if the food is mediocre, hearing discussions from the locals is well worth the price of admission. Truckers complain about construction on Main Street that forces them onto narrow side streets. The construction and repaving will hopefully draw people from I-295 onto Route 1 where they can stop and shop and stimulate the local economy instead of lining the coffers of some CEO in New York, Arkansas or California.

The big box stores are only interested in the contents of your wallets - paper or plastic? They'll help you find what you want, bag it, hand it to you and show you the door. I chuckle every time I look at one of their receipts, "Thanks for shopping. Come back again."

Locals will remember what you bought last time and ask how it's working or how you liked it. They'll ask about your job, your family or where you're from if they don't recognize you. It's refreshing to be addressed as a living, breathing person with an identity.

Even the gas stations have carried depersonalization to its furthest potential. It's self-serve. Where once they came to you, took your order, checked your oil, radiator, tires and cleaned your windshield; now it's a young person seated in a glass booth taking your cash or credit cards speaking to you through an electronic intercom.

I realize that we the people brought about this situation because we wanted to save a few pennies per gallon. But we lose that money because our underinflated tires wear out too soon, our check engine light comes on requiring a trip to the dealer who tops off our oil or flushes the radiator and charges an exorbitant amount for something that was once done for a few extra pennies per gallon. And all of us are in a rush to go where?

I once came across an article about the furniture design for McDonalds. Subjects were asked to sit on plastic benches and chairs and told to stand when they became uncomfortable. The managers chose the furniture design where the subjects averaged twenty minutes of sitting time. They don't want you hanging around and chewing the scenery with idle chit-chat. "Eat it and beat it!"

LAF and I finish our breakfast and pay our bill. I get the address for the diner and promise to send a picture I took of Margaret two years ago. As we get up to leave, she gives each of us a big hug. We've known each other for only two mornings and it seems we've known each other for longer than that. Traveling will do that to you. This is the precursor to blogging on the Internet. LAF and I have left our stories in Brunswick and in turn, we are taking Margaret's stories with us. There's no difference between us and the medieval minstrels of yore. Well, actually there is a major difference, LAF and I don't sing.

There are a few short errands that need to be accomplished before we leave Freeport. LAF plans to stop at the Cool as a Moose shop for a couple of souvenirs and I need to visit the Freeport Knife Shop. Since the knife shop is at the south end of town near Pedro O'Hara's, LAF will meet me there. We pause as some emergency vehicles head south on Route 1. I figure someone had an accident here in Brunswick.

We take Route 1 south and are very close to the Maine Idyll when up ahead we see road flares and emergency vehicles with flashing lights. A large tree has come down onto the road. LAF is thinking the same thing I am, we should be able to ride around it. But when we see that the tree has taken some power lines with it, we decide to back track and take I-295 south to the Freeport exit. Discretion IS the better part of valor.

We ride into town and I watch LAF turn right into the parking lot for Bean's. I continue south on Main Street trying desperately to avoid hitting tourists in the crosswalks. Although the signs say that pedestrians in the crosswalks have the right of way, is the assumption based on the theory that drivers are able to see them? On a morning like this, everyone should be wearing Hi-Viz. Instead, they're all wearing drab grey clothing that quickly blends in with the rain and mist. Here's a free marketing tip for someone wanting to make a profit. Make a yellow diamond shaped sticker with the picture of someone crossing the street. The caption should read, "Pedestrians are Everywhere." Sell these to the Chambers of Commerce in Conway, NH, Freeport, ME, Burlington, VT, Boulder, CO, etc.; you'll make a fortune.

I park behind the knife shop and dash inside to get out of the rain. If you are ever in need of cutlery, this is the place to go. If you're a true aficionado of Victorinox or Wenger, then this is heaven. You name the make and model and they have it. Inside a display case is the ultimate Swiss Army knife: 85 tools, 8.75 inches wide, weighing just under three pounds - it's yours for $1200.00! The store also has the accessories that are currently missing from my knife: a small Philips screwdriver and a straight pin. And they are also having a sale. I must confess that I am a gadget-knife junkie and I can't resist buying a Swiss Army knife that has a built in LED flashlight.

LAF comes in and wanders the aisles and makes a few purchases. We look outside and the rain has begun to intensify. Not that it makes any difference to us. We may just as well stand under Niagara Falls or Victoria Falls. With the solemn steps of condemned men approaching the gallows, we walk outside and get on our bikes. We have our rain gear on and have put Nitrile gloves on over our riding gloves. We start our engines and ride out of the parking lot onto the ramp for I-95.

Riding through a downpour at 65 mph is not my idea of a fun ride. I'm thinking, "This must be what it's like for salmon swimming upstream over waterfalls to reach their spawning grounds." Then I remember, "Wait a minute! Salmon die after they spawn." I try to think of something else. "Every minute that you're alive is a chance for you to die." Now there's a pleasant thought and I thank William Least Heat Moon.

For the most part, the rain gear is working. I'm wearing the liner for my Airglide jacket and except for some rain seeping down the back of my neck from the helmet my upper body is relatively dry. Notice that I have used the words "for the most part" and "relatively." You are more than welcome to read between the lines, or words, as the case may be. My Frogg Togg pants are doing similar service. From my hips down, I'm dry, but my crotch is getting soaked. After five years of usage, what little water repellency that remained in my nether region has gone "bye-bye." So be it.

A major concern is visibility. With the windscreen up, my face is somewhat protected but it's hard to see through the rain as the wind forces small droplets into large droplets which merge into upward flowing streams that come over the lip of the windscreen and splatter against my helmet. With the face screen lowered just enough to keep wind and rain out of my eyes I am now looking through two layers of plexiglass covered with water. If I lower the windscreen the rain pummels against the face shield, but the wind blasts it off like the final stage of a drive-thru car wash. Unfortunately, the wind also drives the rain under the chin bar and against my throat. Oh goody!

I have Motolights on the brake calipers and Hi-Viz armbands and I hope that's enough. LAF has enough safety lights on the back of his LT that I sometimes joke that it's better than an old fashioned pinball machine when he hits the brakes. I have point and LAF has my six. We ride on into the maelstrom.

Further south we run into construction where they are preparing the road for resurfacing. The current road surface has been stripped of old asphalt leaving a grooved surface for us to negotiate. The front wheel is tracking two inches to the left of the rear tire. LAF says I should just relax and let the bike go where it wants to. It's easier said than done and my pucker factor is leaving a creased ridge in the saddle that resembles a profile of the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

At one point we roll through the tollbooth for the Maine Turnpike and my EZ Pass fails to give me a green light. I'm wet and pissed and I'm going to talk to someone. I look back and see that the far right gate has a red light over it. Thinking that lane is closed I pull to the right and get off my bike almost to be nailed by a yellow car. Right behind the car is an 18-wheeler. The red light doesn't mean the gate is closed, it just means you aren't supposed to go through it that way. Now who would be dumb enough to want to go north on the south bound lanes of I-95? And who would be dumb enough to stop their bike right at the exit for one of these gates? I'll give you three guesses and the first two don't count.

A hundred yards up the road; LAF has pulled over and is waving at me. I get on my bike and ride up to where he's waiting. "Do you have some sort of Death Wish?" he asks.

I shrug, mutter a few things and tell him about the transponder. We walk to the toll office and are met by one of the employees sporting a handlebar mustache that's long enough to serve as a pair of curb feelers. I tell him my story and he says I shouldn't worry, "It happens all the time."

Back on the road we continue south into Massachusetts and then take the beltway around Boston through Lowell and onto the Mass Pike. I have placed the EZ Pass in my jacket pocket and as we approach the entrance tollbooth I pull it out and hold it over my head. I get a green light! Success! As an added bonus, the rain has started to let up. We stop at a rest area and take off the rain gear. Looking south and west we see clearing skies. We just might have clear sailing all the way home. (Yeah! And Big Brown was a "shoe-in" to win the Triple Crown).

[Tracus]

We exit off the Turnpike onto I-84. I repeat my earlier technique by holding the EZ Pass high above my head. Victory will be mine and will taste oh, so sweet. That is until I ride through and instead of getting the green light I get a message from a light board that says I'm to call EZ Pass, the Massachusetts Turnpike Authority, Homeland Authority and my mother because she's worried. This is the technology company that tells me to use their device because it's easy and fast. Well, it may work just fine for my cars, but it really doesn't do much to help with my motorcycle. I'm longing for the good old days when you could flip a quarter into a basket, hear a "ding" get a green light and keep on rolling. I am not stopping to call anyone, I am moving on and LAF is right behind me.

We now cross into Connecticut and if there are any of you readers who happen to live in the Nutmeg State, you have my deepest sympathy. Drivers in Connecticut are the worst I have ever come across in my life. For example, their use of turn signals is simply an afterthought. If you see a left turn signal there are only two possibilities: one - "I am in the middle of making a left turn - see?" Or, two, "I have just made a left turn - see? My use of the left turn indicator is to inform you of what I am doing or what I have done. I cannot use it before I make the turn because that would take all of the excitement away from you two-wheelers as I try my best to either remove your front wheel or to force you off the road."

Another common situation is the invisible traffic jam, roadblock, or accident. Some of you may remember being in grade school and the ringleader of your class would instruct everyone to drop their books at precisely 1:10 PM. And that's exactly what would happen. The teacher would be very annoyed and would demand to know what that was all about. We would solemnly shake our heads and declare that we had no idea that everyone's book would suddenly crash to the floor simultaneously. The teacher would turn his or her back and we'd all look at each other smirking and thinking, "That was cool."

I believe the same thing happens in Connecticut. Somebody sends an email to everyone working in Hartford or New Haven and says, "Hey! When you're driving home tonight on I-84 westbound, at 5:15, hit your brakes. It'll tie up traffic for hours and no one will know why. Won't that be fun?"

LAF and I aren't halfway through the state when we encounter one of these nightmares. It isn't 5:15, but we are westbound on I-84 when we encounter stopped traffic. To the top of the next hill, that is easily more than a mile away, all we can see are red brake lights, no one is moving. We are in the left lane. LAF pulls up next to me.

"Do you know if motorcycles can use the shoulder in this state?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"Are you up for it?" he asks.

I shrug my shoulders. "Why not? But we should be getting gas soon. My low fuel light just came on."

LAF looks at his dash. He looks back at me. "Mine did, too." It fails to register that LAF's light always comes on before mine. Therefore, if mine just came on, his has been on for a while. But I'm not thinking about fuel. I just want to be moving.

We drive onto the left shoulder and begin passing cars until we reach the head of the jam. There is no accident. There are no emergency or construction vehicles. The road does not narrow from 3 lanes to two lanes. For some unknown reason, drivers have stopped and created a huge backlog of traffic. Fortunately, there is one saving grace to the Nutmeg drivers, they are patient. And, if they aren't moving, they are considerate. After passing the lead car, LAF and I merge back onto the Interstate and roll on west.

We pass Danbury and it's a combination of demolition derby and "Death Race 2000." Cars pass me on the left only to cut across in front of me to get to their exit that is two lanes to my right. Meanwhile, cars entering the Interstate are doing their best to get to the far left lane so they can haul ass into New York. Anyone in the middle feels like an electron in a particle accelerator just before it gets smashed. I am totally focused on cars to the left, right and front and have only seen a few glimpses of LAF's running lights in my mirrors.

I cross the bridge out of Danbury and start up a long hill. I look in the mirrors - no LAF. I slow down before I crest the hill and look back - no LAF. I pull over onto the shoulder and stop. I look back in my mirrors - no LAF. I kill the engine, get off the bike and look back down the hill - no LAF. I'm thinking, "Either he's been hit or he's gotten off at an exit to get gas." I'll wait.

I try calling his cell phone and get a message saying my call is being forwarded to an automatic voice answering machine. I leave a message and wait some more. Cars, truck and bikers roar by and I keep hoping someone will pull over and tell me the fate of my friend. No such luck.

An 18-wheeler pulls off on the shoulder behind me, but he doesn't get out, he just sits there idling. I can no longer see back down the hill and make the decision to ride to the next exit and try LAF's cell phone again.

As I ride to the exit, my mind begins to play games. Should I turn around and head back? No, because I might miss LAF heading west as I'm heading back east. Yes, I should go back because I'll see him on the shoulder of the road. But what if he got off at the last exit to get gas for himself and he's planning on catching up to me? How long should I wait? What if he's hurt or broken down?

All of these questions plague me as I ride to the next exit and pull into a gas station. I try LAF's cell phone again and get the same message, but this time I leave a voicemail telling him where I am. I also call my wife at home to see if LAF might have called her. She hasn't heard from him and now she's worried.

I get gas and buy a cup of coffee and sit at an outside table waiting. Maybe LAF had a minor problem and now that it's fixed, he's moving west and is pissed because he can't find me. What then?

My cell phone rings, it's LAF. He's run out of gas just past the bridge out of Danbury. He's called roadside assistance and they should be there in another twenty minutes. It's been almost an hour and if they don't show, LAF wants to know if I can get a gas can and ride back to his location. I suggest using the hose from my Camelbak to siphon, but he doesn't want me to go that far. I tell him "Okay, we'll wait and see what happens."

I step inside the gas station and realize it isn't a gas station. It's a convenience store that sells gas, oil, chips, beer, sodas, candy bars, cigarettes, etc. Whatever happened to the days of service stations where a motorist actually got service? I know, I already griped about that, but it's worth repeating and expanding. Our time of interchangeable parts has gone the way of Eli Whitney - dead and buried. Diversification and uniqueness has rendered the service stations obsolete. They no longer have an inventory large enough to take care of everyone's needs. So we have become specialists for brakes, mufflers and oil changes. Even the manufacturers have worked their ways to make self-repair as impractical as possible. How many different fasteners are used on a BMW? Where's the dipstick? Why have a dipstick when the owner should be able to hunker down on his side, use a flashlight to see the oil level in the sight glass. And while we're at it, let's use a CANBUS system so the owner can't install auxiliary lights without having an electrical migraine. And finally, in case you were wondering where this is heading, whatever happened to the reserve lever on the gas tanks? We all know how reliable the idiot light is, right? Just ask LAF.

I ask the sale clerk if they have a gas can I can borrow. She shows me a selection of plastic two-gallon cans on a shelf. "We have those," she says. Fourteen dollars!

"I just need to take some gas to my friend back down the road. We're on motorcycles and it's a bit awkward carrying a gas can all the way home to Pennsylvania." I try to give her my best, sad puppy, woe-begotten, won't you help me, please expression. She takes a step back from her bulletproof, Plexiglas window, her eyes widening in something between alarm and worry. Perhaps she has mistaken my expression to be, "Sister! I am beginning get a bit annoyed at my lot in life and I'm ready to hit the 'I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore.' button!" She points to the rear of the store and tells me there's a storage shed out back and I might find a gas can there. I thank her and walk outside. There's a padlock on the door to the shed. I go back inside and tell her.

"Oh it's never locked. Just pull it open."

I go back outside and remove the padlock. A mother with two children is passing by and tells me that the restrooms are on the other side of the building. She huddles over her children and ushers them away from me. I'm beginning to think I look like Aqualung.

Inside the shed there's a small dumpster and several propane tanks. I squeeze between the wall and the dumpster and spot a gas can in the corner. It's a five-gallon Jerry can that looks as though it did service in Rommel's Afrika Corp. Either that, or it fell off the side car of someone's Ural. There's no cap. That isn't going to work.

I go back inside and buy a two-gallon can for fourteen dollars and walk outside and purchase two gallons of high test. I then notice that this particular can was not designed for transport. There's a spring-loaded spout, but it obviously wasn't made for sealing in gasoline while being lashed to the side case of a motorcycle. After using the better part of a fifteen foot length of cord from my top case I manage to lash the can between a duffle bag and the top of my side case. As I swing my leg over the saddle I can see gas seeping out from under the cap and across my duffle bag. The hits keep coming!

I head east on I-84 and get off at an exit that I believe is east of where LAF should be. I get off and make a left turn thinking that I should see signs for getting onto I-84 West. There are no signs, just a huge entrance to a mega mall. I pull into the mall's parking area and look for signs pointing to I-84 West. Nothing. I ask a passing shopper how to get onto I-84 west. He points at the traffic light I have just come through.

"Just go to the light and turn right, it'll take you onto 84 West. There aren't any signs, but it'll take you there." I thank him and follow his directions to 84 West. A few minutes later and I see LAF on the right hand shoulder. I pull off onto the shoulder in front of him. If expressions could tell a story, LAF's would fill a bookshelf.

I resist asking, "What happened?" LAF launches into the story. At this point, since this is a family website, suffice it to say that LAF's narrative is filled with colorful expletives and nomenclatures along with various and sundry bits of profanity and suggestions relating to carnal knowledge with inanimate objects that it is almost a religious experience to hear his story told above the noise of passing traffic. You, the reader, may, at this point, insert your favorite expletives or pejoratives at any time as you read on.

"I was just crossing the bridge in the center lane when the engine died. No sputtering, no gasping just sudden, unequivocal death. I had enough momentum to get off the bridge and get to the shoulder. Fifty yards earlier and I would have been dead on the bridge and I mean dead literally, not figuratively. Oh yeah, the roadside assist showed up and charged me five dollars a gallon for the rescue. Before he showed up, a state trooper pulled over and asked what happened. When I told him I had run out of gas and that roadside assistance was on the way he walked up the hill and took a leak by some bushes and then came down and talked to me for a while.

"He said the local drivers are all maniacs and it's surprising that so many of them are still alive today. Then he took off. And another thing, not one biker slowed down to see how I was doing. No one waved or gave me a thumbs up, or an OK sign, they just ignored me. So I got about two gallons of gas and a good portion of that is on my bike rather than in my bike and by the way your gas can is leaking, did you know that?"

I nod my head and begin untying the can as LAF holds it steady. As we pour the contents into his tank we realize that the stiff pouring spout of the can does not lend itself to filling motorcycle tanks. Road question #149 and still counting, "What ever happened to gas can with flexible filling spouts?"

We empty the can and I retie it to my bike as LAF puts his gear on. I tell LAF that there's a "gas station" at the next exit. We start our bikes and merge onto the Interstate. Halfway up the hill I look back, no LAF in my mirrors. Now what? Just then an SUV pulls up next to me and gestures that I should pull over. I do and he stops just in front of me. Before I can even get my helmet off, the driver has exited his SUV and come back to tell me that my buddy's side case came open and he had to pull over to close it. At this point in time the seismographs for the U.S. Geological Survey have recorded an earthquake with a magnitude of 5.4 on the Richter scale with its epicenter approximately 2.7 miles west of Danbury, Connecticut. The National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration showed a sudden spike in air pressure over the western half of the state and a tsunami was sighted just south of Mystic Seaport heading toward Long Island.

I thank the driver and wait for LAF. In a few minutes he roars by and I start off behind him. He pulls off at the next exit. I wait in the parking area of the "gas station" as LAF tops off his tank. He finishes and rides up next to me. I apologize for losing sight of him. He just looks at me and says, "Almost 600 dollars for communications and we wanted to listen to music." Point taken.

We are wondering what to do with the gas can when we spot a customer coming out with a brand new gas can. LAF yells at him. "Take that thing back inside and get a refund. "I'll sell you a new can for a lot less."

The customer goes back inside and returns his gas can. A minute later and he comes back out. Walking toward LAF he asks, "How much do you want for it?"

"How much you got in your wallet?"

The man opens his wallet and counts some bills. "I've got six dollars."

"Sold!" LAF shouts and six dollars and an only used once gas can exchanges hands. Yessirree Bob! The hits keep coming.

It's been almost two hours since LAF ran out of gas. He tells me that no matter what; "I'm going to sleep in my own bed tonight." We have about five more hours to go and my marathon days aren't what they used to be.

"I'll go as far as the Water Gap and then grab a motel," I tell him. "I have no desire to ride for four hours along the deer infested interstates of Pennsylvania. Just tell me you'll call when you get home."

"I will," he says. "But I'll probably stop for something to drink before we split up."

"No problem." I say.

We find a convenience store just before the Delaware River and stop for something cold to drink. Sitting outside we go over the "out of gas" incident and figure, "What the Hell? Excreta occurs." We try to give directions to a car full of Hispanics looking for the New York Thruway south to the Big Apple. They thank us and leave. Five minutes later, they're back in the lot asking us the same directions again. It appears that although you can exit here if you're going west, you cannot make a series of turns to get onto the eastbound lanes. To continue east on 84 requires taking a side road for about a mile. Apparently, LAF and I aren't the only ones having a bad "drive" day.

We cross the river and I exit for a number of advertised motels. LAF continues heading west until all I can see is the oval patch of light on the pavement and the pinball ensemble of his taillights. I ride down a frontage road until I find a Scottish Inn motel that is not only open, but also has a vacancy. Apparently the only room available is for handicapped guests but the managers want income and I want a bed; so much for political correctness. As I check into my room I notice a diner next door within easy walking distance. I call my wife and tell her where I am and what's been happening. After a quick shower, I crawl into bed. My final thought, "I wonder where LAF is now?"

[Busajets]

I have not gone anywhere..... :wave

Still waiting for the conclusion..... :p

Enjoy going back to school, but don't forget about the ride tale.


Todd

[Tracus]

There's no writer's strike, just a problem making time to finish this epic saga. I should have it up no later than Saturday.

[Tracus]

I’ve arranged for a 6:30AM wake-up call and it comes right on time. I must confess that I am a Motel 6 junkie and love to hear Tom Bodett’s voice telling me it’s time to get up, do some work, goof off or just go back to sleep because they will most assuredly, “leave the light on for you.” So, instead of getting Tom’s voice I just get a phone that rings at 6:30 AM and stops when I pick it up. There’s no voice, no music – just silence.

I have not heard from LAF and think about calling him to make sure he got home. But then I think, “You ran out of gas, almost got killed, waited almost two hours for help, had your side case pop open and rode home dodging deer in the middle of the night and after four hours of sleep, someone’s calling you. Let’s answer the phone with a cheerful, happy voice.” Let sleeping dogs lie.

The second part of my morning is the usual disorientation of being in a strange place and waking up with the feeling that nothing is where it should be. During the night I’ve been transported to a parallel world where everything “seems” similar, but is just a bit off. “Shouldn’t the door be over there and the bathroom there?” The Extreme Makeover Elves took over while I was asleep. I prefer the parallel universe theory. Maybe in this world there are no final drive issues with BMW motorcycles. Then again, I could look out the window and discover that a Harley that was built by AMF has replaced my RT. No, wait, that’s a nightmare, not a parallel world.

I make a small pot of coffee and grab a shower as a thin trickle of water passes through what might be someone’s bad joke for coffee grounds. I have seen sawdust on woodshop floors that would make a stronger brew than what came out of this coffee maker. I open a second pack of coffee from the “compliments of the management” tray and poor it into the filter basket on top of the old grounds and run another cup of water through it. If what came out the first time was made from oak sawdust, this is closer to walnut.

I get dressed and walk over to the diner. Again, it meets my basic criteria: chrome trim, vinyl covered stools at the counter, vinyl benches in the booths and the smell of thirty-weight oil on a hot grill. Now if only we could only get motor oil to smell like bacon. Before I even pick out a booth, the waitress asks if I would like some coffee. The score meter has just gone up another notch. She brings me my coffee, which is the color of teak and ebony, by the way, and takes my order. Like a doctor shoving an X-ray into the clip above a viewer, she shoves my order into a clip hanging from a carousel on the pass-through window. With a well-executed flip of her wrist she spins the carousel and it stops with my order now facing the short order cook. She could have been a roulette girl in Vegas.

Although I don’t see any calendars around, I can tell a lot about my location by reading the placemat as I wait for breakfast. The local businesses have all placed ads here. It’s farm country. There are ads for tractors, farm equipment, feed, seed, fertilizers and more. The few car dealerships that I see are all offering top dollar for trade-ins on new trucks: F-150s, Rams and Silverados. I also gather that this is a rather sensible and peaceful part of the world; there isn’t one, single, solitary ad for a lawyer or law firm. No one’s asking me whether I’ve been in an accident, hurt on the job or arrested for drunk driving.

Breakfast comes and as I eat, I eavesdrop on a couple of groups that are occupying the last two booths in the diner. They obviously all know each other and from what I can hear, they are trail riders. They talk about saddles, girth hitches, bridles, trailers and anything else related to the equestrian world. The odd thing? They aren’t dressed like trail riders. They’re wearing blue jeans, shorts, T-shirts and ball caps.

I’m reminded of a young boy from an eastern city (it doesn’t matter which one) who is having supper at a diner in Spearfish, South Dakota. Seated at the counter is a tall lanky gentleman having a cup of coffee. The boy is intrigued by the man’s outfit and walks over to ask him a few questions.

“Excuse me, sir, but is that a real cowboy hat you’re wearing?”

The man looks down at the buy, smiles and says, “Yep, genoowine Stetson.”

“And is that a real cowboy shirt?”

The man spins on the tool so the boy can get the full view of pearl, snap buttons, floral embroidery and the elaborate stitching on the breast pockets. “Why this here shirt is my favorite one when I take the ladies dancin’.”

Now that the boy can see the front of him he asks, “Then that’s a real cowboy belt buckle?”

“Yep! Won that last year at the county fair in Cheyenne, Wyoming for calf roping.”

The boy’s eyes are pretty wide now and his mouth is a perfect “O”. “So, you’re a real, honest to goodness cowboy?”

The man grins and nods his head.

The boy is a little embarrassed and lowers his head. Suddenly he notices something and pops his head back up and quickly fires off another question. “Well, if you’re a for real cowboy with a for real cowboy’s hat, shirt and belt buckle, how come you’re wearing sneakers?”

The cowboy chuckles and leans toward the boy. In a straight forward voice, without emotion, he says, “I wear them so people won’t think I’m a truck driver.”

I walk back to my motel room and pack my gear and carry it out to the bike. I call my wife to tell her I’m leaving and should be home in about four hours. She tells me to be careful. I tell her I’ll be paranoid; riding as though everyone on the road is trying to kill me.

Out in the parking lot I strap on the duffle bags, put on the jacket, gloves and helmet. As I swing my leg over the saddle a few drops of rain spatter across the windscreen. By the time I get back onto I-84, it’s pouring. Oh yeah, the hits just keep coming.

It rains all the way to Scranton. The only change to the washed out scenery is when the road gains enough elevation that I am now riding into the clouds and there is no longer any scenery, just a fuzzy black strip of highway disappearing into a grey fogbank with a pair of red eyes feebly telling me that’s there’s someone up ahead.

I turn onto I-81 South and exit at Hazelton for gas and coffee. Standing under the storefront roof I call Lee and am very relieved to hear his voice and not a machine. He tells me he got home around 2:30 AM. He’s been up since 7 AM and has already done two loads of laundry and cleaned his bike. I tell him that I’m still riding in the rain and washing the bike would just be redundant. He laughs and we say goodbye.

As I near Harrisburg, the rain gives way to showers and eventually sunshine. Finally I make the last turn and ride back the lane to my house. I ride into the garage, drop the side stand, which kills the engine, turn off the iPod and remove my helmet. I’m a little stiff between the shoulder blades, but other than that, I feel pretty good.
My wife comes out of the basement and smiles to see me sitting on the bike. I grin back.

“Did you have a good ride?” she asks.

“I sure as Hell did, but it’s going to take a few days to dry out.”

Then begins the routine of unloading all the gear and sorting it into piles to be hung up, put away or washed. Every time I go into the garage I can hear the familiar clinking and tinking of hot metal slowly cooling. It was a damn fine trip and I wish I were putting the gear on the bike instead of taking it off. It reminds me of John Masefield’s poem to those go must go down to the sea in ships. LAF and I have steered a course through New England and next year will set a course for Route 6 across Pennsylvania and then into the Finger Lakes of New York and all we ask for is “… a pair of bikes and a star to steer them by.”

Well this ends the New England Journal. To all of you who patiently waited for new episodes – thanks. To those of you who wrote comments or sent me emails – thanks. To my mentor and riding partner LAF, well, I can’t say enough. After three trips together we are already working on our fourth journey and that won’t happen until June of 2010.

I would like to end this with something witty and original, but Mark Twain beat me to it;

"…and so there ain't nothing more to write about, and I am rotten glad of it, because if I'd a knowed what a trouble it was to make a book I wouldn't a tackled it, and ain't a-going to no more. But I reckon I got to light out for the Territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt Sally she's going to adopt me and sivilize me, and I can't stand it. I been there before."

[Dick]

Well done, Chris. I read all the installments, and whether in one long thread, or individual ones, didn't make me no nevermind. However, I would think it better that it be in one thread, for both archival purposes and recall by searching, for future use.

Anywho - great read. :thumb: Looking forward to y'alls 2010 sojourn.

[Tracus]

Dick,

Thanks for the compliments and I'm glad you enjoyed the read. I must warn you that you may not have to wait until the summer of 2010. I still have the trips LAF and I took to WV in 2007 and to NC in 2008. I believe the movie moguls call these prequels. Besides, in those pictures, LAF and I look younger. :histerica

[Busajets]

:clapping: :clapping: :toast: :toast:

Thanks for all of the installments!!

If there is an ideal, (in my opinion) I liked the way this actually turned out. Individual threads to see the next chapter, but merged for an easy reread. (Sorry mods, I know this creates extra work for you.)

You will enjoy the Rt 6 ride. I grew up not far from Rt 6, still have family all over the area, and get to ride portions of it often.

Thanks for taking the time to put this all together!!


Todd

[wrmoss]

Chris,

I usually haunt this particular forum and when I first came across your thread..well, at the risk of sounding like one of your students I just looked at the pictures. Then two days ago over lunch at the office I began to read your account and let me tell you the journey has been colorful and intoxicating.

Thanks for writing it and you should consider doing this full-time...;)

[Tracus]

Thank you so much for the compliment. And there's no risk that you sound like one of my students. If you did, there'd be a "pop" quiz tomorrow. :D